The Dodge cocked a rear wheel, gobbled a mouthful of curbing, then pivoted into Turn 2 with four tires screaming. In the moment, that slab of steel and glass became poetry. It was jaw-dropping, but not a rare sight when automotive writers are left unattended with an open road course.

You bet your folding rear seat we hucked three minivans through Thunderhill West’s high-speed chicane and cackled like goons. For years, we’ve joked about awarding Performance Van of the Year honors. The vans serve as mobile nerve centers during R&T’s annual, weeklong Performance Car of the Year evaluation, doubling as photo rigs, runabouts, snack stands, tool chests, and chase vehicles. By the end of any PCOTY, each van has taken a beating—paint caked with dirt and footwells packed ankle-deep with candy wrappers. But they’ve also earned our respect. We’re attracted to any vehicle aimed at purpose, and nothing gets the job done in this industry like a minivan.

CAMDEN THRASHER

One year, I watched as photographer Dave Burnett’s legs dangled from the roof of a Chrysler Town & Country. He’d harnessed himself to the luggage rack for a better shot. Another time, I clung to shooter Richard Pardon’s belt as he hung out of a Honda Odyssey’s sliding door, in the rain, to snag a photo at speed. Last year, we employed two vans to dry the racetrack during lapping sessions between rainstorms. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched an Odyssey hunt supercars while carrying five helmeted passengers.

This year, we crowned a champ. Someone noticed the vans present were suitably varied, so we set the beasts to battle in the coliseum. The Chrysler Pacifica Hybrid and Toyota Sienna were manufacturer loaners. The final contender was that Dodge, a sun-bleached, 26,000-mile Grand Caravan rental checked out from the San Francisco airport, with an HVAC system that editor-at-large Sam Smith said “reeked of used jockstrap.”

CAMDEN THRASHER

For most of the test, the vans did what vans do best: disappear. You want a minivan to blend seamlessly into your life, asking nothing while providing utility, low-effort transit, and flexibility. In that respect, the Pacifica shone. It stopped for fuel less often. It sat next to pit lane and provided respite from the test’s 107-degree heat, a cool, comfortable spot for editors to jot down driving impressions. At the end of each long day at Thunderhill, I sank into the Pacifica’s captain’s chairs more often than not. We employed the Sienna as photo rig. It has velvety damping, ample grunt, and gearing short enough to pace PCOTY contenders on track. The trunk space and seat configurations seemed endless, so our photographers had real estate to work with.

The Grand Caravan served as people mover and gofer, ferrying staff to and from shoots and on desperate late-night runs to Taco Bell. The oldest and simplest platform in this group, but arguably the most charming, the Dodge was a source of pleasure. Powered by a 3.6-liter, 283-hp Pentastar V-6, the Grand Caravan is grunty enough to chirp tires from a stop. Or roast them, if you gun it up a steep hill. The parking-brake pedal allows for spirited midcorner adjustments.

No PVOTY evaluation would be complete without hard data, so we lined up the three vans, torqued the wheels, and fired them at the PCOTY road course. Each got a single flying lap. R&T contributor Ross Bentley, a former pro driver, hopped into the driver’s seat. He took off with gusto and lit rubber. We gawked as he lanced the Dodge through Thunderhill’s chicane.

Ross Bentley, probably wondering how his life came to this. DW Burnett

Road & Track

Back in the pits, Bentley stuck a helmeted head out the window, visor up. “When you leave pit lane here, and then when you come back in,”—he paused for emphasis, grinning—“everything in between that is pretty much silly. Handles perfectly, though. Slight understeer. It would have been quicker had I been able to left-foot brake, but I needed that foot just to hold up my body, to keep from falling out of the seat. Definitely needs a six-point harness.”



Dodge, take note. We’d like our Caravan ACR in red.



The Grand Caravan did a 1:42.06—just eight seconds behind the Miata RF. Bentley’s Pacifica lap returned him to pit lane with a scowl. “I’ve got some power here,” he said. “But then, on the straightaway, there was nothing. I probably wasn’t working the hybrid regen properly.”



DW Burnett

The 5000-pound, 260-hp Pacifica nearly plowed off the course in Turn 3. “You can actually get the thing to rotate even more than the Caravan,” Bentley said. “You just really have to trail into a corner. And just wait, wait, wait—all of a sudden, the weight starts coming around, and you can plant your foot into it. But then you go, ‘C’mon, give me more power.’”

Time: 1:44.84.

Last, the Toyota. Two hundred ninety-six raging ponies from that 3.5-liter V-6. Bentley flung it into the first corner in that familiar ballet. Tire yelp echoed off the hills.

“The Sienna has the best steering and the best overall balance,” Bentley said. “I turned off the traction control when I left, but then it turned back on by itself. And I tried to turn it off a couple times out there. It wouldn’t let me.”

A careful look at the data showed that the Toyota would have gone fastest if not for its nannies. No one was surprised. Its time: 1:42.80.

“If I can turn the traction control off in the Toyota, I want it,” Bentley said. “If I can’t, I’m gonna have more fun in the Grand Caravan.”

I thought for a moment, watched the Toyota cooling in the pits, its brakes stinking and ticking. Part of me wanted them to catch fire. I looked at Bentley. “Where does this rank among your achievements?”

“It’s right on the very top of... a list,” he said, deadpan. “Oh, and I want to thank all my sponsors.”

DW Burnett

A joke, but our affection isn’t. The modest minivan typically earns our thanks, but rarely our hearts. And yet, this show wouldn’t go on without those machines toiling in the background, enduring a host of indignities. That the vans could suffer track abuse—and do so with panache—was the cherry. This year, with the Grand Caravan in capable hands, Black Sabbath blasting from the stereo, the PCOTY unmentionables got their time in the sun. And for a moment, those humble workhorses took flight.

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