One fast two-ton German

When BMW introduced the new E39-chassis 5-series sedan for 1997, I wanted one. Specifically a 540i with the big, 4.4 liter V8. I'd seen one on TV that did such a ferocious burnout, it left a pile of smoking rubber at the start line.

And then I saw my first E39 M5 in 1999. It was Imola Red, with those signature graphite grey wheels, and it rumbled into the parking spot next to me. It was low. It was wide. It looked like it had just eaten a Miata for breakfast and, like a distended snake that had just swallowed its prey, was in the process of digesting it and would eventually spit out the spare parts.

But it was amazingly expensive, and completely out of my price range, so I spent the next 13 years drooling over them. Even though BMW introduced two revisions of the M5 since, they never spoke to me like the 1998-2003 models did.

One day recently, I got a call from a fan of this blog. "I have a 2003 M5 that I want you to drive." I'm in.

It turns out that Mike is a local, and has owned some really cool cars over the years including a modified Porsche 928, a track-only Miata, and a screaming-yellow Honda S2000. Mike and I are close in age and, like me, has always had an affection for the E39 M5 but could never afford one when new. All that changed when he came across a well-maintained dark silver 2003 M5, and sold the S2000 to help make the deal."I still miss the convertible top, but the driving experience of the BMW makes up for it," he says.

So on a clear, warm Saturday morning, I'm sitting outside with a cup of coffee when I hear some wicked muscle car coming up the street at high velocity. It doesn't sound like the typical guy in a Camaro or hopped-up pickup truck. No, it's Mike and his Sterling Grey Metallic M5 cresting the hill up the street at the top of 2nd gear. The car burbles to a low rumble, and pulls into the driveway.

Within minutes, I'm sitting in the driver's seat making adjustments for comfort and visibility. I give a glance to the interior, which is enormous, roomy and very comfortable, when it hits me: this car weighs more than two tons. 4,024lbs, in fact, not including the two people inside.

Being a fan of lightweight cars, I couldn't shake the fact that there was a good chance this car was going to be a big disappointment. After all, it's a looker, but it's also a big, heavy sedan. However the 4.9-liter, 4-cam V8 sounded great through the modified exhaust, and there was a six-speed manual transmission waiting for me, so I kept an open mind. Which is a good thing.

The thing is, this car is easy. The revised steering ratio and suspension bits mean this car will dance through back roads, and the dampeners soak up road imperfections and make the entire chassis feel light on its feet. For the poser who's driving it around town, it's firm. But to the owner who loves driving, it's balanced beautifully for such a large machine.

Although the engine is rated at 396hp, the four cams, individual throttle bodies, and 11.1 compression mean this engine comes up to speed with amazing immediacy. BMW claims this car will do 0-60 in quite a bit under five seconds, and there's no doubt in your mind (or your right foot) that you and the car just covered that bet. Like the suspension, the perception of performance is much different than reality. The car accelerates faster than many "fast" cars, but does it in such a refined way that it doesn't feel hurried or ferocious. You just put your foot down, and the car responds effortlessly and in a controlled manner.

Out on the highway, you really start to notice that the M5 is designed for high-speed travel on something like the Autobahn. Cruise control becomes a welcome ally, because if you don't pay attention to your gauges, you'll find yourself at a comfortable cruising speed that is well above the speed limit. Without much more than a revised front air dam and a tiny lip spoiler on the trunk (along with a lowered ride height over the 540i), the car just hunkers down and will probably happily stay that way up to its computer-controlled top speed of 155mph.

The transmission shifts smoothly, and the gear ratios are spaced very closely together. Aiding in acceleration is the 3.15 rear end, but paired with the big, thirsty V8, this isn't a great car for gas mileage. A great addition would be a super-tall 6th gear (like in the Corvette) for cruising speeds, but the costs for modifications to the transmission would most likely be very prohibitive.

One surprising feature that was a bit of disappointment was the "Sport" feature. Engaging this means revised throttle response, among other things, that go somewhat unnoticed. So if you ever drive one without the feature turned on, you won't be missing much. I also wasn't a big fan of the gauges, which were a mass of numbers that take a while to get acclimated to.

Overall, however, this was one of the most complete cars I've driven. The balance of performance, comfort, and style continue to stand out in my mind, and none seems particularly compromised to benefit the others. If anything, I'd be interested to see how this drivetrain works in a lighter package, like the V8 BMW M3 or the Z8 roadster.

