McLaren 675LT - Longtail. Lightweight. Lunacy.
I thought the McLaren MP4-12C was ugly.
There.
I've said it.
When McLaren returned to building road cars and revealed the MP4-12C, the engineering fascinated me.
Carbon-fibre MonoCell.
Twin-turbo V8.
Hydraulic suspension.
592 horsepower.
Ridiculous performance.
Technically?
Extraordinary.
But then I looked at it.
Hmm.
There was something slightly generic about the shape.
A little too clean.
A little too clinical.
Almost as though somebody had asked a computer to draw a mid-engined supercar.
And the computer had responded:
Certainly.
It wasn't offensive.
It just didn't make me feel much.
Then came the 650S.
And suddenly...
Okay.
I see what you're doing.
McLaren took inspiration from the P1 and grafted some of that aggression onto the front of the 12C.
Those headlights.
The more dramatic nose.
More presence.
More McLaren.
Better.
Much better.
Then, in 2015, somebody in Woking apparently walked into the engineering department and said:
Right. Turn everything up to eleven.
And they gave us this.
The McLaren 675LT.
And I have wanted one ever since.
Longtail
Those two letters matter.
LT.
Longtail.
McLaren didn't invent that name for a marketing campaign.
It comes from one of the most extraordinary competition cars in the company's history.
The McLaren F1 GTR Longtail.
In 1997, McLaren substantially reworked the F1 GTR to create a longer, lighter, more aerodynamically efficient racing car.
It became the Longtail.
So when McLaren decided to put LT on the back of a road car nearly two decades later...
That carried some responsibility.
You don't casually borrow letters from the F1 GTR.
You'd better have done something worthwhile.
McLaren did.
Start With a 650S
The basic recipe sounds straightforward.
Take a 650S.
Make it lighter.
Give it more power.
Add downforce.
Sharpen everything.
Done.
Except McLaren changed an enormous amount.
Around a third of the components were different.
The bodywork was extensively revised.
Suspension geometry changed.
The track widened.
Aerodynamics became considerably more aggressive.
The engine received substantial internal changes.
Weight disappeared.
The exhaust became titanium.
And the entire personality of the car changed.
This wasn't simply a faster 650S.
It was McLaren discovering something.
Attitude.
Look at It
Because bloody hell.
Look at it.
This is where my relationship with McLaren's early modern design language completely changed.
The MP4-12C?
Never loved it.
The 650S?
Much better.
The 675LT?
Nailed it.
There isn't a bad angle.
Front three-quarter?
Perfect.
Side profile?
Perfect.
Rear three-quarter?
Oh yes.
Straight from behind?
Good Lord.
The P1-inspired front end finally looks completely at home because the rest of the car has become aggressive enough to match it.
The enormous side intakes.
The exposed carbon.
The extended front splitter.
The sculpted bodywork.
Those delicate flying buttresses.
The longer rear body.
That enormous active airbrake.
And then...
Those exhausts.
We'll get to those.
Walk around a 675LT and something interesting happens.
And no, we're not just talking about the sudden onset of turgidity in your trousers.
There isn't an angle where you think:
Yeah, but it looks better from the other side.
It just works.
Everywhere.
And considering where McLaren started with the 12C?
That's quite the transformation.
The Rear
Actually, no.
We need to stay here for a moment.
Because the rear of the 675LT is spectacular.
Open.
Mechanical.
Functional.
There's mesh everywhere.
You can see through parts of the bodywork.
There's an enormous diffuser underneath.
The rear deck seems shrink-wrapped around the mechanical components.
The airbrake sits above everything.
And then directly in the middle are two beautifully simple circular exhaust outlets.
No fake finishers.
No decorative trapezoids surrounding tiny pipes.
No speakers underneath pretending an engine is doing something it isn't.
Two titanium exhaust pipes.
Engine.
Pipe.
Outside.
Thank you, McLaren.
The Engine
Behind the cabin sits McLaren's 3.8-litre twin-turbocharged V8.
The M838TL.
For the 675LT it produces:
496kW.
700Nm.
675PS.
Hence the name.
But McLaren didn't simply turn up the boost and change the badge.
More than half of the engine's components were changed.
New turbochargers.
Revised cylinder heads.
New exhaust manifolds.
A different camshaft.
Lightweight connecting rods.
Higher-flow fuel delivery.
And that glorious titanium exhaust.
The result was 0–100km/h in around 2.9 seconds.
0–200km/h in approximately 7.9 seconds.
Top speed?
330km/h.
In 2015.
This thing is more than a decade old.
That's ridiculous.
And yet, once again...
Those aren't the numbers I remember.
Turbocharged
The Speciale elsewhere in our Dream Garage is all about chasing revs.
You work your way towards 9,000rpm and the experience builds with you.
The 675LT is different.
There's menace lower down.
You squeeze the throttle.
The turbos inhale.
There's that brief sense of something enormous preparing to happen behind you.
Then...
BOOST.
And the car goes.
Not progressively.
Not politely.
It attacks the road ahead.
There's this enormous surge from behind your shoulders as 700Nm arrives and suddenly whatever point you were looking at in the distance isn't particularly distant anymore.
That's the difference.
The Speciale screams.
The 675LT punches.
And I love both of them for completely different reasons.
The Noise
Turbocharging inevitably changes an engine's voice.
The 675LT doesn't have the soaring, operatic scream of the Ferrari.
It was never going to.
Instead, you get something more mechanical.
More industrial.
More violent.
Induction.
Turbo whistle.
Wastegate.
Exhaust.
Gearshift.
There's activity happening everywhere behind your head.
And then the titanium exhaust gives the V8 this hard-edged bark that fits the car perfectly.
It doesn't sing to you.
It communicates largely through threats.
Excellent.
The Weight
1,230kg dry.
Again.
Read that number.
A carbon-fibre supercar with almost 500kW weighing barely more than some modern hatchbacks.
McLaren removed around 100kg compared with the 650S.
And they went looking everywhere.
Carbon-fibre body panels.
Lighter engine components.
Titanium exhaust.
Polycarbonate engine cover.
Lightweight wheels.
Reduced sound insulation.
Thinner glass.
Simplified interior.
Even the air-conditioning could originally be deleted.
Because apparently being slightly warm was worth a few kilograms.
That is exactly the sort of completely unreasonable thinking I want from the people developing a car like this.
The Seats
Then you climb inside.
Carbon-fibre racing seats derived from the P1.
Alcantara.
Carbon fibre.
Minimal decoration.
You sit low.
Very low.
And the entire cabin seems to wrap itself around you.
There's no enormous touchscreen stretching across the dashboard.
No ambient lighting performing a choreographed welcome sequence.
No digital assistant asking how your day has been.
Good.
I'm sitting in a 675LT.
My day has improved considerably.
The View
And this is something McLaren has always understood brilliantly.
Visibility.
Supercars are supposed to be dramatic, so manufacturers sometimes seem determined to make seeing out of them as difficult as possible.
Not McLaren.
The windscreen is enormous.
The dashboard sits low.
The A-pillars are relatively thin.
You can see exactly where the front corners of the car are.
That matters.
Especially when the road gets interesting.
Because rather than feeling like you're sitting deep inside some enormous exotic machine...
You feel connected to what's happening outside.
The road is right there.
Hydraulic Steering
And then you turn the wheel.
Oh.
There it is.
Hydraulic power steering.
Remember that?
Before electric steering became essentially universal, hydraulic systems communicated through the wheel in a way manufacturers have spent years trying to recreate electronically.
The 675LT's steering is extraordinary.
Not because it's artificially heavy.
Not because it's hyperactive.
Because it talks.
Surface changes.
Grip.
Load.
The front tyres beginning to work.
You feel information coming back through your hands.
Turn into a corner and the car doesn't simply obey.
It tells you what happened.
That distinction matters.
A lot.
The Chassis
This is where the 675LT becomes something much more than a numbers car.
Because McLaren's carbon MonoCell gives it an extraordinarily rigid foundation.
Then there's the interconnected hydraulic suspension.
No conventional anti-roll bars.
Instead, McLaren uses hydraulically linked dampers to control body movement.
The result?
The car can breathe with the road while still maintaining remarkable body control.
And when you're pushing?
It feels alive.
Not nervous.
Not intimidating.
Immersive.
That's the word.
And I know that because...
Well.
We'll get to that.
The Airbrake
Brake hard.
And something wonderful happens behind you.
UP.
