Cross-Country in the 2006 BMW 3 Series

[BMWDave]

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We bring good news: Elvis is alive! More about this in a moment.

We discovered this as part of a cross-country drive in a 2006 BMW 3 Series, yes, the new BMW 3 Series, which we needed on the West Coast for a comparison test. The car, however, was on the East Coast, which presented an opportunity for a clever headline: "3 Series, 3 Thousand Miles, 3 Days." Once the headline was brainstormed, formulated, committee-approved, patented and set in attractive type, all that remained was the easy part ? driving a car cross-country in three days.

Here's the car: a top-of-the-line 330i painted "Electric Red," subtitled, "Officer! Look! It's an expensive import being driven very quickly!" It also has multiple options, including a "cold weather package," which means we can crank up the air conditioning, and turn on the heated seats, the sort of excess that makes us all proud to be Americans, a "sport package," which ups tire size from 17-inchers to 18s, plus a sport suspension and a "premium package" which got us leather upholstery ? nice for easy pintos-and-cheese cleanup after Taco Bell visits.

The 330i has the more powerful version of the new 3.0-liter, inline six-cylinder engine, with 255 horses. The six-speed manual transmission had BMW's typical hair-trigger clutch, making you concentrate when you want to ease away smoothly from a stop. Base price of $36,300 swelled to $42,390 with options.

Two things you want to know: iDrive is optional and this car doesn't have it. And the styling, given BMW's recent track record, is entirely acceptable. However, it's as if the styling committee started with the front of the car on Monday, progressed carefully toward the rear as the week passed, then on Friday afternoon, found itself at the rear. "Uh, let's just copy a Hyundai, so we can go home!" someone said. They all laughed, and left for the weekend.

Enough about the car. Ready to roll? Yeah, we thought so.

DAY 1
From New Yawk City, we decide to head west. And west, and west. The BMW doesn't have the optional navigation system, so we refer to Plan B: It's a small 2004 Rand McNally atlas I bought at Wal-Mart for 10 cents. Yes, 10 cents! I didn't know Wal-Mart sold anything for 10 cents. I wonder: Is it somehow flawed? No, but clearly they economized by leaving out some things, such as roads.

Before we leave the East Coast, though, we make a stop at Coney Island. It was everything we thought it would be, and less. Sort of a sad place, but the newspapers keep talking about the comeback it's making. It's a pretty day, but the sea breeze is augmented, even overshadowed, by the breeze from Nathan's, home of much legendary food, but mostly hot dogs. Tough hot dogs for tough people. Tasty.

There is, however, a troubling aspect to our visit to Nathan's: Each July 4, there's a world-recognized hot dog eating contest here. The champion is a 132-pound Japanese man named Takeru Kobayashi, who makes infrequent trips to America to humiliate our own competitive eaters.

He is, in fact, ranked No. 1 in the world by the New York-based International Federation of Competitive Eaters (www.ifoce.com), having consumed 53.5 Nathan's hot dogs in 12 minutes. Even more impressive, Kobayashi holds the world's record for eating cow brains ? 17.7 pounds in 15 minutes.

Actually, of all the 50 top-ranked pro eaters, my favorite is fourth-ranked Badlands Booker who, at 420 pounds, outweighs the top three pro eaters combined. Badlands has just released an album, titled Hungry and Focused, billed as "the first-ever rap album about competitive eating." Badlands may not be able to top Kobayashi at the hot dog table, but he does hold the world record for eating glazed doughnuts: 49 in eight minutes. He also holds the record for onions, matzo balls, corned beef hash and burritos. While we respect Badlands, we're glad he isn't in this BMW with us.

One final Nathan's note: While parked outside, a Mercedes-Benz CLK pulls up next to us. One of the occupants, a baggy-panted teen who could be an extra on The Sopranos, walks over and asks, "This the new 3 Series?" Yes, we tell him. "I may get me one," he says. Uneventful as this might seem, it was the only comment about the car anyone made during the entire trip.

