A long while ago, I made a Roadwork entry on the re-styled Mercedes R-Class. I bemoaned the fact that the crazy, bug eyed visage of old had been dismissed, and a more conventionally attractive yet disappointingly bland face employed. I also mentioned that it used to be an utterly fabulous car to drive.
And today I'm going to do exactly the same thing again.
I have just had the joy of a weekend with the R-Class. Starting with a hundred-mile dash to Gatwick Airport to help my hideously wealthy boss on his way to the Maldives, the R was as good as mine. My CDs in the stereo, seat electrically adjusted and climate control climatically controlled to meet my exacting requirements.
With Boss Man and his entourage on board, the first part of the journey would be a sober, restrained, ministerial affair, and the R did a superb job of delivering my cargo to their destination in an unruffled, uneventful manner. I had four passengers on board and a hefty collection of luggage, in five seat mode the load area made light work of swallowing the fortnights worth of Gucci Bermuda shorts, Yves Saint Laurent thong bikinis, dress tiaras and the assorted holiday paraphernalia of the upper classes.
Even with this monumental level of freight, they still had their seats in their rearmost position for maximised middle-row legroom. The young lady of the group was travelling in the least comfort, her seat being in the middle and a bit of an afterthought by comparison with the throne-like perches of the other two. Still, there is lateral room enough for three people to travel abreast without developing homicidal tendencies.
Up in front, my Boss (riding shotgun) and myself were blissfully unaware of any potential comfort shortfall, existing or otherwise. In an R-Class your passengers are some distance away from you at all times. Anyway, as a chauffeur I was severely inattentive to my customers, providing them with neither a DVD for the fitted rear seat entertainment system, nor even any output from the radio. I did make the effort to check that the cabin temperature was agreeable, though, an outstanding display of courtesy, I thought.
Zero drama on the journey, we reached Gatwick in what felt like double-quick time, and I hadn't even been misbehaving. I disgorged the contents of the R-Class, human and otherwise and watched, sighing as they collectively buggered off to the tropics. I had established that the R-Class is very good indeed at carrying people and their stuff, but basically this has just been one long preamble to the main event. Balls to other people, what about the driver?
I would refer you to Matt Hardigree of Jalopnik's complete non-review of the R350, In fact, go and read it now. Chortle, belly-laugh, admire the wit and metaphor. Then come back and read about how it drives, 'cos Matt didn't really seem interested. In the comments he later admits that “It isn't too bad to drive”, and he's part right. The truth is, the R-Class is awesome.
It cheats, really. There's no direct comparison to make. Sitting on the same mechanical underpinnings as the ML and GL off-roaders, the R shares those cars feeling of go-anywhere, do-anything. Partial credit, really, an R might have the same engine and transmission but has nothing of the higher ground clearance, hill-descent control or differential lock that they do. But, still with permanent 4x4 and road-biased tyres, what it does have is grip. Lots and lots of grip. On tarmac, concrete, rain or snow, whatever you throw at it.
And grunt, too. This is the R350 CDi, a diesel engine with a feeling far more muscular than its three-litre capacity would suggest. It weighs in at 265bhp, which is quite a big number. But it also has 620NM of torque, and it's this latter number that has me constantly doing very immature things on the motorway. Put simply, the novelty of pulling alongside something in such a leviathan, and then flooring it and disappearing towards the horizon with seemingly exponential acceleration just never wears off. It's magical, and I'm seriously surprised that Jalopnik Matt never noticed.
Just this morning, a cocky Audi driver (surely not!) was tailgaiting me on a single-carriageway road, he kept ducking out of the lane to look for overtaking opportunities that never came despite the fact that I we were both in the same queue of 50mph traffic. When we finally reached the dual-carriageway stretch I decided to toy with him. He was in an A6 Avant with the 2.0TDi engine, I allowed him to pass so his nose was just about a yard in front of mine, and then I pushed the beautifully weighted accelerator into the carpet. A brief hesitation as the 7-speed gearbox kicked down and it gathered its thoughts before girding its loins and slingshotting me forwards, past not only the Audi, but also another ten or so cars, several of which the hapless A6 would later be stuck behind once I was safely blitzing away.