The enormous active rear wing rises into the airflow.
Airbrake.
Is it necessary for me to physically see aerodynamic technology operating?
No.
Does watching a huge carbon panel deploy behind you make braking feel approximately 40 per cent more exciting?
Absolutely.
There are cleverer active aerodynamic systems now.
More sophisticated ones.
Systems that quietly move flaps underneath vehicles without anybody ever knowing they're there.
Very impressive.
But sometimes I want engineering to put on a little show.
Hit the brakes.
Wing goes up.
Simple.
Wonderful.
Thank you, McLaren.
Braking
And you'll be using those brakes.
Carbon ceramics.
Massive stopping power.
Very little mass to control.
The 675LT sheds speed with the same violence it gathers it.
Brake.
Downshift.
Turn.
Apex.
Throttle.
Boost.
Gone.
And this is where all the individual pieces start becoming one experience.
Steering.
Chassis.
Brakes.
Throttle.
Gearbox.
Aerodynamics.
They're not competing for your attention.
They're working together.
Immersion
That's what I keep coming back to.
Immersion.
There are faster cars.
Plenty now.
Electric cars can make the 675LT's acceleration numbers look almost ordinary.
That's progress.
But speed alone doesn't create involvement.
The 675LT wants something from you.
You feel the road through the steering.
You hear the turbos working behind you.
You feel the chassis load.
You watch the airbrake rise.
You pull the paddle.
You hear the exhaust crack.
You squeeze the throttle.
You feel boost arrive.
You're involved in everything.
The car doesn't simply transport you quickly through a sequence of corners.
It makes you participate.
And that brings me to something important.
Thanks Again, Mark
Yes.
This is another one.
Just like the 458 Speciale sitting elsewhere in the Dream Garage...
I've driven a 675LT.
Properly.
And once again, I have an extraordinarily successful and extraordinarily generous friend named Mark to thank for it.
At this point, I should probably acknowledge that Mark has been responsible for a completely unreasonable percentage of my formative supercar experiences.
Because handing someone the keys to a car like this is one thing.
Handing them over and allowing them to actually understand why the car exists?
That's generosity on another level.
And I'm incredibly grateful for it.
Because the 675LT was one of those cars I'd already built up in my head.
I'd watched the reviews.
Read about it.
Stared at photographs.
Loved the way it looked.
Wanted one.
And there's always a danger in finally experiencing something you've romanticised.
Sometimes reality can't compete with expectation.
The 675LT could have disappointed me.
It didn't.
Not even slightly.
I Remember the Steering
Of all the things I expected to remember...
The power.
The noise.
The acceleration.
The airbrake.
It was the way the car communicated that stayed with me.
You turn the wheel.
The front responds.
But simultaneously, information comes back.
There's this conversation happening through your fingertips.
Grip.
Surface.
Weight.
Load.
You don't need a graphic on a screen showing what the tyres are doing.
You can feel them.
And the faster you go, the more the car seems to come alive.
That's rare.
I Remember the Size
It didn't feel enormous.
That's another thing.
Modern supercars are getting wider.
Heavier.
More complicated.
The 675LT felt compact around me.
You could place it.
See out of it.
Understand where it was on the road.
That gives you confidence.
And confidence allows you to start exploring.
A little more brake.
A little more corner speed.
A little earlier onto the throttle.
Then...
Boost.
And you're gone.
I Remember Thinking...
This is a driver's car.
Not a supercar designed primarily to generate a spectacular acceleration figure.
Not a luxury car that happens to be extremely fast.
Not something created because a marketing department needed a flagship.
A driver's car.
Everything seemed to exist for the person sitting in that carbon bucket seat.
The visibility.
The steering.
The low weight.
The response.
The suspension.
The brakes.
Even the noise.
Everything feeds information back to you.
And once you start pushing it...
The rest of the world gets very quiet.
That's the Test
I've driven faster cars since.
More powerful cars.
Newer cars.
More expensive cars.
Cars with technology the 675LT couldn't dream of.
But I still remember the McLaren.
That's the test.
It's exactly the same reason the Speciale is in here.
Specifications age.
Acceleration records disappear.
Technology moves on.
Someone builds something faster.
Always.
But the feeling?
If a car gives you the right one...
That stays.
Why the 675LT?
This is where the Dream Garage becomes difficult.
Because if we're putting a McLaren in here...
Why this one?
F1?
Obviously.
P1?
Extraordinary.
Senna?
Insane.
765LT?
Faster.
More powerful.
More aggressive.
And yet...
675LT.
That's the one.
Maybe some of it is nostalgia.
I'll admit that.
The 675LT arrived during a particular period where the modern McLaren story still felt new.
We'd watched the MP4-12C arrive.
Watched McLaren learn.
Watched the 650S evolve.
Then suddenly...
This.
It felt like the moment McLaren's modern road-car division discovered exactly what it wanted to be.
Fast wasn't enough.
Clinical wasn't enough.
Technically brilliant wasn't enough.
It needed character.
The 675LT had it.
Before Everything Became Absurd
And looking back now, its numbers almost seem restrained.
496kW.
700Nm.
2.9 seconds to 100km/h.
Imagine describing that as restrained in 2015.
But that's where we've ended up.
Today, hypercars have four-figure power outputs.
EVs weighing two tonnes can reach 100km/h in the low twos.
Hybrid supercars deploy electric motors to fill every conceivable gap in performance.
And they're extraordinary.
But the 675LT comes from just before everything became completely absurd.
There's enough power to terrify you.
But not so much that the throttle becomes a theoretical device you can only fully use for 1.7 seconds.
There's enough technology to make the car incredible.
But not enough to separate you from it.
There's enough aerodynamic sophistication to generate serious performance.
But you can still see the bloody airbrake working.
I love that.
Our 675LT
Now.
Dream Garage rules.
We need to specify it.
And this is difficult.
Because the 675LT came in some sensational colours.
Chicane Grey.
Silica White.
Napier Green.
McLaren Orange.
But for me?
Napier Green.
If we're doing this...
We're doing it.
This isn't the car for subtlety.
Green.
Dark lightweight wheels.
Carbon everywhere.
Black Alcantara.
P1 carbon racing seats.
Titanium exhaust.
No unnecessary additions.
No aftermarket nonsense.
Exactly as Woking intended.
Garage Door
And imagine the garage now.
There's the M3 CSL.
The 458 Speciale.
And beside them...
That.
Napier Green.
Low.
Wide.
Carbon glinting under the lights.
Those two exhausts sitting high in the rear bodywork.
Walk around it.
Front.
Beautiful.
Side.
Beautiful.
Rear three-quarter.
Jesus.
Keep walking.
Straight behind.
Yep.
Still sensational.
Every.
Single.
Angle.
That's important.
Because sometimes you don't even need to drive a Dream Garage car.
Sometimes you just walk into the garage with absolutely no reason to be there.
Look at it.
Smile.
Walk back inside.
Completely rational adult behaviour.
Sunday
But eventually...
We're taking it out.
Open the dihedral door.
Drop into that carbon seat.
Door comes down.
Everything outside disappears.
Start button.
The V8 fires behind you.
There's that slightly industrial McLaren idle.
Mechanical.
Purposeful.
Pull the paddle.
First.
Ease away.
Let everything warm.
Then find the road.
You know which one.
The road tightens.
Second gear.
Throttle.
The turbos begin breathing.
More throttle.
BOOST.
There it is.
The rear squats.
The horizon comes towards you.
Brake.
Airbrake rises.
Left paddle.
CRACK.
Steering loads.
You feel the front tyres.
Turn.
Apex.
Unwind.
Throttle.
Boost again.
And suddenly...
I'm not thinking about horsepower.
I'm not thinking about 0–100.
I'm not thinking about what a 765LT could do better.
I'm not thinking about what the car is worth.
I'm driving.
Properly driving.
And that's the entire point.
Dream Garage Verdict
The McLaren 675LT didn't have to be beautiful.
The MP4-12C proved I could admire a McLaren without loving the way it looked.
The 650S proved McLaren could improve the formula.
Then the 675LT arrived.
And somehow...
They got everything right.
The aggression.
The proportions.
The details.
The weight.
The steering.
The suspension.
The engine.
The exhaust.
The airbrake.
The theatre.
But most importantly...
The immersion.
That's what I remember from driving one.
Not a number.
Not a statistic.
Not how quickly it reached 100km/h.
I remember how involved I felt.
