BHPian iliketurtles recently shared this with other enthusiasts: They say “two’s company” and “three’s a crowd”. But I would beg to differ. Cast your mind to the past, and you’ll see many example of famous trios at play. The three stooges. The three Musketeers. The holy trinity, and the Trimurti. Or even peruse pop culture. Pokmon had Ash, Misty, and Brock. Monty Python too spoke in hallowed terms of the power of three. And what of the manner in which the mere mention of a threesome makes grown men weak in the knees? Three, then, is the number to go with when setting out to achieve greatness. No more, no less. Not four, nor two. Five is out of the question. And so it was that we set out as an intrepid troika with our gallant, low-slung steeds. Our aim? To head in the general direction of Dapoli, and conquer Maharashtra’s perennially pockmarked roads (and in some cases, no roads at all). The prize? Well, that would be the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the pothole-riddled highways that crisscross across Maharashtra. And what a prize it was. Views that would launch a thousand paeans. But we’ll get back to that later. Our cavalcade, consisting of Mr. A, Mr. K, and I, sported a pair of like-new M340i’s and a diminutive AMG captained by yours truly. You might imagine we made rapid progress and mincemeat of the journey. You would think wrong. Progress was slow, and steady, you could even say very turtle-esque. More than once, we were put in our place by an Alto or 800 or some such speedster racing past us after we had slowed to a near standstill. If you listened closely enough, you could hear them chortle as they zipped by, “all that power at the flex of your foot, and for what?” Chastened and humbled, all us three monkeys could do was carry on playing our low-speed, high-stakes game of “monkey see, monkey do” as we threaded our way through some horrendous patches of not-a-road. Unfortunately, these monkeys got their underbellies scratched a few times. I guess you could say it was our khujli that saw this itch get scratched. We bore the brunt of the car god’s ire and the highway authorities’ lack of care for what felt like interminable thousands of kilometers. If there was eternal damnation awaiting, this would be a hell of an idea for it; thrust car aficionados into something that gets their inner enthu cutlet frothing at the mouth, and then leave them to travel long distances across Maharashtra. A truly devilish idea, one I would not wish on my worst enemies. But it was all worth it when we hit Dapoli proper, with a glorious stretch of road greeting us. I have heard the phrase “yes, the approach road is fine” from one too many an Airbnb host who had no idea about the depths we (or more specifically our cars) could plumb. My inner cynic refused to take those words at face value, what with my car soul too scarred by trusting it on earlier instances. This time, though, the car gods smiled on us. What greeted us as we hit Dapoli was a vertically snaking ribbon of asphalt, streaking as far as the eye could see into the upper stretches of the horizon. It was, to put things in context, as beautiful a drive uphill as Aamby Valley in its earliest days. And there was nary another soul on the road. To say that we dropped our cars into Sports Plus and carpe diem’d the heck out of it would be to make an understatement. We were, after all, B.E.A.C.H Boys (Boys in Expensive Automobiles Chasing Horizons) on the day. Yes, I know that I’ve used boys at the very start of that acronym. Yes, I know that makes the second boys redundant. No, I will not roll back the name, because it rolls off the tongue nicely. Yes, you may silently chortle as you fist pump the air and notch a win for yourself over me. The A35 made short work of the few cars we did come across on the climb uphill, and the views of sun, sand, and sea that peeked out at us every now and then were like a salve for tortured souls. Perched high atop a hill, the bungalow we had booked boasted views that launched a thousand dreams (or paeans), and the beauty of just putting your feet up and doing nothing at all, save for explorations of the local scenery and cuisine. They say all the world is a book, and that he (or she) who has not travelled has read, but a page. If that were to be so, this trip packed enough grist for my mental mill to smash out another chapter of the best-selling (?) book of my life. Having had some time to ruminate and sleep over it (a lot), I have chosen to call this chapter “4 Things to Unpack from the Highway to Hell”. Since I haven’t served up enough ramblings, here’s another almighty heaping of it. Don’t overrate the availability of XP95 Technology has a solution for many things, but not human stupidity or the will of the gods. We were emboldened to venture our cars as far as we did since we saw a few pumps with XP95 not too far from where we were. Given the historically common availability of the dino juice, we assumed not much could go wrong. Oh, how