We leave Coney Island for Manhattan. On the way we pass the Statue of Liberty. She beckons: We are poor, and tired, but not hungry, as that Nathan's dog is sitting in my stomach like a rock. Manhattan, even on a Sunday, is crowded, an appealing mix of stretched-neck tourists, winos, sanitation workers, police officers and pamphlet-passers. Let's get outta here.

On to New Jersey, the Garden State. Into Pennsylvania, the State of Independence. It is also the State of Misleading McDonald's Signs, as we chase down a McDonald's that is literally miles off Interstate 70/76: This is just wrong. Someone make a note of that, OK?

We make a slight detour to Pittsburgh. We missed a baseball game at PNC Park. Too bad. Next time. Lunch is at a Taco Bell south of Pittsburgh, where my Chalupa Supreme is lacking. Pintos and cheese are fine, though.

We clip the edge of West Virginia, and move through Ohio, splitting Columbus and edging Dayton. We make considerable use of the Sirius Satellite Radio. It is alternately a blessing, and a reminder than even with 120 channels, sometimes there's still nothing on.

For some reason, the antenna seems confused when we drive on a road with concrete dividers on both sides, even though the dividers are only a few feet tall, and there's no obstruction overhead. At least the seats still feel good after five states.

We roll into Indiana, heading to Indianapolis, where we plan to make a late-night visit to a major landmark. Can you guess what it is? That's right! The nation's finest White Castle restaurant. It's downtown, near the bus station, and is frequently populated by people who have a fluid home address. The man in front of us in line, carrying his luggage, orders "a cup." A few grease-dripping double cheeseburgers, and life is sweet. Until White Castle begins mixing it up with Taco Bell in the gastrointestinal arena, anyway.

We head to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which was busy during the day, quiet late at night. Still a damn big, impressive place.

West to Illinois, past Terra Haute and over the Wabash River, late. Just past the border, an 18-wheeler in front of us brakes and swerves, but apparently can't miss the deer. A big doe lies on the shoulder, legs up, still vibrating.

We pull into Effingham, Illinois, 996 miles after Coney Island. The 330i handled this first marathon day with aplomb. Even in sixth gear, there's enough torque for passing without downshifting, the xenon headlights are superb at night and there's more elbow- and knee room than we expected. Though the styling actually makes the car look smaller than last year's model, it's 2.2 inches longer and about 3 inches wider, so the two of us aboard don't feel on top of each other.

We find a Ramada Limited. It's limited, all right.

DAY 2
West, always west. Past a sign for a restaurant advertising "mile-high pie." I've been there; it isn't, but there's enough meringue to make the pie look like the hairdo on the Flock of Seagulls singer.

Among the obligatory must-shoot photos is the car and the St. Louis Gateway Arch, but that is easier said than done. We eventually find a spot on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, next to the railroad tracks. As pictures are taken, I wander: Look! There's a Bacardi bottle that some enterprising junkie has fashioned into a crack pipe. Next to it is a tattered "East St. Louis" hat that appears to have been shot off someone's head. I'm about to apply the skills I learned from watching multiple episodes of CSI when it's time to roll.

Over the bridge and into Missouri. Past St. Louis, we get to Wright City, and the Elvis Is Alive Museum. Luckily, the curator, Bill Beeny, 78, is available. His remaining hair is dyed black, and he is wearing a jumpsuit. We chat, surrounded by Elvis memorabilia, such as Lisa Marie's little stroller and inevitable velvet paintings. Beeny said he obtained some DNA from Elvis' "corpse" and had it compared to DNA stored from a medical test when Elvis was still "alive," and it didn't "match." I'm "convinced."

So where is Elvis now? "He could be anywhere," Bill Beeny said. "Anywhere?."

Back on I-70. Destination: Columbia, where I attended the University of Missouri. The campus looks pretty good, even the six old limestone columns in the Quadrangle, all that is left from the original Academic Hall, which burned down. I had nothing to do with it, and I am pretty sure the statute of limitations has expired, anyway.

