Rolling with The Chief

As it happens, I have parked in my garage two vehicles that illustrate as well as any the rapid evolutionary curve of the modern SUV.  In one bay sits my wife’s 2014 BMW X5 xDrive35d, nicknamed Axel, the current-generation, diesel-powered version of BMW’s tall-seating luxuro-barge.  It’s smooth as a 5-series, comfortable and cosseting, powerful and sure-footed, safe as a vault, a lovely technological tour de force with appealing gizmos galore.

In the bay next to Axel sits something altogether different, a beast from another age of SUV mindset, carved from ingots and giving not two shits to mealy concepts such as luxury or even particular comfort:  The Chief.

The Chief is a 2012 Toyota FJ Cruiser, the Trail Teams version (of which Toyota made 2500 that year), painted in blazing Radiant Red from running board to rooftop with the hard bits done up in anodized black.  It’s fitted with Bilstein shocks for an even more compliant off-road ride, burly 16-inch alloy wheels over massive and deeply treaded BFGoodrich rubber, slim rock rails and skid plates galore, with a TRD exhaust to give it more of a menacing bark.  It is not subtle.  And I love it.  Or I should say, we love it.  But more on that later.

The Chief handles the urban jungle with a shrug and a little grin.

The FJ Cruiser was an anachronism from the start.  Manufactured by Toyota in their Hamura, Japan, factory from 2006 to 2014, the FJ was originally designed as an homage to the rightly famous FJ40 utility vehicles that were manufactured for twenty-plus years beginning in the mid-1960’s.  The original FJ40 is well known, from the baked Africa plain to the frozen Alaska bush, for its toughness and durability, and continues to be a popular choice for vintage SUV buyers and well-heeled hipsters alike.  Even Icon, the California maker of amazing resto-mod 4x4s, has a stunning riff on the original FJ40 (for upwards of $100k, natch).  And the collector’s market has begun to inflate prices for pristine examples, with immaculately restored FJs sharing tony auction stages with Italian sports cars and Gilded-Age American classics at places such as Scottsdale, Monterey, and Amelia Island.

From those historical underpinnings Toyota rolled out the FJ Cruiser concept to much delight at the Detroit Auto Show in 2003, and in 2006 production vehicles began arriving in dealerships. Designed at Toyota’s Newport Beach, CA, Calty Design Studio, it was an adorable bulldog of a machine, with Tonka Truck styling and genuine capability to get itself into really nasty places (and then out again).  Grins and positive reviews followed in its wake. (Though a few reviewers complained about excessive body roll, missing the point of an off-road vehicle’s malleable suspension. Body roll in an FJ cruiser you say?  No kidding, Sherlock.) But while the vehicle was an immediate hit with hard-core fans and off-roaders and earned a somewhat awkward place in Toyota’s lineup, it yearly sales rarely exceeded more than 15,000 vehicles once the initial sugar rush of excitement wore off.  As expected, the vehicle was retired with the 2014 model year, another casualty of CAFE standards and fleet averages and softening tastes.

To Toyota’s credit, the FJ Cruiser was the farthest thing from the Costco-conquering Highlander or Sequoia.  Engineered as a body-on-frame vehicle and sharing many of it’s mechanicals with the equally old-school 4Runner SUV and Tacoma truck, the FJ stuck proudly to the pure 4x4 model rather than the electronically focused All-Wheel Drive system architecture that’s become so prevalent (take our X5 for example).  It’s got locking differentials, an actual low-end transfer case, and a rock-crawling sure-footedness found in few modern vehicles.  If you get yourself in a spot you can’t get out of in an FJ Cruiser, it’s your own damn fault.

The original FJ40 grill pops as a design element in the FJ Cruiser.

The FJ Cruiser is powered by a version of Toyota’s venerable 4-liter DOHC V6 making 260-hp and 271 lb/ft of torque, an engine used in variations across many of the Japanese firm’s beefy and durable SUVs and trucks.  It’s a great motor for the application, making peak power and torque at 5300rpm, and reasonable fuel efficiency given it’s powering 4300lbs of decidedly old-school construction (no aluminum or carbon fiber to be found).  The FJ will tow 5000lbs with ease, and the 5-speed automatic transmission on our model shifts smoothly and without drama.  It’s not speedy, with 0-60mph coming at a respectable but hardly urgent 7.8 seconds, and with lateral grip measured at .69 G, you’ll not be winning any auto-cross competitions in your FJ (though it makes a superb tow vehicle to get your tricked out Miata or Mini to the circuit).

But outright engine performance is not the raison d'être of a vehicle like this; going places other machines will not most certainly is.  To that end, the FJ Cruiser will ford 28-inches of water with little drama and approaches obstacles with over 30-degrees of approach and departure angles on the front and rear.  With a stock ground clearance of over 10-inches and with up to 10-inches of suspension travel on our Trail Teams Edition, the FJ will happily handle obstacles and climb terrain that would leave a hiker on foot wheezing for air.

