Stop Giving Your Friends Car-Buying Advice
Odds are, you’re the car person in your circle, the one most likely to field questions from friends, uncles, and acquaintances.
“How’s the RAV4 Hybrid?”
“Should I buy a Tesla to save on gas?”
“How could an omniscient and loving God allow BMW to build 3-Series door clips from squeaky cheese curds?”
Field enough of those and you’ll notice that raised eyebrows follow your answers. The prospective car buyer is rarely asking for advice, but for validation. “Will you look down on me, mister car expert, if I buy this car that I really want?” That’s the subtext.
Case in point, a good friend of mine. She’s a gracious hostess and heroic wine drinker who wrangled a medical-sales team for decades and made it look easy. Good people. She once offered to sell me her creampuff single-owner E30 (like I said, good people), just before she bought her last BMW, an E90-generation 328xi in a rather sober but handsome metallic grey.
The E90 held for a decade of stoic service before its footwell filled with rainwater. So to mark her retirement this year, my friend was on the hunt for something new. The queries came rolling in. She wanted a vehicle taller than a 3-Series, something easy to hop into and out of. Good visibility was a must. The mystery vehicle would have a comfy ride and—importantly—the right badge on the hood. Lexus and Genesis were quickly dispatched by her taste, so too the defining crossover from Toyota.
(This successful woman’s attitude mirrored Kanye’s, “What you think I rap for / To push a f***** RAV4?”).
She passed on crossovers from BMW and Audi, plus a couple cheeky entries from Volvo and Cadillac. I fixated on the Mercedes-Benz GLC, with its solid chassis, immaculate build quality, imperious driving dynamics, and airtight cabin with one of the more agreeable infotainment systems in the segment. Plus, an almighty three-pointed star affixed to the hood. By her own criteria, the GLC ticked every box.
A raised eyebrow. “And what about the Jaguar?” She almost purred when she said it.
It hadn’t occurred to me. To my mind, the Benz was the smarter choice. More refined, specifically, and more reliable in general. A GLC is an E-Class on its tiptoes, I explained, the luxury crossover segment’s only no-brainer. Jag offers a cheaper-feeling interior on its F-Pace, a less-cush ride, and a brand cachet that, to my mind, is less understood by American buyers. The Mercedes badge just means more in 2022.
Another raised brow.
The conversation ping-ponged between Benz and Jag regularly over the next several months, as decision day grew closer. I rallied hard for the Benz, the rational choice, and begged her to test drive both cars before she dropped her hard-earned cash on a well-deserved retirement chariot. I felt certain the Benz’s obvious charms would win her wallet.
But I borrowed an F-Pace from Jaguar to double-check my math.
To Jag’s credit, the F-Pace undid much of my rhetoric. The last F-Pace I drove followed the car’s American launch in the summer of 2016. That car was a base model, among the first North American models off the factory line. That F-Pace came equipped with an overworked 2.0-liter turbo four and a pair of tan synthetic-leather seats with all the tactile charm of a brown paper bag. The F-Pace felt deeply compromised from the start, unbefitting of a well-to-do professional who was looking to ease into her retirement.
But this time, Jaguar sent over a P400, the premium F-Pace trim that best lined up with my friend’s budget. What a difference those six model years, some badging, and some stacks atop the base model’s MSRP made. Central to the P400 is a cutting-edge inline-six that replaces the range’s outgoing supercharged V-6. This new engine sits above the inline-four trims and makes all the difference to the F-Pace’s character. It’s a brilliant, sonorous and silken mill, far better suited to the car’s overall design, an Ian Callum classic that remains best-in-class (and, quite possibly, the only truly good-looking crossover design).
That wonderful engine pairs to an eight-speed automatic that’s tuned to snap smoothly through gears, but not so eager to upshift that the F-Type feels sleepy when winding up to speed.
Some of the F-Type’s old infotainment niggles have been wiped away. Its newest screen-centric system is miles smoother and simpler than the last version. “Pivi Pro” (as the system is called) snaps eagerly to wireless Apple Carplay and does little else to get in the way, feeling mostly like an iPad has been affixed to your dashboard in the best possible ways. There are a few curious quirks throughout the cabin, like rotary knobs that need to be actuated in unintuitive ways to control the HVAC and heated (and cooled) seats, but Jag put in serious work to elevate this cabin over the years. Great work.
Our friends over at Car and Driver agreed, noting that the switch to an inline-six, along with other concessions aimed at refinement, had lowered the decibels worming their way into the Jag’s cabin, further bridging the gap to the GLC’s quietude.
On a long weekend road trip across Washington State, I found the Jag a more willing partner in light cornering than the equivalent GLC. When the road opened up, with an interstate junction in the crosshairs, the F-Pace’s six is the far more joyous tool to wind up to cruising speed, with a glut of glassy torque and a genuinely pleasant exhaust note (compared to Mercedes’s 3.0-liter V-6, which sounds like a muffled trumpet).
Still, I held firm. The Mercedes, I believed, still offered the more proven drivetrain, the highest interior quality in its class, and enough curb appeal to override the F-Pace by sober comparison.
Some weeks later, my wife and I invited our friend over for dinner. A brand-new Jaguar F-Pace pulled into our driveway, a beaming smile behind the steering wheel. Her F-Pace is a vibrant metallic white, rolling on a set of black wheels with dark trim to match. Very storm trooper, very cool, and an unlikely showcase for that Callum design.
It wasn’t the choice I would’ve made for her, but I could tell from her joy that the F-Pace was the perfect decision. It’s a lesson every one of us should carry. My former colleague, long-time editor-at-large Sam Smith, once wrote something to the effect of, “If your car purchase isn’t based on emotion, you’re doing it wrong.” I always found that attitude to be luxurious and romantic, but rarely useful.
Call me a hypocrite.
As pragmatic as I consider myself, my own vehicles represent triumphs of emotion. A Chevy Colorado offers more performance, comfort, and tech per dollar than my 2020 Toyota Tacoma (plus American assembly, which the Tacoma abandoned). Yet I landed on the Tacoma because my parents always had Toyotas. Only the Tacoma could play to my nostalgia. I’ve since spent three years rationalizing that choice.
My Mazda Miata has stuck around because there are too many memories wrapped up in the humble roadster. I can’t let it go, even as my lanky frame bristles against the Miata’s form factor and the disparity between its diminutive size and the average crossover puts the fear of God in my heart at 80 mph.
Both cars are the wrong choice on paper. Both are perfect, but only for me.
Retirement, I imagine, stirs up some sense of accomplishment and reflection, and allows us to finally grasp lifelong aspirations. (Should I ever retire, however unlikely that seems, it’ll be a moss green Kirkham Cobra for me, home to a lunk-a-lunk-a-lunk 289 and side pipes shooting flames at the pavement on downshifts). What better time to think with your heart?
What my friend wanted–what she always really wanted–was a Jaguar automobile. My perspective only stood in the way. I’ll remember that next time someone comes knocking. Well, except when 3-Series door clips come up. I’ll leave that question up to The Almighty.
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