At the end of the day, Mike pulled out of the driveway, and ran it through a few gears for me. The exhaust gloriously rumbled through acceleration, and crackled between gears. My wife turned to me and said, "It's too loud."

No, Honey. It's just right.

 Image from freerevs.com

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Like A Scene From A Movie

One of my favorite parts of a movie is the soundtrack. It's one of those subtle things that can adjust the way the viewer sees the film, and takes the scene from something mundane and makes it incredible.

Just think - without the soundtrack, Indiana Jones would just be a dude in a hat. Tony Manero might just be doing stylish square dancing. Smokey and the Bandit could just as well be going for a scenic drive to Texarkana.

Sometimes in life, things come together. And you have the really cool, seemingly orchestrated moment that happens just by chance.

One night many years ago, I was driving north on I-295 from Delaware towards New Jersey. It was about 2:30am, and traffic was light. But it was one of those great, mid-summer nights, and I had the Miata's top down and the radio blasting.

Out of the radio came the surreal 1984 hit, "How Soon Is Now?" by The Smiths. As I sped the red roadster down the highway, I was the only one for miles on the interstate. The headlights sliced through the darkness, illuminating dashed white lines on the road, only intensifiying the feeling of speed. The exhaust crackles and pops resonated off road signs and the occasional parked 18-wheeler. And while the lyrics aren't particularly cheerful, Johnny Marr's guitar wailed from the speakers right through my soul - and I thought the whole world felt streamlined and magical as I sped through the night and across the southern span of the Delaware Memorial Bridge.

All was well until about mid-span, when I spotted a set of headlights coming up behind me at a quick pace. Knowing I had probably blown way over the speed limit during my fantasy, I figured it was probably one of the bridge police catching up to me for a chat. I let off the gas, coasted down to the speed limit, and waited for the red and blue lights to go on.

But they never did.

Instead, I watched as the approaching car moved over two lanes, and I caught a flash of something un-police-car-like under one of the orange streetlamps. I quickly turned down the radio, only to be greeted by the sound of a Ferrari flat-12 engine blasting by me at full chat, contained in a red Testarossa.

And like a scene from a movie, all of it was perfect and incredible.

photo from speedhunters.com



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Driving in the Electronic Age

Remember car phones? You know, the ones that were the size of a small cinder block and were usually hard-wired into the car and screwed into the center console? And don't forget the stick-on curly-Q antenna that went on a random rear window.

At the time, everyone thought they were awesome and an amazing piece of technology. Except for my friend Lisa.

I knew Lisa when I was a teenager. She had a penchant for fast cars, and her toy at the time was a modded C4 Corvette. It was loaded to the hilt with speed and audio equipment. I loved that car, but I once made the mistake of asking her about getting a car phone for it. After all, it had everything else, right? "Hell no," she strongly advised me. "No phones. My car is for driving, and my time in that car is MY time - no one else's." I was blown away, but I really respected her enthusiasm for the sheer pleasure of driving.

As the years went by, car phones evolved to cellular phones, car audio systems went from knobs to tiny buttons on the steering wheel. Some cars can even be spoken to, and might actually give you a response!

But the cars I've driven have always been pretty low on the accessory scale. I'd usually just have the factory radio (usually long blown out) if any radio at all (the Miata's OEM one broke for about two years), roll-up windows, and the only buttons on the steering wheel were for operating the horn. I enjoyed the whole "driving" aspect - hearing the engine rev, the exhaust pop, and tires squeal. I still consider myself a bit of a driving purist, or at least until the other night.

I went out to my car, and clicked the remote lock button on my keychain. I got in the car, turned the key, and watched as the radio flickered to life in nineteen colors. The aftermarket computer scanner started to boot up and illuminate the center console in it's dark green hue. I reached over to the passenger seat, found a loose cable, and plugged it into my iPod. Then I plugged in the GPS unit that I'd borrowed from my wife's car. I put my cell phone in the center console, and clipped the Bluetooth headphone to my ear. From the center console to the top of dashboard, it looked like Mission Control. "Start the countdown, Houston! I'm ready to roll!"

About a mile down the road, I realized what I had done. And I hated myself!

Somehow, I had become a comfortable, spoiled driver. I had been unknowingly seduced by modern conveniences. Gone was my tolerance for uninsulated firewalls, the loud whine of the gearbox, hearing the tread squirm under hard-cornering tires clawing for grip. Where had the "purist" in me gone? I was ready to pull over, strip out the interior, and leave it all on the side of the road.

