Brazen costs
Alan Judd
The hidden costs of motoring are just about bearable so long as they stay hidden. Depreciation, for instance, makes its painful presence felt only when you sell. That's when you realise that — according to Autocar's authoritative figures — your new Lexus LS430 depreciates during its first year at £55 per day, and your new BMW 760iL and Mercedes CLK 55 AMG at £60.
It would be nice if other costs were so reticent, but some are brazen. Tyres, for example. A friend recently discovered a side-wall bulge in one of the low-profile front tyres of his Renault Espace and, since the other was nearing its limit, decided to replace both. They had lasted just 14,500 miles; Espace front tyres, he was told, commonly need replacing within 17,000 miles because it's a fairly heavy front-wheel-drive vehicle and the torquey diesel engine in his model puts more pressure on the drive wheels. The tyres are also rather special: they incorporate an electronic pressure-monitoring device linked to the car's computer.
There are, he next discovered, only two manufacturers of these tyres — Continental at £190 each and the superior, longer-lasting Michelin at £250. On regaining balance and voice, he negotiated the latter down to £220, swallowed hard and coughed up. The moral is, don't buy a new car without asking about such routine replacement costs and their frequencies, including brake pads and discs, exhausts and filters. My tractor tyres are cheaper than that, and they're nearly as tall as I am.
Another friend had a worse surprise when she found her street-parked Astra estate resting not on its wheels but on its belly. Some bit of sludge had removed all four alloy wheels in the night. In my private inventory of punishments-to-fit-the-crime, he'd have his feet cut off — maybe just one, if it's his first offence. We'll never know that, of course, because such so-called 'minor' crime — the sort that actually affects most of us — is rarely investigated, let alone cleared up. We could tolerate zero tolerance as a policing policy, but why in so many areas of this country do we tolerate zero protection and zero enforcement?
That said, I don't understand the fashion for alloy wheels, which cost more and are less strong than steel. They might look good on your Porsche or Range Rover, but why have them on everyday cars such as an Astra estate or my diesel Golf? And how many of us notice our wheels? This time of year they're covered in mud, anyway.
My friend next found that the AA wouldn't recover her car, arguing that a car without wheels was 'not a car' and therefore not a recoverable breakdown. This didn't sound wholly reasonable. so I rang to check. Not true, they said — my friend must have struck an unsympathetic and not quite accurate operator. The AA would always recover if the member wanted, but they would charge. If the car were comprehensively insured they would expect the bill to be paid by the insurance company; if it were third party, the owner would have to pay. Their argument is that they are a breakdown service and are not there to cover vandalism and crime, which are insurance-company business. One can see their logic; but it shows that the comprehensive recovery service many of us have bought isn't quite as comprehensive as we thought.
I, too, had the unwelcome experience of buying new tyres recently, though I think I got off lightly. All four Pirellis on my Discovery (fitted 26,000 miles ago) were within 2,000-3,000 miles of the legal limit and so, vainly hoping for some decent winter snow, I thought I wouldn't wait. I was quoted £98.98 to replace them, £90 for Bridgetowns and £129.95 for Michelins. But I belong to Costco, an American wholesaler with 15 huge warehouses in the UK at which, for £23.50 annual membership, you can buy anything from smoked salmon to computers to wine to clothes to tools to dishwashers for (usually) about 20 per cent to 30 per cent less than elsewhere. And they'll change your tyres while you shop. They sell only Michelins, but at 195.16 instead of 1129.95. If I'd waited a week for the current two-month special offer, I'd have paid just over £86.
I try not to go shopping but when I have to I do it on the commando-raid principle — get in, get it and get out. A visit to Costco, however, is sociologically fascinating. At the Thurrock branch you reacquaint yourself with Essex girl, 20 years on. She's permanently on her mobile, apparently to someone in the next aisle, and she's running a pub now with Danny, her new partner. She's buying loo rolls by the Landcruiser load and food for the Rottweilers. Listening to her is an antidote to middle-class guilt and welcome reassurance that one is, in some ways, still normal. Any bit of sludge caught pinching her alloys might have more than just his feet cut off.
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