Owning The Chief was not my idea.  Dreamy Wife, who has a penchant for colorful and whimsical vehicles, fell in love with the brute one afternoon and that was that.  She’d loved the FJ from the start, but when the one-off all-red version hit the market, we went shopping.  So we brought it home and she drove it for a couple of years and then decided she wanted to return to something a bit more posh, but when we talked about selling the FJ, it hit us both:  The Chief was a member of the family.  We had grown attached.

As a dog hauler and garden store companion, The Chief has seen more than it’s share of slobber and sweat and ground-in dirt.  But it was designed for that, so cleanup is simple and easy; no fitted rugs to worry about shampooing, just easy to wash, rugged plastic lining.  In the Winter, we don’t even pay attention to the roads.  We just go.  The Chief has rescued stranded motorcycles, pulled trailers of various shapes and sizes, towed several vehicles out of nasty spots, blasted 24” snow drifts, crawled over gravel piles, and lugged tons of rock and bags of sand and even a rare painting or two, and yet still manages to be useful on runs to the dry cleaners.  And while we’ve never made the trek out to Moab, we know we damn well could if we wanted.  And that’s a comfortable feeling; the Zombie Apocalypse could be just around the corner.

The ergonomics of an FJ Cruiser can leave a bit to be desired, but complaining about them seems petty, as it’s clear what you’re getting when you sign on the line.  The blind spots behind the C-pillars wouldn’t be out of place in a sensory deprivation chamber, so an owner quickly acquaints himself with the fine art of driving with the rear-view mirrors.  (The addition of a tiny backup camera on our year’s model alleviated the drama somewhat.)  And the two suicide half-doors look cool and function pretty well and provide wonderful access to the rear seats, but in tight spots it’s clear why rear hinges never really became mainstream.  Also, we’ve noticed the vehicle has a propensity to smell like wet dogs.  (Okay, maybe that’s just ours.)

And now the oddest thing:  Cost of ownership.  Vehicle depreciation curves tend to be as predictable as the tides and as steep as the lip of a canyon; as the saying goes, “That first step is a killer.”  Buying a new car generally introduces the buyer to a financial open elevator shaft of retained value (I’m talking to you, owners of Ford Fiestas and Fiat 500s).  But over the life of the vehicle, no single automobile in America has retained more value than the FJ Cruiser.  Let me repeat that:  The FJ Cruiser has the best resale of any vehicle sold in America.  (I’m not including limited production unobtainium hypercars like the Porsche 918 or McLaren P1, wisenheimers, so just don’t.)  JD Powers backs this up, as does NADA (the National Automobile Dealers Association).  Fun fact: A recent NADA report shows the average three-year-old FJ Cruiser is worth 98% of its original sale price.  98%!  Back in 2011 when we bought The Chief, we paid roughly $35,000.  To my utter amazement, there are significantly higher-mile versions of the same year and model trading on Cars.com at this very moment for north of that amount.  To quote a wise man: “Well I’ll be damned…”  Evidently not all depreciation curves are created equal.

Thus The Chief even turned out to be a great buy.  But really, that’s just a happy bonue in our household.  The Chief makes Dreamy Wife and I happy, period, full stop.  We always chuckle a bit when we see it’s bright red top poking above the inevitably shorter vehicles in whatever parking lot it's parked, and while it’s too tall to fit in my office parking garage, that’s no matter.  Ruscha and Rocco, our two German Shorthaired Pointers, love to ride around in it and consider it theirs.  It provides a feeling of solidity and invincibility in an increasingly fragile and disturbed world.  And it makes us smile goofy smiles.  And that, gentle readers, is an unquantifiable investment return if there ever was one.

The Old Guy’s Superbike

30 kilometers from the storied, picturesque, and hydrogeographically challenged environs of Venice, Italy, lies the town of Noale.  It’s 15,000 residents occupy a picturesque place, classically Northern Italian, an easy drive from Padua and Treviso, with Gothic architecture and canals and all roads leading to an imposing and impressive medieval fortress.  In certain esoteric musical circles, Noale is known as the home of the cult Italian death metal band Catarrhal Noise, who shred audiences with blistering sonic walls and lyrics sung in their native Venetian.  But in most of the world, Noale is better known as home to a different kind of urgent, metallic wailing:  Aprilia Motorcycles.

Sometime in February of this year, those same mechanical artisans in Noale put the final touches on a Tuono V4 1100 Factory model, gave it one last polish, and packed it in its wooden crate.  It went by truck to the port of Venice, made its way by shipping container to Houston, Texas, was loaded onto a truck, and ultimately arrived at Reno’s Powersports in Kansas City, Missouri.  And the fine folks at Reno’s were good enough to let me know it had arrived.