I remember the steering talking through my hands.
I remember feeling the car working around me.
I remember squeezing the throttle and waiting for that enormous shove from behind.
I remember braking and seeing the airbrake rise.
I remember thinking:
This is what I want a supercar to feel like.
And that's why the 675LT earns its place here.
The Dream Garage isn't a ranking.
It isn't about choosing the objectively fastest version of everything.
If it were, we'd constantly be replacing cars.
675LT becomes 765LT.
Something faster replaces that.
Then something else.
Forever.
No.
The Dream Garage is about the cars that got under your skin.
And this one did.
Long before I drove it.
The MP4-12C arrived and I thought:
No.
The 650S arrived and I thought:
Better.
Then McLaren turned everything up to eleven.
And I thought:
There it is.
Then, thanks to an extraordinarily generous friend, I eventually got behind the wheel and discovered something even better.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It wasn't just fast.
It wasn't just another McLaren.
It was one of the most immersive driver's cars I'd ever experienced.
And years later...
I still remember it.
That's enough.
Actually...
That's everything.
McLaren 675LT.
Napier Green.
Carbon buckets.
Titanium exhaust.
Hydraulic steering.
No modifications.
No excuses.
And just like the Speciale...
This one isn't sitting around waiting to appreciate.
Open the door.
Get in.
Start it.
Let the fluids warm.
Find the road.
Brake.
Airbrake.
Downshift.
Turn.
Throttle.
BOOST.
Again.
And Mark...
If you're reading this?
Thanks, mate.
You cost me a fortune in imaginary garage space.
Thank you, McLaren.
For turning the dial to eleven.
Ferrari 458 Speciale - at 9000 rpm it screams, and you listen
There are faster Ferraris.
Of course there are.
There are Ferraris with more power.
More torque.
More technology.
More downforce.
There are Ferraris that will reach 100km/h faster, lap Fiorano faster and deploy electrical assistance to produce acceleration that would've seemed physically impossible when this car was new.
I don't care.
Because somewhere around 9,000rpm, none of that matters anymore.
At 9,000rpm, the Ferrari 458 Speciale isn't interested in numbers.
It isn't interested in progress.
It isn't interested in what came next.
At 9,000rpm...
It screams.
And you listen.
Welcome to the Dream Garage.
This is the Ferrari 458 Speciale.
And I genuinely believe it is one of the greatest road cars Ferrari has ever made.
Before We Start
There's something you need to understand about the Speciale.
It isn't special because it's rare.
It isn't special because collectors decided it was.
It isn't special because values went through the roof and examples started disappearing into climate-controlled garages.
None of that matters here.
The Speciale is special because of what Ferrari built.
Take the already magnificent 458 Italia.
Remove weight.
Add power.
Sharpen the gearbox.
Rework the suspension.
Develop active aerodynamics.
Give it one of the most sophisticated traction-control systems Ferrari had ever created.
Then take one of the greatest naturally aspirated engines ever installed in a road car...
And somehow make it better.
This wasn't Ferrari creating a faster 458.
This was Ferrari asking:
How good can we make this before we have to move on?
The answer was the Speciale.
The Engine
4.5 litres.
Eight cylinders.
Naturally aspirated.
445kW.
540Nm.
9,000rpm.
No turbochargers.
No supercharger.
No electric motor.
No battery filling holes in the torque curve.
No artificial assistance.
Air.
Fuel.
Spark.
Eight pistons moving with increasingly ridiculous violence.
That's it.
And what an engine.
The F136 V8 was already extraordinary in the regular 458.
For the Speciale, Ferrari extracted even more from it.
Around 99kW per litre.
From a naturally aspirated production engine.
That's madness.
But once again, the numbers don't explain it.
You need to hear one.
Actually...
No.
You need to experience one.
3,000rpm
There's a mechanical presence behind you.
Not particularly loud yet.
Just there.
You can hear the machinery.
The exhaust.
The intake.
The thousands of individual explosions happening inches behind your spine.
Pull the right paddle.
Another gear.
Throttle.
The revs start climbing.
5,000rpm
Now it's getting serious.
The sound hardens.
What was a growl begins becoming something sharper.
More metallic.
More urgent.
The engine isn't running out of breath.
It's waking up.
And that's the first thing modern turbocharged performance cars make you forget.
We're used to torque.
Huge amounts of it.
Immediately.
2,000rpm.
Foot down.
Bang.
Gone.
The Speciale makes you work for it.
And because you have to work for it...
You keep going.
7,000rpm
Now the V8 is properly alive.
The noise behind you changes again.
There's an edge to it.
A hard, metallic howl that seems completely disproportionate to the size of the car producing it.
Your instinct says change gear.
Most engines are finished here.
The Speciale isn't.
Not remotely.
Keep your foot down.
8,000rpm
Jesus Christ.
Everything is happening now.
The engine is screaming.
The LEDs across the steering wheel are illuminating.
The road is arriving considerably faster than it was a few seconds ago.
Your hands tighten around the wheel.
There's another thousand rpm available.
Another thousand.
Don't shift.
Not yet.
9,000rpm
There.
That's it.
That's the reason.
Pull the paddle.
CRACK.
Next gear.
The revs fall directly back into the violence.
And it starts again.
5,000.
6,000.
7,000.
8,000.
Nine.
Again.
That is the Ferrari 458 Speciale.
You can show me every acceleration figure you want.
I don't care.
Give me that.
The Sound
We've used the word sound.
That's not quite right.
Because you don't merely hear a Speciale.
You feel it.
It's behind you.
The engine isn't hidden somewhere beyond a firewall at the opposite end of the car.
It's sitting directly behind the cabin.
The noise comes through the structure.
Through the seat.
Through your back.
Through your chest.
And as the revs climb, the entire character of the car changes.
At lower engine speeds, there's machinery.
At higher engine speeds, there's music.
And approaching the limiter?
Something else entirely.
A naturally aspirated Ferrari V8 at 9,000rpm doesn't sound angry.
Angry isn't enough.
It sounds desperate.
Like every mechanical component inside that engine is trying to escape simultaneously.
And then you pull the paddle.
Bang.
Silence for the briefest fraction of a second.
Then it starts climbing again.
I could listen to that for the rest of my life.
The Gearbox
No manual.
And unlike the CSL sitting elsewhere in our Dream Garage, I'm not remotely upset about that here.
Because the seven-speed dual-clutch gearbox is part of the Speciale's violence.
The shifts are savage when you want them to be.
Immediate.
Mechanical.
Pull the paddle and the response feels almost telepathic.
There's no waiting.
No conversation.
No:
“Are you sure you'd like third gear?”
CLICK.
Third.
And those paddles.
Fixed to the steering column.
Large.
Metal.
Exactly where they're supposed to be.
Turn the steering wheel and the paddles stay put.
Because Ferrari understands that when you're actually driving quickly, you shouldn't need to go looking for the bloody things.
Thank you, Ferrari.
The Steering Wheel
And while we're here...
Look at it.
The indicators are on the steering wheel.
The lights are on the steering wheel.
The wipers are controlled from the steering wheel.
The Manettino is on the steering wheel.
The starter button is on the steering wheel.
Ferrari looked at conventional stalks and apparently decided:
No.
The first time you drive one, it's weird.
Then you start understanding it.
Your hands stay on the wheel.
Everything you need is there.
And sitting right in front of you is that enormous central tachometer.
Not a gigantic infotainment screen.
Not seventeen configurable widgets.
A rev counter.
Because Ferrari knew what information mattered.
And right at the top?
9.
Perfect.
The Steering
The Speciale's steering is ridiculously quick.
The first time you turn into a corner, there's a decent chance you'll use too much lock.
Because you're expecting movement.
Waiting for weight to transfer.
Waiting for the front tyres to respond.
But the Speciale is already there.
Turn.
There.
Tiny input.
Immediate response.
The whole car feels alert.
Alive.
Almost nervous.
Not unstable.
Not unpredictable.
Just permanently ready.
Like there's tension running through the chassis waiting for you to release it.
Side Slip Control
And then Ferrari did something extraordinary.
They made this incredibly sharp, mid-engined, 445kW supercar...
Approachable.
The Speciale introduced Ferrari's Side Slip Control system.
SSC.
A collection of computers monitoring steering angle, yaw, throttle position, wheel speed and God knows what else, constantly calculating what the car is doing.
But here's the clever bit.
It doesn't simply stop you sliding.
It helps you manage the slide.