wrong we were. Pump number 1 had stopped stocking the high octane juice, but forgotten to update the system. Pump number 2 flat out refused to dispense their stock of automotive manna since they feared water contamination. This I could understand, and appreciate. And so, we stuck with standard 91 octane until we could more trustworthy bunks. Moral of the story: carry octane booster, kids. Don’t take a readout on an app as the gospel truth. It’s impossible to overrate the quality of the B58 drivetrain My compadres for this trip were very interesting opposites. Let’s talk about Mr. A, who has an unfortunate medical condition. His right foot is somehow made of lead, and he is thus unable to lift it off the throttle. As you can imagine, this also weighed down his fuel average by quite some margin (not that we measured it), and caused his tankful to be not quite so brimful as we approached Dapoli. Mr. K, on the other hand, is afflicted with an ungodly, sometimes infuriating, amount of sanity. And so, he drove in a manner that was decidedly push-on, yet steady and measured. And yet, at the end of it all, by the time we got to Dapoli, Mr. A’s fuel reserves were not much less than mine (even though I don’t entirely share his medical condition). And Mr. K’s fuel reserves were so deep that could still venture out another 150 kms as per the car’s computers. All this, to simply say that despite being some 70 horses and two cylinders up on the A35, the M340i does not penalise you heavily for pushing hard, while rewarding you richly if you choose to hold something back. The B58 drivetrain is truly a marvel, and will go down as a modern legend. Deservedly so. It is Thanos in automotive form; galaxy-conquering and perfectly balanced, as all things should be. Kissa kursi ka Sometimes, you only miss what you had after it’s gone. Such is the case with BMW’s sports seats. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing that far wrong with the AMG’s lightly bolstered, alcantara splattered seats. Except it doesn’t have the side bolstering of the BMW. Or the suppleness. Or the under thigh support. And then there’s the fact that for the love of everything holy in Stuttgart, I just can’t seem to find a perfect seating position. It’s almost right, but it hasn’t just fallen into perfect lockstep like I did with the BMW. And after a couple of hours, you begin to feel the aching longing for the BMW’s throne in your glutes. The Merc’s seats aren’t that big a pain in the derriere, but it is certainly not its strong suit. Don’t overrate the ground clearance of the A35 or the amazing quality of our roads The A35 is not nearly as much of a low-rider as the 328i was, but it is low-slung by any objective standard. And I, ever the eternal optimist when it comes to all things automotive, assumed the A35 would get by just fine with a few scrapes since it has slightly more clearance than the 328i. Listen closely, and you will make out that sound as the gods laughing at my naivete. While the A35 managed to navigate the roads quite admirably, there were 3-4 instances on the route where it did bottom out a bit. And while that sound of the underbelly being tortured is hell for the auto aficionado, it is the price to pay for enjoying the kind of dynamics that only a low-slung sedan can deliver. Will I ever overrate the ground clearance of the A35 again? Absolutely not. Will I ever take it along the same route again? Perhaps I might, once I work up the courage again. After all, it takes some courage to hear a loved one being put through the wringer and make agonising noises. But what is life, if not the pursuit of joy with loved ones at your side, a cornucopia of culinary delights at an arms length, served with a side dish of a view that’s picture perfect? There’s just something about Maharashtra in the monsoons that is ethereal, and I hope to make more inroads on that front soon, Maharashtra’s fabulous road network notwithstanding. I hear some of you screaming “PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN!!!” at your screens. Very well. I shall abide by your demands. Here you go. Until next time, ciao ciao. Khao vada pav. Stopping to refuel for vada pav is a must… …as is puling over for obligatory pics What’s up, pup? “Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads” (Shri Shri Gadkari, probably) The splotchy splash on Mr. A’s lovely M340i is a work of art. Picasso couldn’t have painted it better Parked up, with the sea and surf calling Who needs roads? They’re overrated anyways Mr. K’s fetching M340i, donning the popular Tanzanite Blue Two’s company, they say… …but three’s not that bad a crowd. The puparazzi were out in full force on the day. We managed to capture some pics of the big small AMG… …and Mr. K’s M340i… …but forgot to click a pic of Mr. A’s ride. So here’s a pic of it trundling its way back home. All parked up, ready to snooze One last pic of the B.E.A.C.H. Boys for the road Read BHPian comments for more insights and information.