I’m not unfamiliar with the lure of Italian motorcycles.  In the past decade, I’ve owned a half-dozen Ducati bikes, all but one at least a liter is size, from top-shelf Monsters (including two sublime S4RS versions) to “S” model superbikes (a 1098 and an 1198) to an ultra-high strung 1199 R Panigale that currently lives in my garage.  I’ve also owned a charming and zippy Moto Guzzi v7 Racer that was the envy of every boulevard I rode it down.  I’ve ogled MV Agustas at dealerships across the country, have lusted after forbidden-fruit Bimotas (“Please, Santa, a Tesi 3D”), gazed at Laverdas at collector gatherings with envy, and even once chased down a guy riding an older Bimota just to give him a thumbs up.  My personal stable includes the aforementioned Panigale R and a pristine 2003 Ducati MH900e “Hailwood.” I also spent a glorious morning a couple of years back touring the Ducati factory in Bologna while visiting Tuscany.  I dig Italian motorcycles.

I was also not unfamiliar with the proud history of Aprilia.  A part of the Piaggio empire since 2004, Aprilia was founded as a bicycle company after WWII.  The company began to motorize their bikes in the late sixties.  They began first with mopeds and scooters, but began growing their lines in the seventies when they began making off-road and enduro bikes for the Italian and World motocross championships.  Much success followed, especially when Aprilia entered Grand Prix racing in the 125cc and 250cc classes, which served as a training grounds for factory riders such as future legends Max Biaggi, Loris Capirossi, Jorge Lorenzo, and even Valentino “The Doctor” Rossi.  In the late 2000s, Aprilia entered the premier roadracing series, the World Superbike Championship, with their first four-cylinder literbike with Max Biaggi at the controls.  It’s on this bike the Tuono “Supernaked” is based.  Of note is that in 2010, Aprilia surpassed fellow Italian marque MV Agusta to become the most successful motorcycle racing brand in history when it notched a record 276th victory.  It continues to build on that record today.

The idea for the Tuono was pretty straightforward:  Take the already stunning RSV4 superbike of WSB fame, replace the clip-on bars with a flat handlebar, soften the front-end geometry just a bit, and remove most of the full racing bike’s fairing.  Done.  Simple.  But oh so effective.

The “Factory” model is the Tuono’s (and brother RSV4 Superbikes) top-shelf version and gets all the exotic bits.  Swedish-built Ohlins all the way around; crazy-clamping Brembo brakes; super-sticky Pirelli Diablo Supercorsa radials; Aprilia’s most advanced electronics suite; and a host of other little touches that signify specialness.  The particular bike at Reno’s was even outfitted with a full Akropovic race exhaust, the glossy carbon fiber exhaust can and soon-to-blue titanium pipes hanging from the most artful curve of carbon fiber and milled aluminum hanger I’ve ever seen.  It’s the kind of detail that separates Italian design, taking what could have been an afterthought of functionality and turning it into something lustworthy.  Stunning.

Having spent so much time on Ducati twins, swinging my leg over the four-cylinder Aprilia and turning the key was met with a great deal of expectation and curiosity.  Would a four-cylinder Italian bike have the same sterility of even the most tractable and roarty Japanese machines?  I admire everything about a Honda CBR1000RR and respect a Suzuki GSX-R1000 like anyone who’s ever spent ten minutes watching the Isle of Man TT, but they’re not bikes for me.  Too much like bumblebees; too high-strung, with no low-end grunt; too many punk kids riding wheelies on local interstates.  Too…<snob alert!>…mass market.

The 472-lb (when full of fluids) Tuono Factory certainly doesn’t want for motivation.  It’s 65-degree, 1,077cc V4 engine makes a class-leading 175hp at 11,000rpm and an impressive 89 lb-ft of torque at 9,000rpm, all kept slightly in check by the bike’s smooth ride-by-wire throttle.  The bike fires up with a tense whine and settles into a comfortable idle that’s mellow and a bit throaty; more Barry White than Otis Redding.  It’s an impressive sound, serious and purposeful and massively grin-inducing.

While styling is certainly subjective, it’s natural for me to compare the Tuono Factory with the other top-shelf racing bike in my garage, the Ducati Panigale R.   Visually in animal terms, the Panigale R has an eagle’s stolidity, a regal, muscular grace; a lion’s comfortable ease in its burnished skin.  The Tuono appears more eager, leaner, an athlete whose metabolism hasn’t begun to slow; a falcon perched on a branch, alert, watching.  It’s a stunning bike and receives more thumbs-up from drivers and riders than virtually anything I’ve been on save a lovingly odd café racer or two.  With its Aprilia Racing “Superpole” livery mimicking that of the current WSB competition machines and a bold “Aprilia” splayed across what passes for the front fairing onto the tank, along with polished red wheels, it passes the critical “not yet” visual test: You always want to turn and look at it again when you walk away.  It’s a stunner.