Ferrari effectively built technology that allows the chassis to move without immediately slapping you on the wrist.
That's the sort of electronic assistance I can get behind.
Don't drive the car for me.
Help me drive it better.
There's a difference.
Thank you, Ferrari.
The Weight
Around 1,290kg dry.
Think about that for a moment.
A modern performance EV can weigh well north of two tonnes.
Some performance SUVs are approaching two-and-a-half.
The Speciale?
Carbon.
Aluminium.
Glass.
Engine.
Gearbox.
Two seats.
Done.
Ferrari stripped around 90kg from the already-light 458 Italia.
Less sound insulation.
Lighter glass.
Simplified interior.
Carbon-fibre components.
Lightweight seats.
Everything examined.
Everything questioned.
Does this need to be here?
Can it weigh less?
Can we remove it?
That's how performance cars should be developed.
Not simply:
“Add another 100kW.”
Remove weight.
Always remove weight.
The Interior
There are exposed aluminium sections.
Carbon fibre.
Alcantara.
Thin carpeting.
Lightweight seats.
And very little interest in pretending this is a luxury car.
Good.
There's an engine behind me that revs to 9,000rpm.
I don't need massaging seats.
I don't need seventeen ambient-lighting colours.
I don't need a fragrance dispenser.
I need somewhere to sit.
Something to hold.
Two paddles.
And that enormous yellow rev counter.
Everything else is secondary.
The Stripe
Now.
The stripe.
We need the stripe.
This is Dream Garage, which means we're specifying our car.
And ours has the stripe.
I know there are people who prefer the Speciale without it.
They're entitled to their opinion.
They're wrong.
The Speciale needs the racing stripe running directly over the centre of the car.
Because subtlety has already left the conversation.
It's a mid-engined Ferrari with enormous aerodynamic openings and an engine visible through the rear glass.
We're not trying to sneak home unnoticed.
Stripe.
Absolutely.
The Colour
Rosso Corsa?
Beautiful.
Rosso Scuderia?
Also beautiful.
But if we're building the Speciale for the Dream Garage?
I'm going traditional.
Red.
Stripe.
Dark wheels.
Carbon everywhere Ferrari intended.
Nothing aftermarket.
Nothing changed.
Nothing improved.
Because what exactly do you think you're going to improve?
Leave it alone.
Look at It
The standard 458 Italia is one of the most beautiful modern Ferraris.
Then the Speciale gets more aggressive.
The front bumper is opened up.
Active aerodynamic elements appear.
The bonnet gains vents.
The side profile becomes more purposeful.
The rear receives that enormous diffuser.
Twin exhaust outlets move towards the centre.
And somehow...
It doesn't ruin the shape.
That's the remarkable bit.
Track-focused versions often sacrifice beauty for function.
The Speciale manages to look more serious without looking like somebody drove a 458 through an aftermarket accessories catalogue.
Every change feels deliberate.
Functional.
Ferrari.
The Rear
And the rear might be my favourite angle.
Those round taillights.
The enormous diffuser.
The central exhausts.
The mesh.
The engine sitting beneath glass.
You walk away from it.
Then you turn around.
Obviously.
Everyone does.
Look again.
Keep walking.
Turn around again.
Yep.
Still there.
Dream Garage behaviour.
Completely normal.
The Brakes
Carbon ceramic.
Obviously.
Huge.
Powerful.
Relentless.
But the important thing isn't simply stopping distance.
It's confidence.
The Speciale gives you the confidence to brake later because the entire car communicates what's happening.
Brake.
Turn.
Front tyres bite.
Release.
Throttle.
Feel the rear begin to move.
Correct.
Go.
This isn't a car where speed happens to you.
You're part of the process.
That's what matters.
Ferrari Before Turbocharging
And this is where the Speciale becomes more than simply another excellent Ferrari.
Because we now know what came next.
The 488 GTB replaced the 458.
And it was faster.
Much faster.
Turbocharged.
More torque.
More power.
More performance almost everywhere.
Then came the F8.
Then hybridisation.
SF90.
296.
Technology marched forward.
As it should.
I'm not one of those people who believes every old car is automatically better because it has fewer computers.
Progress is good.
But sometimes progress costs us something.
And the Speciale sits right on that dividing line.
It represents the end of Ferrari's naturally aspirated mid-engined V8 lineage.
And what an ending.
Ferrari didn't quietly retire it.
They let it scream to 9,000rpm one last time.
The Last One
That's what gets me.
At the time, the Speciale was simply the hardcore 458.
We didn't necessarily understand what it would come to represent.
Now we do.
There will never be another one.
Not exactly.
Ferrari might build another naturally aspirated engine.
Perhaps.
Technology can surprise us.
But a lightweight, mid-engined Ferrari with a naturally aspirated V8, no hybrid system, no turbochargers and a 9,000rpm redline?
That moment has passed.
And that's okay.
Things change.
But it means cars like the Speciale deserve to be remembered properly.
Not as investments.
Not as auction results.
As cars.
Things designed to be driven.
And That's Important
Because there's something slightly tragic about what happened to the Speciale.
We realised how special it was.
Values climbed.
Mileage became frightening.
Owners started protecting them.
Preserving them.
Storing them.
And I understand.
When a car becomes worth that much money, putting another 20,000 kilometres on it becomes a rather expensive decision.
But imagine building an engine that revs to 9,000rpm...
And never letting it get there.
That's worse.
Our Dream Garage Speciale gets driven.
Not abused.
Not neglected.
Not treated carelessly.
But driven.
Properly.
Because otherwise what's the point?
I Know What It Feels Like
And there's something else that makes this particular Dream Garage entry different.
I've driven one.
Properly.
Not around the block.
Not carefully away from a dealership with somebody sitting beside me watching the odometer.
Not fifteen minutes through traffic before handing the keys back.
Years ago, I was fortunate enough to have a very, very successful — and extraordinarily generous — friend who owned one.
And somehow, this man trusted me with his Ferrari 458 Speciale.
On a racetrack.
On the other side of the country.
There are moments in your life as a car person that you already know, while they're happening, you're going to remember forever.
That was one of mine.
Because essentially, he looked at me.
Looked at his Speciale.
Looked at the circuit in front of us.
And said:
Go.
So I did.
And let's just say...
I didn't waste the opportunity.
Because everything I've written about this car isn't based entirely on YouTube videos, magazine articles or the romantic idea of what a Speciale might feel like.
I know what happens when you open the throttle.
I know what it sounds like when that V8 stops being merely loud and begins climbing into that completely ridiculous final section of the rev counter.
I know what happens when the LEDs across the steering wheel begin illuminating and every instinct developed from driving normal cars tells you:
Change gear.
And the Ferrari says:
Not yet.
Keep going.
Seven thousand.
Eight thousand.
The sound behind you hardens into something almost violent.
And then...
Nine.
Pull the paddle.
CRACK.
Next gear.
Do it again.
And because we were on a circuit, there was no traffic coming the other way.
No intersection around the corner.
No speed camera.
No sensible little voice reminding you that perhaps this isn't the appropriate environment to explore a 445kW Ferrari.
Just track.
Car.
And permission.
So yes.
I drove it spiritedly.
Very spiritedly.
Let's leave it there.
And what I remember most isn't actually the speed.
Of course it was fast.
But I've driven faster cars since.
That's not what stayed with me.
It was the intensity of the thing.
How immediate the steering felt.
How the whole car seemed to rotate around you.
How quickly it responded to the smallest input.
How little separation there seemed to be between deciding what you wanted the car to do...
And it doing it.
But above everything else?
That engine.
I had heard Speciales before.
I'd watched the videos.
I knew about the 9,000rpm redline.
I knew everyone talked about the sound.
None of it prepared me for sitting directly in front of it.
Because from inside the car, at full throttle, approaching the top of the rev range...
You don't just hear it.
It's behind your shoulders.
In the seat.
Through the structure.
In your chest.
The entire car feels alive around you.
And then you brake.
Turn.
Feel the front end bite.
Pick up the throttle.
Straighten the wheel.
And do it all over again.
I remember thinking at the time:
This is what a Ferrari is supposed to feel like.
Not because I'd driven every Ferrari and conducted some objective assessment.
Because in that moment, it matched the version of Ferrari that had existed in my head since I was a kid.
Red.
Mid-engined.
Screaming V8.
Ridiculous steering.
Paddles.
Carbon fibre.