I sunk down into the cushy, leather seat. "Leather seat?" I thought to myself. "When have I EVER had leather seats?" All I needed now for my transformation was a minivan with a soccer ball magnet stuck to the tail gate.

Disgusted, I came to accept my disposition, but I had to admit I really like how the stereo sounds. I'm able to monitor a number of engine parameters with the scanner. And the friendly Australian woman in our GPS takes me exactly where I need to go. But I'll get my purist fix soon.

In the Spring, construction begins on a friend's '92 Miata. It's getting an extensive lightweight treatment, so no radio, no air conditioning, no power windows. It won't even have a top or a windshield! But while it's main purpose is to go racing, it will be a pure driving machine built for speed and performance. I'll admit I get a bit giddy when I think about strapping on a sub-2100 lb. car that handles on rails and having a front-row seat for every engine revolution, crackle of the exhaust on downshifts, the squealing of the tires.

And under that helmet, I will be grinning from ear to ear.

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How a clock repairman introduced me to roadsters

When I was growing up, we shared a back alley with a gentleman named Tom. He and his wife lived in a lovely late-Victorian home with several purebred dogs, a yard full of wisteria, and a number of wonderful antique clocks. You see, Tom is one of the dying breeds of tradesmen who knows how to repair clocks. This attention to detail made him the perfect owner for the two vintage British roadsters he kept in the back yard.

On a particular Saturday every April, you'd hear a thunderously-tinny sound coming from his back yard. White smoke would envelop the neighborhood, birds would fly en masse to roost a block away, and the smell of crankcase oil and starter fluid would fill the air. Hearing the cars start up meant that Spring had arrived to the neighborhood!

Tom spent most of his summers driving a red 1963 Triumph TR4 around town, though his blue 1961 Austin Healey Bugeye Sprite made a rare appearance every few years. He loved the Triumph, as the patina on the car revealed, and when it wasn't being driven, it was secured only by a black tonneau cover.

I always liked that car, but never got the nerve to ask him for a ride. But one day when I was 14, I heard the phone ring, and my father was soon excited and laughing. When he hung up, he came into the room.

"Get your shoes on. Tom wants to show you something," he said with a big smile.

Shoes on, I waited outside on the porch. A moment later, I heard the small displacement Triumph turn the corner, and it stopped in front of our house. It was April, and the car hadn't been out much, so the top was still on. I watched as Tom's lanky 6'2" frame unfolded from inside the car. He looked over, and yelled, "Let's go for some ice cream."

I was ecstatic! I ran off the porch down to the little red car. I was a bit disappointed that the top was up, but I wasn't complaining. My true feelings must have shown on my young face, though. "Let's put the top down," he said. "It gets better gas mileage that way, anyhow."

Once we'd disassembled the top, and took a seat in the car, I started scanning the interior environment. Its horsehair-stuffed leather seats smelled lovely. And because it was a driver, some parts of the dash had some wear to them, but it was all great patina. I latched the 3" wide aircraft-style lap belt, and cinched it tight.

A turn of the key brought the 2138cc engine to a puttery start. It didn't have a lovely idle, but once in gear and moving, that wonderful British roadster noise (which can only come from a carbureted four cylinder) blasted from the tailpipe and into my psyche. Tom was great about winding out the gears, and the car responded with a melodious array of exhaust pops and vibrato. I'd look out over the hood, and stare down the lovely teardrop of a hood bulge that covered the carburetors, imagining that I could see the throttle plates open up wide. And I'd occasionally glance down at the array of gauges in the dash to make sure all was well. It felt and sounded like I was riding co-pilot in a biplane, and we were ready for some barnstorming!

Through the backroads we ran - 10, maybe 20 miles. Just two car lovers enjoying a fun, little roadster.

Years later, I would buy my own roadster, a 1991 Mazda Miata, also red with black interior. It was a great car, but it lacked the raw personality and purity of the Triumph. When I drove that Miata, a part of me always felt like it was Tom's TR4.

I never got another ride in the Triumph, and when I ran into Tom a few years ago, he mentioned he hadn't run the car in several more. Admittedly, I was crushed. But I gave him my contact information, with the promise to let me know if he ever wanted to sell the red Triumph. It would mean not only a cool car in my garage, but a chance to relive those memories from my childhood.

I'm still anxiously waiting for his call.

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia