Riposte to Jalopnik's "Renting a car sucks"

Some poor sap went to Wichita (it appears) to rent a car for a family wedding - reminding me of my own rental car nightmares over the years.


One of the earliest was for an unknown reason.  It was in Akron, so it was probably when I had a wrecked car in for bodywork and had an insurance-provided rental.  However, that did not cover the fuel charges.  As an inexperienced twenty-something, I hadn't learned about this scam when I went to turn in my car.  The Edie McClurg clone sweetly informed me that I owed them something like ten bucks for fuel.  "WHAT!?"  (This was when gas was around $1.25/gal.)


Agent:  "We put almost three gallons of gas in your car."  And only managed to spill about half of that down our drains.
Me:  "That's over $3 a gallon!"
Agent:  "Well, we're not in the business of selling gas."
Me:  "Obviously not, at those prices.  In fact, you're lucky to be in business at all.  I won't be back."


I think that was National.  I haven't been back.


Toward the end of my Akron Years, I was to fly to Salt Lake City for a legal services conference held at the Snowbird resort up in the mountains.  I figured it'd be fun to drive the mountain roads, so I checked on rental cars with Hertz, who provided "fine automobiles from Ford".  The phone call went something like this:


Me: "Can I reserve a Mustang for <date> at the Salt Lake City airport?"
Hertz agent:  "Yes sir.  Do you want the four cylinder or the eight cylinder?"
Me:  [This is rhetorical, right?  Who in creation would want to reserve a 4-cylinder Mustang?]  "Eight."
H.A.: [Words to the effect of, "No problem."]


So I was pumped.  As I flew out with the other lawyer, we talked about how cool it'd be to arrive in a Mustang, assuming I hadn't killed us both on the drive up the mountain.  On arrival, I headed to the rental counter.  [Time to plug in the Edie McLurg character again.]  This is the edited version:


Me:  "Hi.  I reserved a Mustang."
She:  "We don't have any Mustangs."
Me:  "WHAT!?  I reserved one!  I have a confirmation!"
She:  "We never have Mustangs here.  During ski season, we get Explorers, but we never get Mustangs."
Me:  "What about my reservation?"
She:  "I can put you in a Tempo."
Me:  "No you can't.  I can ride the damn shuttle bus up the mountain."

The Mustang I didn't get.

A few years earlier, I'd had my first foreign rental experience in Mexico.  Merida, to be exact.  This was a trip to the Yucatan with my wife and a good friend, Ed.  We flew into Merida and picked up a blue Renault 12 there.

El Renault.

It was a 4-cylinder 4-speed, but it never felt like it was running on more than three of those cylinders.  It was a real piece of crap well-suited to its environment of crap maintenance and crap fuel.  At least it never left us stranded.

In contrast, my first rental car in Europe was brilliant: an Alfa 155.  A 4 cylinder 1.6 liter 16-valve five-speed sedan in metallic red. [* None of these photos are of the exact car I rented, but they are representative of year, make, model, and color.]

The Alfa I loved.

We drove it from Rome to Sorrento; then down the Amalfi Drive to Salerno and back up through Benevento and more.  Italian gas jockeys complimented me on it ("campione del mondo!") and it was the only rental I ever paid to wash so that it looked great.  It topped out at 215 km/h on a slight downhill while drafting a Rover on the Autostrada.  [Only after I returned did I discover that the Italian national speed limit is only 140 km/h.]  It was like an autocrosser for the four hours of the Amalfi Drive, not getting above third gear for much more than a minute the whole time.  If I could have brought it home, I would have.



The next time, I got stuck with a 'leftover' 1.4 Golf at the Frankfurt Flugplatz.  They claimed they had no reservation for me and, to get me out of their hair, they 'found' this one.

The Pope had a Golf - only his was cooler than this.

Boring silver with crappy nearly smooth Firestone tires, we drove it through an 18" Alpine snowstorm.  Through closed passes.  Nearly rear-ended an Opel turning left because of the tires.  Managed to see 190 km/h flat out at redline in fifth gear on the Autobahn on the way to München.  It could have done more, but I figured it was bad form to puff the engine in the rental.

This last time, although it was larger and more powerful, I was unhappily ambushed.  I had reserved a car.  It was to be a compact with a manual transmission.  When I got to the counter, a pleasant young man waited:


Avis Guy:  "I know that you reserved a manual transmission car.  Would you mind driving an automatic?"
Me:  "Yes, I would.  I reserved a manual and I want one."
AG:  "Well, I can give you a manual, but it will be a larger car.  I won't charge you the difference."
Me:  "What's the catch?"
AG:  "It's a Renault."
Me:  "Crap; you're giving me a FRENCH CAR?"
AG:  "At least it's black.  Not as ugly as all the silver ones ..."


Oh, hell.  So I took it.  After signing things, he handed me a key ring with a big plastic card on it (with the usual 'lock-unlock' and 'panic' icons on one side of it) and an Avis tag.


Me:  "What's this?"
AG:  "That's the key.  You put it in the slot and push the button to start the car."
Me:  "O-o-o-o-okay-y-y-y ..."


So off we went to Space 29.  Along the way, we saw the metallic lime green Opel Astra we probably would have had otherwise - dammit.  We threw all our stuff into the roomy hatch and climbed aboard the black Renault Scenic.

Yeah; it looks like a Pontiac Vibe on drugs.  One of the most relentlessly annoying vehicles I have ever had the displeasure to drive.  It started immediately with a seat that was virtually impossible to adjust to be comfortable.  I settled for 'kinda' close' because I wanted to get on the road.  Then I looked for the slot.  Nothing on the dash.  Nothing close to the 'Start' button.  After a minute or two, I located it lurking, classic Saab-like, just behind the shift boot.  The dashboard (which, annoyingly, is in the center of the car, not in front of the driver where God intended it to be) came to life.

Renault Scenic cockpit.  That onboard nav system?  Forget it.  Didn't have it.

I pushed in the clutch and pressed the button.  The engine came to life instantly.  There was, however, a problem.  The parking brake was on.  I searched in vain for a lever, a pedal, the owner's manual, anything to offer a clue.  For a full two minutes.  Maybe more.  Finally, I spotted the big wide power window-like switch visible to the upper right of the shifter.  A 'P' in a circle and a red light on it.  That was it.  Pushing and pulling did nothing.  Cursing didn't seem to work, either.  Finally, my wife suggested I step on the brake.  I did.  I pulled up on the button.  A light electric whirring sound came from the rear and "Voila!" we were free to go!  Forty feet down the parking garage, I realized I hadn't a clue where I was going - and the nav system was in my luggage ...


Suitably 'navved up', we hit the road for Innsbruck.  Along the way, I discovered:

1. how annoying it was to have silver-outlined vents reflecting off the window around the mirror
2. that the gearbox was a six-speed, not five
3. that the Scenic is at least usable in the "2M" lane [that's 2 meters wide - on Swiss highways under construction]
4. that the seat still sucked
5. that it was no fun at all to drive

What I would not discover until the following day was the cruise control on/off switch (on the other side of the shifter console - logical, right?) and not until days later that the dash was switchable to at least give me a tachometer in addition to a fuel gauge and speedometer.  It handled dreadfully on the mountain roads I'd so eagerly looked forward to.  It was so dull on the Autobahn that I saw 170 km/h and didn't bother going any faster, usually running at 150 or less.  It was a transportation appliance - and I hate that.

As rental cars go, I don't often have one.  When I do, it's usually unpleasant.  So don't come whinin' to me if yours sucks.