A racetrack disappearing underneath it.
Ferrari.
And eventually, inevitably, I had to bring it back in.
Slow down.
Pit lane.
Stop.
Engine off.
Silence.
That strange silence you get immediately after something extremely loud.
And hand somebody else the keys to a car I desperately wished belonged to me.
Years later, I can still remember it.
That's the test, isn't it?
I've driven hundreds of cars.
Some I've struggled to remember months later.
I can still remember that drive.
And perhaps that's why the Speciale's place in my Dream Garage isn't hypothetical.
I don't think I'd love one.
I don't imagine it would feel special.
I know.
Someone once trusted me enough to hand me the keys to one of the greatest Ferraris ever made and let me discover exactly what it could do.
And I've wanted one ever since.
So when I imagine opening the Dream Garage early on a Sunday morning and seeing that red Speciale sitting there...
I'm not imagining what happens next.
I'm remembering.
Sunday Morning
And maybe that's exactly why I can picture this so clearly.
Early.
Very early.
Before traffic.
Garage door goes up.
There it is.
Red.
Stripe.
Low.
Wide.
Except this time...
It's mine.
You open the door.
Drop into the seat.
Close it behind you.
Press the red button on the steering wheel.
The V8 fires behind your head.
Cold.
Mechanical.
Angry for a moment.
Then settling.
You wait.
Oil temperature.
Patience.
There's nowhere you need to be.
That's the whole point.
Pull the right paddle.
First.
Ease out.
The neighbourhood is still asleep.
Keep it quiet.
For now.
Find the road.
The one you already know.
The one with the corners.
The one where the trees close in and the bitumen starts twisting.
Second gear.
3,000rpm.
Throttle.
4,000.
5,000.
The noise starts building.
6,000.
The induction hardens.
7,000.
Now you're smiling.
8,000.
Don't shift.
Not yet.
The LEDs illuminate.
The V8 is screaming directly behind you.
Nine thousand.
Pull.
CRACK.
Next gear.
And for a few seconds...
Nothing else exists.
Not work.
Not emails.
Not bills.
Not whatever happened yesterday.
Not whatever needs to happen tomorrow.
Just you.
A steering wheel.
A road.
And one of the greatest engines Ferrari ever made screaming behind your head.
That's why it's here.
Dream Garage Verdict
I could fill this garage with faster cars.
More valuable cars.
Rarer cars.
Cars with twelve cylinders.
Cars capable of 400km/h.
Cars that will accelerate so violently your internal organs require recalibration.
The 458 Speciale stays.
Because the Dream Garage isn't about having the best specifications.
It's about the cars that make you feel something.
And few cars represent that better than this.
The Speciale came from a moment when Ferrari had spent decades perfecting the naturally aspirated V8...
And was about to leave it behind.
So they gave it everything.
More power.
Less weight.
Better aerodynamics.
Faster shifts.
Sharper steering.
More sophisticated electronics.
Then they let the engine rev to 9,000rpm.
One last masterpiece.
One final scream before the turbos arrived.
And maybe that's why the Speciale has always meant so much to me.
It's not nostalgia for an era I think was objectively better.
It's appreciation for something we now know we're unlikely to experience again.
An engine that doesn't deliver everything immediately.
You chase it.
You work for it.
And the closer you get to that redline, the more the car gives back.
5,000.
6,000.
7,000.
8,000.
9,000rpm.
Listen to it.
Feel it through the seat.
Hold the gear for just another fraction of a second.
Then pull the paddle.
CRACK.
Again.
That's not a number on a specification sheet.
That's a memory.
And in this case...
It's one of mine.
That's what the Dream Garage is for.
The cars you remember.
The cars you think about years after you've heard one disappear down the road.
The cars you occasionally search for online even though you already know perfectly well what they cost.
The cars you'd walk into the garage just to look at.
The cars that remind you why you fell in love with this ridiculous hobby in the first place.
Ferrari 458 Speciale.
Red.
Stripe.
Naturally aspirated V8.
9,000rpm.
Nothing changed.
Nothing modified.
And absolutely, categorically...
Not sitting there collecting dust.
I've already experienced what happens when you give a Speciale a racetrack and permission.
The Dream Garage simply changes one part of that story.
This time...
I don't have to give the keys back.
Start it.
Warm it.
Find the road.
Drop a gear.
And let it sing.
Thank you, Ferrari.
For this one...
Really.
Thank you.
2004 BMW M3 CSL - Raw, metallic, angry induction.
There are faster M3s.
Much faster ones.
There are newer M3s with more power, more torque, better brakes, vastly superior technology and enough computing power to run a small country.
There are M3s that will accelerate harder.
Corner faster.
Use less fuel.
Carry more people.
And absolutely annihilate this thing around a racetrack.
I don't care.
Because if you gave me the keys to every BMW M3 ever made and told me I could take one home...
I'd be looking for the silver E46 with the carbon roof.
The BMW M3 CSL.
Not because it's the fastest.
Because it might just be the most special.
CSL
Three letters.
Coupe Sport Leichtbau.
Coupe.
Sport.
Lightweight.
And unlike plenty of modern performance badges, those letters actually meant something.
BMW didn't take an ordinary M3, fit some larger wheels, add carbon-look trim to the dashboard and ask the marketing department to invent a Nürburgring connection.
The CSL was an engineering exercise.
Take the already brilliant E46 M3.
Remove weight.
Sharpen everything.
Give the engine more power.
Improve the aerodynamics.
Make the chassis more focused.
Then stop.
The result arrived in 2003, with just 1,383 examples produced globally.
That's rare.
But importantly, it wasn't created to become rare.
It became desirable because BMW built something extraordinary.
There's a difference.
The Engine
Let's get straight to the important bit.
S54.
3.2 litres.
Straight six.
Naturally aspirated.
Around 265kW.
370Nm.
And an 8,000rpm redline.
Those numbers probably don't sound particularly outrageous anymore.
A modern M3 makes considerably more power.
Plenty of current hot hatches aren't dramatically far behind.
But specifications tell you almost nothing about why this engine matters.
Because the CSL wasn't really about how much power the S54 produced.
It was about how it produced it.
There's no turbocharger.
No electric motor filling gaps in the torque curve.
No artificial soundtrack being pumped through the speakers.
You want performance?
Rev it.
And then rev it some more.
The engine builds.
And builds.
And builds.
Until you're approaching 8,000rpm with one of the greatest induction noises ever fitted to a road car filling the cabin.
Because then there's...
The Airbox
Oh, that airbox.
BMW fitted the CSL with an enormous carbon-fibre intake plenum.
And if you've never heard one at full throttle, please stop reading this review temporarily and correct that.
I'll wait.
...
Back?
Good.
Ridiculous, isn't it?
That noise is reason enough to put one in the Dream Garage.
Below about 4,000rpm, there's a deep mechanical growl.
Then the revs climb.
The throttle bodies open.
And somewhere beyond 6,000rpm the entire front of the car appears to inhale Bavaria.
It's not an exhaust note.
It's induction.
Raw, metallic, angry induction.
Modern cars spend extraordinary amounts of engineering effort manufacturing sound.
BMW simply gave the engine more air.
Thank you, BMW.
The Weight
The standard E46 M3 wasn't exactly obese.
BMW decided that wasn't good enough.
The CSL weighed around 1,385kg, roughly 110kg less than the regular car.
And BMW went looking everywhere for those kilograms.
Carbon-fibre roof.
Lighter seats.
Thinner rear glass.
Reduced sound insulation.
Composite materials.
A lighter rear window.
Simplified interior components.
Even the boot floor received lightweight treatment.
There was no one enormous change.
It was dozens of small ones.
That's what I love about the CSL.
The engineering feels obsessive.
Saving a kilogram here.
Two kilograms there.
A few hundred grams somewhere else.
Because eventually it adds up.
And unlike modern performance cars where carbon fibre is often fitted because customers like looking at carbon fibre, much of the CSL's exotic material exists because BMW wanted the car to weigh less.
Function first.
Thank you again, BMW.
The Roof
And then there's that roof.
The CSL was the first production BMW M car to use a carbon-fibre-reinforced plastic roof.
Today?
Carbon roofs are everywhere in the M catalogue.
Back then?
This was serious stuff.
But again, it wasn't merely decorative.
Removing weight from the highest part of the vehicle lowers the centre of gravity.
That's good engineering.
And visually, it has become one of the defining details of the CSL.
Silver Grey Metallic body.
