GregMilner
18th September 2013, 09:32 PM
I feel safe saying this in here, among like-minded people. But I have to be honest. I’ve had my first FFRR for less than a week now. And today, it dawned on me…a creeping, not-quite-identifiable, but deeply disturbing sense of overwhelming disappointment.
I’d lusted after a (proper) Range Rover for years. Oh sure, I scratched the itch – sort of – a few years ago, buying a brand new Sport. It was a terrific car, in many respects. And for many people, something they could only dream of. Eminently capable both on-road and off, we’d taken it on adventurous outback expeditions, my wife and I, towed many a boat to exotic, remote fishing locations, cruised the vineyards of the south west, parked it outside cafes to glint in the sun while we sipped lattes. My wife liked driving it, too. Different, but no less pleasing in its own way that her little roadster. But for me, it was always an interim proposition.
So when I saw the white 2012 Vogue Luxury advertised online a couple of months ago, I was taken aback. This was the very same car that had tempted me in the new car showroom less than 12 months before. And now it was for sale, its well-heeled owner having already succumbed to the new, all-singing, all-dancing model. I had to have it. I immediately put the Sport up for sale. Ten days later it was gone, and three weeks after that, I had my dream car.
The difference in ride, in comfort, in spaciousness, in sheer presence between the Sport and the Vogue was apparent as soon as I took the wheel. It was as night is to day. The softness of the seats, the compliance of the suspension, the torque of that big V8 diesel, the sumptuousness of the cabin, the eye-poppingly delightful electronic trickery. That Saturday morning, my wife experienced her first small dose of Vogue Widow, as I cheerfully washed, waxed, polished, vacuumed, wiped and buffed. For hours.
Then, today, that awful sense of…let-down. During the day, I park my Rangie under cover in the small warehouse behind my office. It’s close at hand if ever I feel like wandering out there just to gaze over that gleaming paint, admire those classic lines. It was during one of those small moments alone with the FFRR that it began to dawn on me.
Clarkson is right. It IS the greatest, most capable, most remarkable piece of automotive engineering in the world. And that’s the problem. I’ve climbed Everest. I’ve forded the fastest flowing river. I’ve cured cancer.
There’s nothing left to aspire to. This is the best it will ever be. There are no other automotive goals worth achieving. From here on, there will be no Great Leaps Forward. It’s the Law of Diminishing Returns, magnified. Like Usain Bolt measuring new records to ten decimal points.
One of my best mates bought a new Touareg a few months ago. He raved about it, with good reason. Well finished, solid, comfortable, more smart stuff in it than a smart phone. Nagged me about buying one, as soon as I sold the Sport. But I couldn’t quite see myself being…chuffed, driving a VW soft-roader.
Yesterday, he drove to my warehouse to see my new car. Sat in it. Felt the leather stitching. Ran his hand over that glassy-smooth paint. Absorbed the ambience of that admittedly dated, but still magnificent cabin.
Then he nodded in understanding. Looked at his Touareg. “The Toe Rag’s a very good car, all things considered,” he said.
“It is,” I said. “There’s only one very small thing wrong with it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not a Range Rover.”
We understand each other.
I’d lusted after a (proper) Range Rover for years. Oh sure, I scratched the itch – sort of – a few years ago, buying a brand new Sport. It was a terrific car, in many respects. And for many people, something they could only dream of. Eminently capable both on-road and off, we’d taken it on adventurous outback expeditions, my wife and I, towed many a boat to exotic, remote fishing locations, cruised the vineyards of the south west, parked it outside cafes to glint in the sun while we sipped lattes. My wife liked driving it, too. Different, but no less pleasing in its own way that her little roadster. But for me, it was always an interim proposition.
So when I saw the white 2012 Vogue Luxury advertised online a couple of months ago, I was taken aback. This was the very same car that had tempted me in the new car showroom less than 12 months before. And now it was for sale, its well-heeled owner having already succumbed to the new, all-singing, all-dancing model. I had to have it. I immediately put the Sport up for sale. Ten days later it was gone, and three weeks after that, I had my dream car.
The difference in ride, in comfort, in spaciousness, in sheer presence between the Sport and the Vogue was apparent as soon as I took the wheel. It was as night is to day. The softness of the seats, the compliance of the suspension, the torque of that big V8 diesel, the sumptuousness of the cabin, the eye-poppingly delightful electronic trickery. That Saturday morning, my wife experienced her first small dose of Vogue Widow, as I cheerfully washed, waxed, polished, vacuumed, wiped and buffed. For hours.
Then, today, that awful sense of…let-down. During the day, I park my Rangie under cover in the small warehouse behind my office. It’s close at hand if ever I feel like wandering out there just to gaze over that gleaming paint, admire those classic lines. It was during one of those small moments alone with the FFRR that it began to dawn on me.
Clarkson is right. It IS the greatest, most capable, most remarkable piece of automotive engineering in the world. And that’s the problem. I’ve climbed Everest. I’ve forded the fastest flowing river. I’ve cured cancer.
There’s nothing left to aspire to. This is the best it will ever be. There are no other automotive goals worth achieving. From here on, there will be no Great Leaps Forward. It’s the Law of Diminishing Returns, magnified. Like Usain Bolt measuring new records to ten decimal points.
One of my best mates bought a new Touareg a few months ago. He raved about it, with good reason. Well finished, solid, comfortable, more smart stuff in it than a smart phone. Nagged me about buying one, as soon as I sold the Sport. But I couldn’t quite see myself being…chuffed, driving a VW soft-roader.
Yesterday, he drove to my warehouse to see my new car. Sat in it. Felt the leather stitching. Ran his hand over that glassy-smooth paint. Absorbed the ambience of that admittedly dated, but still magnificent cabin.
Then he nodded in understanding. Looked at his Touareg. “The Toe Rag’s a very good car, all things considered,” he said.
“It is,” I said. “There’s only one very small thing wrong with it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not a Range Rover.”
We understand each other.