More west through Kansas City, into Kansas. Man, they got plenty o' nothing there. You could sort of tie down the steering wheel, set the cruise control and go to sleep. We make plans to visit the Greyhound Hall of Fame in Abilene, Kansas, because we want to buy one of those $35 Jacquard weave polyester ties with little greyhounds on them (the dog, not the bus), but we miss the exit ? easy to do in Kansas ? and the next exit was like 300 miles later.

At dusk, though, it's undeniably pretty country. We stop on a dirt road when the sun is at that National Geographic golden light level for photographs, and in that atmosphere, even the BMW's rear end looks pretty.

We ease into eastern Colorado, which looks just like western Kansas until we get near Denver and hit what we assume must be mountains, but it's too dark to tell. The car feels right. Practically every manufacturer has a 3 Series in its fleet, trying to figure out how BMW manages such a spot-on steering feel, offering just the precise amount of feedback without making it tiresome. In these conditions, handling is just the right compromise between tautness and comfort.

Past Denver, we drive into Georgetown at 2:20 a.m., and stop at a Best Western, 1,060 miles since Effingham, Illinois. Scott, my traveling companion/photographer, terrifies the female desk clerk, who is vacuuming, her back to the door. She screams like a stuck pig, then rents us two rooms.

DAY 3
Man, 8 a.m. is early. It's gorgeous here, something we did not realize the night before. We go west toward Grand Junction, then jag south: Finally, some pretty scenery, and we weren't going to miss it. Down Highway 50, then 550, through Montrose, then Ouray, then Silverton: This is as pretty as America gets. The temperature drops into the 30s, and we're forced to turn the air conditioner off, the seat heaters up.

We go west on Highway 160, to Four Corners, the little monument park where you can stand in Arizona, Colorado, New Mexico and Utah at the same time, assuming you have large feet. This leads to philosophical discussions: If you lie down on the intersection and commit a felony, which gets jurisdiction? Four Corners is really sort of a flea market, admission $3, where local Indians sell jewelry and fried flatbread. They're out of flatbread.

We jag into New Mexico, then enter Arizona. Dusk carries us west on Highway 160, out of the Navajo Nation and into the huge Hopi Indian Reservation, through tiny Kayenta, past stunning mesas and rock formations, through the Painted Desert and into Tuba City, and a superb Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Then south to Flagstaff, and the old Route 66. It would be easier, and prudent, to take I-40 into Los Angeles, our destination, but we aren't prudent, so we head toward Las Vegas. North on Highway 93 at Kingman, and we think we can see the lights of Las Vegas already. We can't, of course. By now, we're sort of delirious.

As we near Lake Mead and Boulder Dam, we're required to stop at a checkpoint, manned by some bored-looking Highway Patrol officers who must have pissed off a captain. They make a cursory check of the BMW and determine that the likelihood of us being a rolling bomb sent to blow up the dam is "low," and allow us to proceed.

Eventually, Vegas, the city that really never sleeps. We troll the Strip, crowded even at 2 a.m. on a weeknight. We look for Wayne Newton, find a Fig Newton behind the seat. A quick stop at the Aladdin ? mostly because I know where to park there. I win $18 at the slot machine. Quarters. My pockets are bulging.

Back on Interstate 15, and near Jean, we see the only real traffic accident of the trip: An 18-wheeler has tipped over onto the center concrete divider, and eventually rode the divider down a couple hundred feet, concrete scraping along the driver-side window. Memorable, I bet.

We hit Los Angeles at dawn, and seemingly hit rush-hour traffic around Barstow. Times like these, automatic transmissions seem like a good idea. The clutch and I have still not made friends.

Really, though, that's about the only complaint I have. Aside from a balky cruise control which worked when it wanted to, the car has performed as expected. Plenty of power, excellent handling, exemplary fuel mileage. All the safety features you'd want, standard, which fortunately we didn't need. Low gas price was $1.87 a gallon, high was $2.62, with 30.1 overall mpg.

We work our way through Los Angeles and find the Santa Monica Pier. We drove all night, 1,240 miles, bringing our three-day total to 3,296 miles. My ass is, to put it mildly, dragging, but before I crash I rename the story "3 Series, 3,300 miles, 3 days."

Much more impressive, don't you think?

[Raza]

3er... :P