Exposed carbon roof.
Those wheels.
Perfect.
Don't touch it.
Those Wheels
You know the ones.
The 19-inch CSL wheels.
Perhaps some of the best-looking factory wheels BMW has ever produced.
Thin spokes.
Beautiful proportions.
Nothing unnecessarily complicated.
And because they became so desirable, CSL-style wheels subsequently appeared on approximately every modified E46 M3 on Earth.
Which is simultaneously flattering and slightly unfortunate.
On the real thing, though?
Perfect.
BMW absolutely nailed the stance of this car.
No enormous 21-inch wheels.
No blacked-out everything.
No coloured trim package.
No illuminated grille.
Just beautiful proportions and excellent wheels.
Turns out that works.
The Steering
Hydraulic.
Remember hydraulic steering?
The steering wheel doesn't simply instruct a computer what you'd like the front wheels to do.
There's actual hydraulic assistance.
Actual feedback.
Actual texture coming back through your hands.
And the CSL's quicker steering rack makes the E46 feel beautifully responsive.
This is one of those things specification sheets struggle to explain.
A modern performance car will almost certainly generate more lateral grip.
It'll probably turn in faster.
It may even place the front tyres more accurately.
But does the steering talk to you?
The CSL does.
And that's becoming increasingly rare.
The Chassis
This is where the CSL becomes more than an M3 with a loud intake.
BMW revised almost everything.
Suspension geometry.
Springs.
Dampers.
Anti-roll bars.
Bushings.
Steering.
Brakes.
Tyres.
And those tyres were important.
The CSL famously came fitted with Michelin Pilot Sport Cup tyres.
Proper track-focused rubber.
BMW even made buyers acknowledge that these tyres weren't particularly interested in helping them during cold or wet conditions.
Imagine that happening today.
"Congratulations on your new BMW. Please sign here acknowledging that the tyres may attempt to kill you if it rains."
Different time.
But on the right road, in the right conditions?
The CSL was extraordinary.
Sharp.
Balanced.
Communicative.
And beautifully adjustable.
Not because software was constantly moving torque around beneath you.
Because the fundamental chassis was excellent.
The Gearbox
And then...
We need to talk about it.
SMG II.
The CSL was never offered with a conventional manual gearbox.
Every single one received BMW's six-speed automated manual.
One clutch.
Hydraulic actuators.
Paddles.
And by modern standards...
It's not great.
Around town it can be clumsy.
At low speeds it occasionally changes gear with all the subtlety of somebody dropping a toolbox down a staircase.
A modern dual-clutch transmission makes it feel prehistoric.
And a good torque-converter automatic is smoother, faster and considerably easier to live with.
So obviously we manual-swap it.
Right?
No.
Absolutely not.
I know.
A manual E46 M3 is wonderful.
And yes, a manual CSL would probably be incredible.
But this is Dream Garage.
We're preserving the car.
The awkward gearbox is part of it.
You learn it.
Lift slightly during shifts.
Understand its timing.
Work with the thing rather than expecting it to behave like a modern automatic.
Is that objectively worse?
Probably.
Do I care?
Not even slightly.
The SMG is part of the CSL's story.
It stays.
The Interior
The same philosophy continues inside.
There's Alcantara.
Carbon fibre.
Lightweight bucket seats.
A beautifully simple steering wheel.
And considerably less luxury than you'd expect from something carrying an M3 badge.
Good.
This isn't supposed to be luxurious.
The CSL was built around driving.
The door cards are simplified.
The seats prioritise support.
Sound insulation was sacrificed.
And depending on specification and market, various comfort items disappeared in the pursuit of weight.
You don't climb into a CSL and think:
"What a lovely place to sit in traffic."
You think:
"Where's the road?"
Exactly.
The Boot
There's another tiny detail I adore.
The boot lid.
Look at the shape.
That subtle integrated ducktail.
Nothing bolted on.
No enormous wing.
No active aerodynamic element performing a little dance when you reach 100km/h.
Just beautifully shaped bodywork.
Functional.
Understated.
Perfect.
It might be one of my favourite rear ends on any BMW.
Actually...
No.
It is.
Performance
0-100km/h took around 4.9 seconds.
Again, not particularly shocking today.
There are electric family SUVs capable of humiliating that number while carrying three children and a week's groceries.
Completely irrelevant.
Because nobody remembers a CSL for the launch.
They remember the first time they heard one approaching 8,000rpm.
They remember the steering.
The balance.
The way it moves underneath you.
The way the rear axle communicates what it's doing.
The way you have to actually learn the gearbox.
Performance isn't always about reducing numbers.
Sometimes it's about increasing involvement.
The CSL understood that.
Why This One?
There are more exotic cars I'd put in the Dream Garage.
Ferraris.
Lamborghinis.
Porsches.
Things worth several times as much.
But the CSL has always occupied a strange place in my head.
Because it's still recognisably an E46 M3.
One of the great everyday performance cars.
Yet every change BMW made pushed it slightly further towards something special.
Not so far that it stopped being an M3.
Just enough.
That's incredibly difficult.
And I think it's something modern manufacturers sometimes struggle with.
Performance variants now need enormous power increases.
Huge wings.
Special drive modes.
Carbon everywhere.
Lap records.
The CSL didn't need any of that.
It simply took something excellent and removed everything standing between the driver and the car.
What I'd Have
This is Dream Garage.
So we're allowed to be specific.
Silver Grey Metallic.
Obviously.
Yes, Black Sapphire existed.
No, I don't want it.
The silver is the CSL.
Carbon roof exposed.
Original CSL wheels.
Original interior.
Original airbox.
Original SMG gearbox.
No manual conversion.
No aftermarket exhaust.
No enormous infotainment screen awkwardly inserted into the dashboard.
No modern steering wheel.
No modifications.
Nothing.
Maybe a discreet Bluetooth solution hidden somewhere so I can play music.
Actually...
No.
Forget that.
There's a carbon airbox.
That's the stereo.
Would I Daily It?
Absolutely not.
Not because you couldn't.
Fundamentally, it's still an E46.
You could use one.
But I wouldn't want to dilute it.
This would be an early Sunday morning car.
Wake up before everyone else.
Garage door opens.
Cold start.
Wait for everything to warm properly.
Then head somewhere with corners.
No destination required.
No reason.
Just drive.
And when you're finished?
Bring it home.
Clean it.
Put it back in the garage.
Stand there looking at it for an unnecessarily long period of time.
You know.
Normal behaviour.
The Dream Garage Verdict
The BMW M3 CSL represents something I worry we're losing.
Not performance.
Modern cars have more performance than ever.
Not technology.
We've got plenty of that too.
Mechanical involvement.
An engine that needs revs.
A gearbox that needs understanding.
Hydraulic steering that communicates.
A chassis that moves.
An intake that makes one of the greatest noises ever to escape from Munich.
And a development team obsessed with removing kilograms rather than adding horsepower.
The CSL isn't perfect.
The gearbox proves that.
But perfection isn't necessarily what makes a car memorable.
Character does.
And the CSL has enormous amounts of it.
BMW has built faster M3s since.
More powerful ones.
More luxurious ones.
More technologically advanced ones.
Objectively better ones, in almost every measurable way.
But if I could have one M3 sitting in the Dream Garage?
Silver Grey.
Carbon roof.
Those wheels.
That airbox.
That awkward SMG gearbox.
The CSL.
Every single time.
And when that S54 passes 6,000rpm and starts inhaling the surrounding atmosphere through that enormous carbon airbox...
I wouldn't change a thing.
Thank you, BMW.
1967 Shelby GT500 - The Original Heavy Hitter
Few nameplates are more synonymous with motoring enthusiasts and petrol heads than “Mustang”. It’s more than just a car, it’s a cultural touchstone, a rolling symbol of freedom, rebellion and V8-fuelled American muscle. For many, it represents something else entirely - a simpler time. A big, naturally aspirated V8 up the front, a simple four speed manual or three speed auto in the middle, and rear wheel drive out the back. Traction Control wasn’t a button, but more how much you buried your right foot. No lane keep assist. No autonomous emergency braking. Just the roar of an internal combustion engine and the open road. Take me back, Lord.
There are muscle cars… and then there’s this. The 1967 Shelby GT500 wasn’t just a Mustang with more grunt. It was a statement. A snarling, wide-shouldered icon built not for subtlety, but for dominance. Born out of Carroll Shelby’s vision of a Mustang that could outpace just about anything on the road, the GT500 fused raw American muscle with race-bred attitude, and the world took notice.
