Our Yearlong 2024 Mercedes-Benz Sprinter AWD Is Kind of a Pain in the Ass
Much as we love our Sprinter, #vanlife with the big momma has its downsides.
Nota bene, constant reader, because you’re about to read something rather uncommon: I’m going to complain about our yearlong Mercedes-Benz Sprinter AWD crew van.
Most of what I’ve written about the Sprinter thus far has been positive, and just to clarify, that’s not out of deference to Mercedes or some corporate edict (none exists, I promise you). I really do love the Sprinter. It’s proving to be a great alternative to a pickup truck, and for all its quirks, I genuinely enjoy driving it. Still, one of our goals with this long-term Sprinter project was to see what it’s like to use a van as a daily driver. And the unvarnished truth is that daily-driving our jumbo-sized Sprinter is… well, it’s a bit of a pain in the ass.
The Perils of Parking
When I first laid eyes on the Sprinter, I knew I wouldn’t be using any fast-food drive-throughs. Most have 9 feet of clearance, which is 3 inches too little for a high-roof all-wheel-drive Sprinter. No big sacrifice; I’m trying to eat better, and the extra calories I burn walking from the parking lot to the counter must be doing me some good. Still, it’s a problem for late-night road trips: Once the fast food places close their dining rooms, my only option is often a Denny’s. Ugh.
I knew indoor parking would be out, and that hasn’t proven to be much of a handicap near home. If I’m heading to a place with a big parking garage—say, the mall—there’s not much competition for metered street parking, and I rarely have to walk farther than I would if I used the parking garage.
Actually, this forced need for street parking has proven to be a genuine life improvement. My local supermarket has a garage I can’t use, and I’m truly happy to be free of the endless circling, the drivers who can’t fit a Toyota Yaris into a single spot, and the dunderhead who blocks the whole aisle while waiting for a soon-to-be-vacated stall that will put him 10 feet closer to the door than the 19 empty spots in the next aisle. Even if I park the Sprinter half a block away, I’m probably in the store squeezing cantaloupes before the arthritic retiree he’s waiting for can decide if she should stack her Fresca atop her Charmin or vice-versa. I might stick to street parking after the van is gone.
Travel Trouble, Washing Woes
What I didn’t think about was parking trouble while traveling. Example 1: Last month we headed to San Diego to go sailing with friends. Google Maps showed there was street parking near the hotel, so that was fine, but when we wanted to go downtown for dinner, we had to pile into my buddy’s tiny Corolla because we didn’t know if there would be outdoor parking. (Turns out there was, so we suffered the Corolla’s cramped confines and my friend’s obscenity-laden driving for nothing.) Example 2: I was supposed to go to a press event in Santa Barbara, and the hotel wasn’t sure if they’d have oversize parking available. My options were to either find whatever municipal lot I could and Lyft to the hotel, or leave the van home and take the train. (I chose the train, but then the event was cancelled, and the point became moot.)
Another issue is that the van is always filthy, because washing it is such a hassle. Most car wash tunnels aren’t sized for high-clearance vehicles, so my only choices are 20 minutes at the local Pay-n-Spray (where I get a bath along with the van) or an expensive hand wash. My boss likes us to keep our long-termers clean, but he wouldn’t take kindly to biweekly $80 hand washes on my expense report.
Short People and Tall Vans
Last problem: getting in and out. As I mentioned when we took the van off-roading, the bottom of the van stands some 18 inches off the ground. Meanwhile, the top of my head only stands 66 inches off the ground. The climb into the driver’s seat is getting old, and my wife, who has a long history of achy back problems, hates it. Part of the problem is the lack of handholds: The only grab handles for the front seats are on the door itself, a silly idea since the door can move even while the rest of the van is standing still. Why isn’t there a grab handle on the A-pillar?
Embarking from the side door is easier and would be easier still had we opted for the $1,216 power-deployable side step or the power-operated side door. Without the latter, one must stand behind the rear seat to close the sliding door, then squeeze past the seat to get up front, not easy for someone who could stand to lose a pound or two (or thirty).
It’s the same problem for the back doors: Our Sprinter has a helpful half-step, but no, none, zero, nada helpful handholds (or even any unhelpful ones). I can understand not putting a grab bar inside the door aperture—people do load these things with forklifts, and any such protrusions seems like a FailArmy video waiting to happen—but why not a handle on the backside of the door frame? As it is, the only thing to grab onto is the wiring run between the frame and the door, and I’m pretty sure that won’t stand up to a good yank from a man who counts the calories he burns walking through the fast-food parking lot.
A Place for My Stuff
One issue I’ve been able to overcome is cargo storage. The Sprinter’s 11-foot-long cargo bay is great for hay but not for groceries, at least if your intention is for them to remain in their bags rather than distribute themselves randomly throughout the van. I solved that with a $20, 5-by-6-foot cargo net I found on Amazon. I’ve it laid out and clipped it to the D-rings in the Sprinter’s floor, and when I have groceries—or a suitcase, or boxes, or anything else—I slide them under the net, and everything stays put. I bought a jug of assorted bungee cords to lash larger cargo into place, and they’ve let me turn the space under the back seat into usable cargo cubbies.
There are other things I probably should complain about, like the industrial-grade plastics and the road noise on the highway. Neither rise to the level of objectionable, but a comparably priced pickup truck would do better on both counts. The Sprinter’s ride is busier than a car’s, but in typical Germanic fashion, the suspension takes the hard edge off the bumps (a pretty cool trick considering it uses leaf springs), and there’s none of the gut-jiggle one gets from a pickup truck on sectional freeways. Its steering precision is as good as or better than that of most three-quarter-ton trucks, which is important to me; as any Ford Super Duty owner can tell you, chasing a wandering truck can turn a long highway drive into an ordeal.
Would a Pickup Be Better—Or Worse?
So now you know everything about the Sprinter that irritates my posterior. Would I be better off in a heavy-duty pickup truck? A similarly priced three-quarter-ton pickup truck would probably give me nicer environs and a lane centering system, which the Sprinter lacks. (My Sprinter also lacks adaptive cruise control, but that’s been added for the 2025 model year.) Such a pickup would also fit into drive-throughs but might struggle with the tight turns. Ditto for indoor garages—a pickup might have the clearance, but would it fit in any of the spaces?
To be fair to the Sprinter, had we asked for a smaller body style, we’d have fewer of these issues—but still no problem hauling hay and supplies, which was our primary reason for choosing a van. Yeah, parking it is a pain down south, but you know that old adage about how if we all put our troubles in a pile, most of us would be happy to leave with our own? That’s how I feel about the Sprinter. It has its inconveniences, but overall, I am genuinely enjoying it as a daily driver (except for the climb into the driver’s seat). Let’s hope platform shoes come back into style …
For More on Our Long-Term 2024 Mercedes-Benz Sprinter:
- Our New Pickup Truck Is... A Van?
- Off-Roading in the Sprinter—There Is No Turning Back
- This Van Is a Pretty Great Pickup Truck
After a two-decade career as a freelance writer, Aaron Gold joined MotorTrend’s sister publication Automobile in 2018 before moving to the MT staff in 2021. Aaron is a native New Yorker who now lives in Los Angeles with his spouse, too many pets, and a cantankerous 1983 GMC Suburban.
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