This would be one hell of a machine in which to conquer continents. Endless shove and a surreal orient-express ride quality at motorway speeds. Best of all is the presence it has in the rear-view mirrors of lesser vehicles. People just yield, unquestioningly, although the shock-and-awe of the Xenon laser-death-beam headlamps and look-at-me LED running lights is probably partly responsible.
Cruising at well over three digits as if it were second nature for the R-Class, I imagined the aesthetic that the car presented as it passed slower traffic. In a dark colour, with privacy glass, a fast-moving R-Class is undoubtedly a sinister looking machine. One might imagine some Government rapid-response special ops team to be lurking on board, speeding to intercept a secret shipment of classified materials at a darkened aerodrome somewhere, far from the likely reality of it containing the Wilkins family returning from a skiing trip to Val Disere.
Even the noise it makes. Diesel engines can never match the sonorous howl of a flat-plane petrol V8, or the crisp scream of a straight-six. At worst they are agricultural, a constant death-rattle redolent of imminent big-end failure, the best thing you can say of most of the better diesels is that they are nicely refined, being shrouded with heavy duty sound deadening materials. The V6 unit in the R350, though, is the best sounding diesel I have ever sat behind. For the most part it just provides a reassuring background hum, at a hundred miles per hour it's not dissimilar to the sound in the cabin of a long-haul airliner, only quieter. Telegraph a demanding message to the engine-room, though, and the R-Class responds with a deep bellow that is the sound of pure industrial power. A muffled war-cry, it gives the impression that the R-Class has a job to do and, by Jove, it'll bloody well do it.
Nought to sixty takes 7.7 second in this two ton monster, but the figures only tell a fraction of the story. Fact is, it goes like a stabbed rat. The absurd power delivery, responsiveness of the gearbox and that 4x4 grip make the R350 a devastatingly accomplished overtaker, and that output can be further massaged by those clever Brabus folk if you so desire. How very naughty that would be. Numbers aside, I always feel a little disappointed when I dismount from the R and saddle up in something like an S-Class. The S, even with the same engine as the R, feels so normal. It's a big Mercedes saloon, everybody expects it to be fast. The R has that delicious element of surprise to it.
And here we touch on the only demerit of the R-Class. Personally, I'd rather have an R than an S, as you're probably gathering by now. It's cheaper, even more so if you opt for the less powerful, rear-wheel-drive, shorter wheelbase R300 model, but the full fat 350 is the one to have. I just wish it felt a bit more like an S-Class inside. Architecturally it's fine, everything is in the right place. The materials are perfectly respectable too, it's well built and feels like it'll last in the same way as Mercedes products used to. It all feel very professional, it just really needs to feel a little more special. Frustratingly, they nearly did it; the armrests and switch panels on the doors are covered with beautifully stitched Artico Leather to match the seats, but this finish doesn't make it quite as far as the adjoining dashboard. It's such a shame, the plastics are nice, but a little bit everyday to be at home in such a unique car.
Mercedes need to have a better look at how they market the R-Class, at the moment they haven't really assigned any particular image to it. Get some as VIP cars for film premiers instead of the usual raft of S-Classes. Add a little luxe to some of the more visible interior surfaces and you suddenly have an entirely new kind of limousine on the market. I mean, they have the looks sorted now, by the end of my weekend I've found several angles from which the R350 looks very tasty indeed. I will hereby stop defending the old, facially disfigured R-Class. They got it wrong but have now made one hell of a silk purse out of that old pigs ear.
Over all I look forward to using the R to collect my VIPs from Gatwick in a fortnights time. I'll do my utmost to avoid giving away how much fun I've been having in the meantime.