It's hot. Africa hot. Fry-eggs-on-grandpa's-hairless-head hot. The outside-temp gauge on the ML320 Bluetec following behind me, I learn via walkie-talkie, reads 107 degrees. Ah, but it's a dry…uh, no it is not. It's muggy as hell here in east Texas. The cows along the roadside, slow-roasting in the raw sunlight, are staring back with forlorn eyes and jaws agape, as if to say, "Ugh. How long do I have to wait to be a steak?"
So why am I smiling? Because, despite a lack of air conditioning and a top cruising speed of about 65 mph, the 50-year-old Mercedes 190D I've been driving for the past two hours is simply so plucky and amiable it's impossible to dwell on mere trifles like withering heat. Besides, it's actually pretty comfortable in here, poised behind the giant Bakelite steering wheel in the Benz's supportive leather driver’s seat, fragrant country air blasting in through open windows. The 190D, suspended by control arms up front, a swing-axle rear, and coil springs all around, delivers a fine ride, and by now I'm well-accustomed to the recirculating-ball steering, which at first felt hopelessly sloppy but actually returns impressively precise feel once you dial past the loosey-goosey center spot.
Yesterday, Leg Two drivers Harwood and Kiino, after a grueling drive delayed by no-vacancy hotels and slow climbs up steep Colorado mountain passes, handed off the keys to Detroit editor Todd Lassa and me in Denver (clearly overjoyed by the prospect of more long driving hours, rushed junk-food meals, and five-hour sleep nights, Leg Two photographer Julia LaPalme stayed on). We'd prearranged an oil-change at this point, and Mercedes dealer Murray Motor Imports of Denver graciously stayed open late to keep our tour on schedule, service advisor Kemal Demos and shop foreman Jon Umland treating our 190D to a fresh bath of 20W50 and new filter and, after noting a minor leak, topping off the diff fluid.
After an overnight stop in Pueblo, Colorado, our two-diesel caravan motored south through New Mexico and on to Borger, Texas -- home to the Hutchinson County Historical Museum, which pays homage to the oil boom that occurred in the county in 1926 (from the moment of the first oil discovery, the town grew to a city of 15,000 in just 90 days). We take a break to peruse the displays, including a giant drilling rig outside and a terrifying diorama of a circa-1920s dentist’s office, but we've got miles to go before we sleep. Next stop: Oklahoma City…
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Nearly two years ago, on Mercedes-Benz's Paris-to-Beijing extravaganza -- which featured nearly 100 cars, support vehicles, and tanker-trucks full of high-quality diesel -- I also drove the penultimate leg, the one from Ekaterinburg, in oil-rich Russia, through the width of copper- and natural gas- and oil-rich Kazakhstan (parts of which look like this eastern stretch of the Lone Star state). Now I'm driving the 190D and new ML Bluetec, with a copy of Upton Sinclair’s "Oil!," inspiration for Paul Thomas Anderson's "There Will Be Blood," in my carry-on.
I've only managed to get to page 50. So far, the only substantial insight I can cull from the book is that J. Arnold Ross hates speed traps, circa 1912. With the 190D running along happily at 65 mph, that's not a concern. At that speed, the Mercedes sounds and feels that unless we somehow add a tall fifth gear to its gearbox, this is all the speed in the world. When I'm in the air-conditioned, AM/FM/Sirius/CD/iPod/DVD cocoon of the ML320 Bluetec, I can't set the cruise control for very long before braking for Art in the 190D up ahead.
The 190D comes from a time when consumers who bought any kind of foreign car distinguished themselves from Eisenhower-era-mainstream Americans. This diesel Benz probably belonged to either an engineer or a small family of upper-middle-class Bohemians. The 1960 Pontiac Catalina wagon my parents drove for family vacations of that era probably stickered for 60 percent of the Mercedes, but it had power steering, power (drum) brakes, and close to six times the horsepower from its 389-cube V-8. You turned an ignition key to start it; no waiting for glow plugs. It didn't need multiple oil changes on long trips, but you did have to watch the radiator fluid. It didn't take careful planning and timing to merge onto a freeway, but it did gobble 30- to 35-cent gas prodigiously.