Under that long, vented bonnet sat a 428 cubic inch “Police Interceptor” V8. Big, even by ‘60s standards. Rated at 355 horsepower (though most agree it was well underrated), it churned out brutal torque and a soundtrack that rumbled the pavement. The GT500 wasn’t light. It wasn’t delicate. But it didn’t care. It was meant to punch hard and leave a mark. And boy oh boy, did it ever.
Where the earlier GT350 had been a nimble track weapon, the GT500 was a street brawler in a leather jacket. Longer, wider, and more aggressive in appearance, it wore dual racing stripes, functional hood scoops, and those iconic inboard headlights that made it look ready to devour everything in its path. The fastback silhouette was instantly recognisable. Timeless. If cars had a jawline, this one had the squarest of them all.
Driving one today is a visceral, analog experience. There’s play in the steering. The brakes require a firm foot. The clutch is heavy. But plant your right foot, and the GT500 shoves forward with the kind of authority that makes modern cars feel tame. It doesn’t just accelerate. It lunges. The rear end wriggles under torque, the nose rises, and you’re reminded why this era is so deeply romanticised.
The cabin was simple, but purposeful. A wood-rimmed steering wheel, classic gauge cluster, and those “Shelby” badges placed just so. It’s the kind of interior that smells like history. Like old leather and legacy. There’s nothing to distract you. Just you, the machine, and the open road. Just the way God intended.
Pop culture only further added to the legend that is the GT500. Gone in 60 Seconds and the creation of “Eleanor” gave the GT500 an eternal screen presence, but even without Hollywood’s lens, this car is a star. Not for its lap times. Not for luxury. But because it captures the soul of the muscle car era better than almost anything else.
Pros:
Iconic fastback styling with Shelby-specific aggression
Thunderous 428 V8 with endless torque
Raw, analog driving feel that’s disappearing fast
Pop culture legend status thanks to “Eleanor”
A true Carroll Shelby masterpiece
Cons:
Heavy steering, brakes, and clutch by modern standards
Handling is more brute force than finesse
Interior is basic—but who cares?
Fuel economy? Did someone say KFC?
Verdict:
The 1967 Shelby GT500 isn’t just a car. It’s an attitude. A bold, unapologetic statement. A fist in the air from a time when muscle ruled, when power wasn’t restrained by emissions or etiquette. It’s imperfect, unapologetic, and absolutely down right glorious.
Own one, and you don’t just have a Mustang.
You have the king of them.
BMW M5 (F10) - A Powerhouse Refined for the Road
I can still remember, very clearly, the day I picked up my own BMW M5 from Brisbane BMW. Delivery was scheduled for around 11am, but I got there around 9 because I just could not handle my excitement. The M5 brought a sense of occasion to every drive. It's a car that demands respect but rewards you generously with every rev of its engine. The aggressive front grille and muscular stance make it clear this isn’t just another 5 Series. This is a car that wants to be driven. And it wants to dominate.
There’s a moment when you settle into the driver’s seat of the F10 BMW M5 that is unmistakable. The engine hums to life with a deep, throaty growl that’s almost as if the car is aware of its own power. This isn’t just a luxury sedan; this is a true performance car, built for the track yet comfortable enough for daily use. And as soon as you press the throttle, you realize that this isn’t your average BMW—it’s something altogether more exhilarating.
The F10 M5 is powered by a 4.4-liter twin-turbo V8, delivering a thumping 423 kW of power and 680Nm of torque. The numbers tell you one thing, but it’s the feeling that matters: a blast of acceleration that pushes you back into the seat with authority. The M5 is capable of sprinting from 0 to 100 km/h in just 4.4 seconds, but it’s the way the car surges forward that gives you the real thrill. It’s smooth, effortless, and powerful—like the M5 is just getting started, no matter how hard you push it.
But what makes the F10 M5 truly remarkable isn’t just the straight-line performance. It’s the way it handles corners, the way it makes every turn feel connected, sharp, and precise. The steering is firm and communicative, making it easy to place the M5 exactly where you want it on the road. The suspension strikes a delicate balance between comfort and performance, absorbing imperfections while keeping you planted during spirited driving. Whether you’re cruising on the freeway or tackling tight turns on a mountain pass, the M5 feels composed, controlled, and perfectly poised for whatever comes next.
That 7-speed dual-clutch transmission is nothing short of brilliant, shifting seamlessly through gears when you’re taking it easy and providing rapid, sharp changes when you push the car harder. It’s one of those rare gearboxes that makes you feel more in tune with the car, as if it’s reading your mind and responding instantaneously. Every shift feels purposeful, every acceleration exhilarating.
Inside, the cabin is the perfect blend of luxury and performance. The M5 may be a beast on the road, but it’s also a refined place to be. The seats are supportive and comfortable, holding you in place while providing enough luxury for long drives. The technology is comprehensive—iDrive, a high-quality sound system, and a fully functional navigation system—but it never overwhelms you. It’s all integrated seamlessly to make your driving experience just that much better.
That being said, the F10 M5 doesn’t come without its quirks. The ride, while balanced and composed, can be on the firm side, especially when you’re navigating rougher roads. It’s a sports sedan at heart, and while that means performance-oriented suspension, it also means a bit more road feedback than some might desire for daily driving. But for those who are in it for the driving experience, this is more of an asset than a drawback—it just depends on your perspective.
Fuel economy? Well, it's a performance car, and like any true high-performance machine, the M5’s thirst for fuel isn’t a surprise. It’s a little heavy on the gas pedal, but if you're driving an M5, you’re more interested in the thrill of the drive than saving on fuel.
The rear seats, while offering ample room, might be a bit tight for passengers who are on the taller side. While the front seats are supportive and spacious, rear-seat passengers might not have quite as much legroom, especially on long trips. It’s a minor trade-off, but one worth noting for anyone planning on using the M5 as a family sedan.
However, despite these small drawbacks, the 2014 M5 is a car that rewards every ounce of effort you put into driving it. It’s a car that makes you feel connected to the road, to the machine, and to the experience. Whether you’re taking it to its limits on a track day or enjoying a relaxed drive through the city, the F10 M5 excels in every area it sets out to master.
Owning the F10 M5 means you get to experience the fusion of brute force and refined engineering, performance and comfort, in a way that very few sedans can match. It’s a car that doesn’t just make you feel good about driving—it makes you feel good about being behind the wheel, every single time.
The F10 M5 isn’t just a car—it’s an experience. It’s the kind of machine that keeps you coming back for more, time and time again. In the world of high-performance sedans, it stands out as one of the most thrilling, most rewarding, and most unforgettable to drive.
Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG - The Muscle Car in a Tailored Suit
There are few cars that leave an impression quite like the W204 Mercedes-AMG C63. It wasn’t just a fast compact executive. It was a brawler in a Brioni suit, a snarling beast hidden beneath precision stitching and German restraint. In a segment defined by balance and finesse, the W204 C63 ripped up the rulebook and rewrote it in tyre smoke and V8 thunder.
At the heart of it all was the now-legendary 6.2-litre naturally aspirated V8 (M156) - a hand-built, AMG masterpiece with some serious soul. Despite the "C63" badge, displacement sat proudly at 6,208cc, producing up to 336kW (450+ hp) and 600Nm of torque in later variants. But figures don’t capture its true magic. Sound does. From cold start to redline, the C63 doesn’t just make noise - it roars, crackles, and barks in a way that feels borderline indecent in a modern world dulled by emissions filters and synthetic soundtracks.
In a straight line, the W204 was an absolute savage. It could spin its tyres at will, even in second gear, and the 7-speed Speedshift MCT automatic transmission delivered brutal, rapid-fire shifts when you were on it—yet remained docile when cruising. It wasn’t the sharpest handler in the class (BMW’s M3 held that crown), but it didn’t need to be. The C63 was all about attitude. It let its tail slide wide, announced your arrival long before you were seen, and made no apologies for any of it.
Where the C63 really surprised was in its everyday manners. The interior was Mercedes at its best. Clean design, solid materials, and just enough AMG flair to remind you this wasn’t your average C-Class. The seats were firm but comfortable, the tech functional, and the cabin quiet enough when you weren’t goading the throttle.
