The Honda Ridgeline HPD Wants to Be an Off-Road Truck But Has None of the Charm

I know I’m supposed to like it. Certain names, such as Miata, GTI, and S-Class, are beyond reproach in the larger community. Among committed enthusiasts and automotive journalists, there is similar reverence for the practical yet unassuming Honda Ridgeline, a vehicle so holistically good and thoughtful that liking it is a moral obligation. But it’s an obligation that, a week into driving one, I couldn’t satisfy.

In theory I understand the love for the Ridgeline. It’s an iconoclast, a truck that puts sensible design ahead of the bravado and excess of other trucks. In a world that wants lifted bro-mobiles, the Ridgeline provides nearly as much flexibility in a more efficient, more manageable, comfortable, easygoing package. It dispenses with the box-frame construction of other mid-sizers in favor of a safer, more refined unibody design. There’s no four-wheel-drive or low-range gearbox, just a front-biased all-wheel-drive system similar to what you get in a Honda Pilot. It makes no attempt to claim class-leading towing or payload, no gesture toward fleet buyers or those who want their trucks bare-boned. In concept, it is relentlessly honest.

In reality, it is relentlessly boring. There is nothing remotely unique or engaging about the driving experience, no real hint that you are in a truck at all. If I’m being harsh, it drives like the Odyssey minivan. If I’m being charitable, it drives like a Pilot. Soft, refined, with ultra-light steering and a forgettable 280-hp V-6. All of this means that, while it drives objectively better than any mid-size truck, it’s anonymous, character-free, with none of the Tacoma’s ironclad toughness or the Frontier’s sturdy competence.

For many, the objectively better driving experience makes this the best truck. It’s the campground Camry, a Buick with a bed. It asks for no compromises from you, playing its role as a faithful companion to its logical conclusion. From in-bed storage and a durable bed liner to an endless array of storage cubbies, it’s thought out to an absurd degree. It still uses Honda’s infuriating touch infotainment system, but otherwise this is far and away the nicest cabin of any midsize truck ever. It’s a true appliance in operation; simple and efficient at its task, devoid of extraneous theater, and engineered to stay out of your way. As helpful and effective as a dishwasher, with exactly the same personality.

The only real problem comes when the Ridgeline encounters mounting aspirations, both its own and the buyer’s. Because my Sport tester, with its blocky HPD fenders and gold imitation-bead-lock wheels, is lying about its own. The Ridgeline’s entire raison d'etre is to be the thinking man’s truck, the truck for those who are honest with themselves concerning their needs, the truck that doesn’t overpromise or overcompensate. Tacking on stickers, awkward fender flares, and gaudy off-road wheels just makes the whole thing look like a ridiculous costume worn to imitate the real trucks on the market. The theater is antithetical to the Ridgeline itself.