You can see the 190D's DNA in a new C-Class, or Bluetec, certainly more than you'll find of the Catalina Safari in, say, a new G8. But we’ve lost a little something with a global marketplace in which no one on the road notices a new Mercedes ML Bluetec. That little something from our past is what’s keeping the roadside attractions, tsotchke shops, and comfort-food diners along the remains of Route 66 alive for European tourists and Americans too young to remember that the 190D was an unusual site here in 1959 almost as much as it is now.
-- Todd Lassa
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By now I know the 190D well. I'm driving largely by ear; I can hear the difference between 65 mph and 66 (verified by the accurate speedometer readout on the Garmin nuvi GPS unit we’ve got aboard). I'm also learning to predict my driving moves well in advance. Despite the huge size difference, the Benz actually performs much like the eighteen-wheel semi-trailers with which it shares the slow lane. With 77 pound-feet of torque moving 2700 pounds, the 190D's torque-to-weight ratio is almost identical to that of a 60,000 pound Peterbilt sporting a 1700-pound-feet Cummins diesel. Both machines slow to tortoise velocity when the road arches steeply upward for extended stretches.
Because of its sensitivity to road conditions, the 190D feels almost human-like in its responses. Just like me when I'm on foot, the Benz strains and slows down whenever it encounters a long incline (unlike the air-conditioned, high-output Camrys and Malibus whooshing by in the left lane). The engine-temperature gauge climbs in lock-step with hill-surmounting effort. In fact, the gauge reads slightly higher when the hood is facing the sun than when the sun is at our back. Yet despite its obvious exertions, the 190D clatters stoutly on. A car this charming needs a name, I decide. And in a moment I’ve got one for her: "Oilivia." That night, we celebrate another productive day with superb sirloins at Oklahoma’s City’s famed Cattlemen’s Steakhouse (serving the city’s historic Bricktown district since 1945).
Our celebration, alas, is premature. The next morning, the glow plugs refuse to glow. Failure to launch. It's Sunday, 7 a.m., Oklahoma City. We've got to be in St. Louis by tonight, or the final Leg Four team will fall impossibly behind schedule. We get on cell phones and begin waking up Mercedes technicians and PR people across the country. Oilivia's in trouble.
We're unashamedly pulling strings, but it works: Soon, after a tow to Mercedes-Benz of Oklahoma City, we've got several bleary-eyed techs working feverishly on the problem. The culprit is quickly found, and it's not even Oilivia's fault. One of the four glow plugs has a broken loop wire (like a burned-out light on a Christmas-tree strand, when one plug goes down it takes the whole system with it). Obviously, the part isn’t in the current Mercedes inventory, but the service team hits the cell phones, and within half an hour they find a Mercedes club member 30 miles away with a retro glow plug to spare (thanks "J.D."!). By 2 p.m., seven hours behind schedule, Oilivia is once again clattering away happily. (Extra-special thanks to Mercedes-Benz of Oklahoma City and the generous, ruined-their-Sunday efforts of Riley Jenks, Bo Kester, and William Yarge.)
By now, we're running on Plan B. Though we'd planned to detour through Kansas City, with at least 500 miles (at 65 mph max) between us and our destination, we head for the straight shot of Interstate 44. Oilivia is up for it, too, powering through the insufferable heat like a horse charging for the barn. Because we're shadowing old Route 66, we allow ourselves the luxury of a quick stop at the National Route 66 Museum in Elk City, Oklahoma; lots of vintage cars and antiques to check out here. But we don't tally. Soon, we’re back in the diesels and gunning for St. Louis.
We make it just before midnight on Sunday; Team Four is waiting outside the hotel, cheering us in. Everything is closed, so our celebratory end-of-leg dinner is vending-machine sandwiches from a local gas station. Before heading to bed I give Oilivia a pat on the fender. She's treated us well and I'll never forget her, but now other drivers have arrived, and tomorrow they’re cutting in for their turn to cruise back in time.
Visit trucktrend.com on Monday for an update from the final Leg 4 -- Frank Markus, Thomas Voehringer, and Brian Vance travel from St. Louis to New York City.