A common observation about superbikes, ones I’ve owned and others that I’ve ridden, is that, while they are designed to be massively planted and stable at high speeds, they’re often not worth a damn around town.  My Panigale R is a case in point.  At speed, on the straights or in the twisties, the bike is pure superhero stuff, unflappable in all conditions and lean angles, fast as an untethered Sidewinder missile, with a sound like a Norse god with a bad head cold.  It’s astounding.  But slow-speed riding is a different thing.  I live in the city so puttering to the outskirts is required, and the Ducati is one unhappy camper in that role.  Almost unridable; a pissed off prize bull trapped in pen, looking to buck off and skewer an unwary rider.  It only wants to stretch its legs. 

Only the Italians make something as functional as an exhaust hanger so elegant.

The Tuono Factory, on the other hand, has the almost counterintuitive bonus trait of being quite easy to ride slow.  Down low, it has plenty of controllable torque but it never feels like the engine will lug below 2000rpm; credit wonderful throttle programming.  It’s stable and balanced and easy to maneuver, with great low-speed handling and a generally friendly disposition.  Why hello, coffee shop, yes I would like to pull in for a cup.

But then you open the think up out on the road and its real personality shows up.  Above 6000rpm, the V4 wails like nothing so much as a normally-aspirated Formula One engine from the eighties; it’s that sonorous and memorable, a metallic roar tinged with high-pitched lightning cracks punctuating the sonic wave of the exhaust with each modulation of the throttle.  The torque present lower down builds in the mid-range and finally, above 6500rpm or so, becomes linear with revs, pushing greater gobs of velocity as the noise builds until…well, as I ride on public roads and don’t want my face on every patrol car computer screen, discretion in this description is probably warranted.  But you get the idea.

The bike also changes gears in the most confident manner. Leaving aside the fun of hammering up the gear range with the automatic quickshifter that engages above 6000 rpm, the transmission itself is as precise as it is forgiving.  All motorcycle transmissions have their own character.  BMW superbikes shift as if their gears were fitted together by a Glashütte wristwatch master, which Ducatis feel like the gears were milled from a single piece of flawless alloy by espresso-fueled CNC machines.  The Tuono Factory’s transmission, much like an earlier RSV4 I rode, felt like it was crafted and fitted together on a parts bench by an Italian artisan who’s been doing it for decades.  It’s mechanical in the most confident and hand-made way, and is an utter delight.  (Ducati, why can you make it possible to find Neutral like Aprilia has?).

The handling of the Tuono Factory is as neutral and confidence-inspiring as any bike I’ve ever ridden; a revelation in fact.  Its comfortable and perceptive, with turn-in aided greatly by its flat handle bar.  But once in a corner, the bike plants itself and responds almost intuitively to even the slightest weight shift or gesture.  It’s stable and glued and gently responsive, and, to my riding style at least, strikes the perfect balance.  It doesn’t hurt that the riding position is perfect for my frame and size (6’, 180 lbs), and the seat height lets me balance the bike with my feet not quite flat but slightly bent; just the right height and rake.

In the interest of being fair, there are a few niggles.  The LCD display tends to wash out in the sunlight and has all the modernity of a Nintendo game from 1998.  It’s not nearly as trick as the organic-looking TFT display used on modern Ducati’s (though the analog tachometer that wraps around the digital display is clear and simple and easy to read at a glance).  The left-hand switchgear is spaced a bit too close together, so that the turn signal button is easily pushed when aiming for the function button; the tactile quality of the switchgear is also a bit Playschool.  And the shifter, for my size-11 feet at least, is about an inch too short, so the addition of an adjustable shift lever would be delightful.  But these are nits.

When I returned the Tuono to Reno’s Powersports after a long test ride, my amazement at what Aprilia has achieved was palpable.  Steve Okenfuss, the genial General Manager of the dealership, practically beamed.  “I knew you’d love it.  I think it’s the single best motorcycle in the world right now.”  And Steve would know, since he travels the world riding Ducatis, Aprilias, Moto Guzi, Yamahas, and all manner of exotic machines.  I did pause sheepishly for a moment, though, when I remarked at how astoundingly comfortable the bike was to ride, especially for one of such overwhelming performance capabilities, muttering something about a man needing to be accustomed to his growing limitations.  The aging teenager in me felt the insecure need to almost apologize for loving a bike that didn’t necessarily beat the crap out of me.  Steve just grinned. “It’s the old guy’s superbike.  It’s perfect for guys like us.”  And that’s no faint praise in the slightest.

So how much did I like the Tuono V4 1100 Factory?  Enough that I wrote Steve a fat check.  The bike is parked in my garage right now.  Time for a ride.