Visually, the W204 still turns heads. The wide rear stance, bulging guards, twin pipes, and subtle badging gave it a proper muscle car silhouette without crossing into boy racer territory. In later "507 Edition" or Black Series trims, it looked and felt even more unhinged—pure collector-grade now.
Pros:
One of the greatest naturally aspirated V8s ever made
Thunderous sound and outrageous character
Comfortable enough to daily, wild enough to race
Clean, muscular styling that’s aged beautifully
That feeling of driving something truly alive
Cons:
Fuel consumption is borderline comedic
Rear tyres don’t last long (especially if you have a right foot)
Not the sharpest tool in the twisties
Older infotainment now feels dated
Known for some engine longevity concerns if not properly maintained
Verdict:
The W204 C63 AMG is the last of a dying breed. a naturally aspirated V8 rear-wheel-drive monster that makes no compromises in its pursuit of noise, speed, and theatre. It’s a car with character, the kind of machine you bond with, talk about years after it's gone, and wish manufacturers still had the courage to build.
For those lucky enough to own one, or even to have driven one at full throttle - it isn’t just a car. It’s a memory. And a loud one, at that.
Audi R8 V10 - The Everyday Exotic
Before the world turned everything turbocharged, digitized, and sanitized, Audi’s R8 V10 stood tall as a last bastion of analog emotion in a digital age. The 2014 model, especially in manual transmission guise, is more than a supercar - it’s a love letter to driving.
Powered by a glorious 5.2-litre naturally aspirated V10, shared with its Raging Bull cousin over at Lamborghini, the R8 doesn’t just go fast - it performs with precision, poise, and passion. With 525 horsepower on tap and a spine-tingling 8,700 rpm redline, it howls, shrieks, and delivers a kind of auditory theater modern turbo V8s can only dream of. I was lucky enough to be given the keys to one for a week in South Africa back in 2015, and even just walking up to it, before getting in, before driving it… just simply walking up to it, holding the key, was enough to bring the biggest smile to your face. But then, I turned it on… and it did the same for me.
What made the 2014 R8 so remarkable, though, wasn’t just its pace, it was its accessibility. This was a supercar you could drive every day. It wasn’t temperamental. It didn’t cook its own electronics in stop-and-go traffic. It just worked. And it did so with grace, presence, and blistering pace when asked.
0–100 km/h in 3.5 seconds, quattro all-wheel drive to keep things tidy, and a chassis that walked the line between planted and playful. It was precise when you wanted it to be, and beautifully unhinged when you let it breathe. And if you were one of the lucky few to get one with the gated 6-speed manual, you owned a piece of supercar royalty. That click-clack between gears wasn’t just mechanical - it was sacred.
From the moment you fire it up, the R8 V10 makes its intentions known. That naturally aspirated 5.2-litre engine doesn’t just start. It erupts. Cold starts come with a bark, settling into a rhythmic idle that pulses through the cabin. Push it, and the V10 doesn’t just roar, it sings, climbing through the rev range with a crescendo that feels near orchestral. It’s one of those engines you don’t just hear - you feel in your chest.
On the road, the R8 is shockingly approachable. The steering is direct and communicative without being twitchy, and the chassis feels planted but never punishing. Around town, it’s civilised. The ride, while firm, isn’t spine-shattering, and visibility is better than you’d expect for a mid-engine supercar.
When the road opens up, that’s when the magic happens. The balance is sublime. Neutral in corners, with just enough throttle adjustability to rotate the car if you're feeling playful. Thanks to Audi’s quattro system, traction is always on your side, but it never feels like the car is doing the work for you. It involves you, asks you to participate, and then rewards your inputs.
On longer drives, the R8 surprises again. Road noise is present, but not overwhelming, and the cabin is supportive enough for serious hours behind the wheel. There’s enough boot space for a weekend away if you pack light, and the seats, though sporty, don’t punish you for using them properly.
It’s a car that never feels like a burden. You can drive it through city traffic, cruise along coastal highways, or tackle mountain switchbacks, and it never breaks a sweat. That’s what makes the R8 so special. It gives you the drama and emotion of an exotic, without demanding that you suffer for it.
Inside, Audi nailed it. The cabin felt more cockpit than console, with just the right amount of driver focus. Clean, minimal, but beautifully finished in proper materials. No flashy gimmicks. Just tactile controls, real buttons, and a seating position that told you: this car was built for you.
Visually, the 2014 R8 still hits hard. It has aged like a rockstar - confident, sharp, and unmistakable. The side blades. The low, wide stance. The mid-engine proportions. It doesn’t scream. It smolders. Park it anywhere and you’ll draw looks, but never the wrong kind.
Pros:
Naturally aspirated V10 with a truly exotic soundtrack
Balanced, predictable mid-engine handling
Everyday usability with supercar credentials
Stunning design that still turns heads
Optional gated manual - pure collector’s gold
Cons:
Tech and infotainment feel a generation behind
Limited practicality (but let’s be real, who cares?)
Some may find the AWD system lacks that tail-happy drama
Manual examples are rare - and climbing in value rapidly
Verdict:
The 2014 Audi R8 V10 is one of the last truly soulful supercars - before turbochargers muted emotion and dual-clutches ruled every corner. It’s the kind of car that doesn’t just impress you - it stays with you. The sound. The precision. The balance. It’s a celebration of everything that made the golden era of internal combustion so intoxicating.
Drive one, and you’ll understand why it’s not just loved—it’s worshipped.
BMW M3 – The Last of the V8 Heroes
The BMW M3 holds a special place in automotive history, as well in the hearts of those lucky enough to own or drive one. I can speak from experience, my own 2011 Space Grey over Coral Red, DCT equipped M3 was my absolute pride and joy.
Produced from 2007 to 2013, the E9X generation of the M3 was a turning point, and in many ways, a swan song. It was the only M3 ever to be powered by a naturally aspirated V8, and it delivered a driving experience that remains unmatched - even today.
At the heart of the E90/92/93 M3 is the now-iconic S65 4.0L V8, a high-revving masterpiece derived from BMW’s Formula 1 expertise at the time. With 414 horsepower and an 8,400 rpm redline, this engine wasn’t about brute force - it was about finesse, linear power delivery, and an absolutely spine-tingling sound. The induction noise above 6,000 rpm alone is enough to make a petrolhead weep.
Paired with either a 6-speed manual or the then-new 7-speed DCT, the M3 delivered visceral engagement and razor-sharp responses. The manual was a purist’s dream, while the DCT offered lightning-fast shifts that were way ahead of their time - again, some would say even by todays standards. Unlike modern M cars burdened by artificial sound and weight, the M3 strikes a rare balance: analog charm with modern performance.
The chassis was perfectly tuned. Firm but not punishing, agile yet composed. It felt alive under you. Steering feel, thanks to the hydraulic setup, was precise and communicative in a way that’s largely absent in today’s electric-assist era. Whether a spirited drive along a mountain road or a racetrack, the M3 felt like an extension of your will.
Stylistically, the M3 was beautifully understated. Bulging fenders, subtle M badging, quad exhausts, and the signature power dome hinted at its potential without shouting about it. The optional carbon fiber roof was also more than just a visual flex, it lowered the center of gravity and added to the performance DNA.
Driving my M3 always felt like tapping into something raw and elemental. Letting the DCT snap off gear changes with brutal accuracy, there was a constant connection between man and machine that’s missing in most modern performance cars. Every corner was an invitation. Every tunnel, a concert hall.
The chassis balance was near perfect: rear-wheel drive, finely tuned suspension, and that glorious hydraulic steering that told you exactly what was happening at the road surface. It danced through corners with a lightness that defied its size. On the right road, the M3 didn’t just perform - it engaged. It spoke to you.
The M3 didn’t scream for attention, but for those who knew, it was unmistakably special. It had presence.
Owning my E92 M3 wasn’t just about speed or status. It was about the feel. The sound. The connection. It was about starting the engine and simply just knowing you were in something that would one day become a legend. And it has.
For me, the E92 M3 wasn’t just a car I owned. It was an era. A chapter of pure, raw, unfiltered driving joy. And while newer M cars might be faster, with more tech, and exhausts that snap, crackle and pop, none have captured the same magic.
The E92 M3 wasn’t just sublime. It was unforgettable.
Yes, it had its quirks. Fuel consumption wasn’t its strong suit. Maintenance wasn’t always cheap. But when you started that V8 and felt the car come alive beneath you, none of that mattered. What mattered was the way it made you feel. And every single time I drove it, it reminded me why I fell in love with driving in the first place.