The E31 BMW 850CSi had a lot going for it: V12, pop-up headlights, comfortable seats. But in a short time, it became the tragic last chapter of an unfinished masterpiece. Heading into the 1990s, the prospect of its successor—an unleashed M8 variant of the E31—must have been tantalizing. Lamborghini, Ferrari, and Porsche had been taking tremendous swings with the Diablo, F40, and 959, respectively, but even so, the since-revealed prototype of the M8 was something else, a rising legend “pointed at a very high orbit.”
Sadly, as the story goes, economic headwinds and Gulf War-related uncertainty spooked decision-makers at BMW enough to scale back plans and ultimately scrap the company’s masterpiece in progress. The M8 never saw a showroom, leaving the imperfect 850CSi and its lot to bear the burden of the automotive world’s disappointment. The 850i was impressive on paper and stunning at a distance, but unexpectedly aloof in the driver’s seat. The 850Ci supposedly had an intoxicating engine note and was easier to maintain, but the power was still insufficient for its weight, which exceeded 4,000 pounds. The 850CSi, with a 375-horsepower engine tuned by BMW’s M division itself, offered enough to ask for $70,000 (close to $160,000 when adjusted for inflation in 2025), but it never wore the M badge. After all, the reasoning went, it wasn’t quite performant enough—such as the leaner, more track-focused M3—to be honored as a true M car.
Three decades later, that vaunted notion of a “true M car” lends itself to profound irony. The latest M3 has crept up to a curb weight of 3,840 pounds—and it gets worse. At 5,390 pounds, today’s M5 has been analogized to a black hole more than once and directly compared to several heavy-duty trucks. The 850CSi, meanwhile, doesn’t look out of place in comparison to newer performance cars, including newer M cars, which frequently tip the scales at well over what was acceptable in the 1990s. (Some of the increased weight is bloat, but some of it results from the addition of well-justified safety features.) Now, the 850CSi is remembered fondly, even hagiographically, for its balanced mix of performance and grand-touring luxury.
So what went wrong? Did the standards of performance change, or did we?
When I think of automotive performance, I first think of the Bugatti variety: top speed, horsepower, 0-60 time, and other numbers that make the headlines. These headlines, I suspect, influence the way that enthusiasts and the broader population perceive performance, particularly when it comes to cars that are financially out of reach for the vast majority. Top-line numbers can come as part of an intermediary package, like the work of automotive journalists, breathtaking announcement videos, or other forms of media. For example, the R34 Nissan Skyline GT-R might not have gained such a cult following in the United States without the Fast and Furious movies. If you loved racing games in the early 2000s, it was practically an inevitability that you would encounter the cover art of Need for Speed: Most Wanted and the finesse of the iconic blue-and-silver BMW M3 GTR in motion.
But words on a page, to say nothing of numbers in a spreadsheet or pixels on a screen, are a lossy translation. Sure, secondhand accounts can spread and influence public understanding of what makes a car perform well. And yet, even the strongest messaging does not preclude altogether the potential for disconnects from the actual driving experience. Consider a more recent grand tourer, such as the Lexus LC500 convertible, whose interior and suspension are essential to the value proposition. It weighs about 4,500 pounds, so you end up paying six figures for a car with almost the same power-to-weight ratio that you could’ve gotten had you opted for a Honda Civic Type-R instead. But as the venerable Jason Fenske once alluded to, if you are running those numbers at the expense of taking the time to drop the top of the LC500 and listen to how it sounds in second gear, you’re likely robbing yourself of joy.
What counts as automotive performance has a shifting definition, with parameters that so often come down to sensationand purpose. And both run deep. Put another way, the cars that go down in history are not only the fast ones, but they are the ones with a story. And a great story of a car is often a great story about people. They become characters in their own right or the sites of interpersonal conflict and resolution. Some of them even get names of endearment—like Dougie the Subaru Outback, a 2003 model that Wall Street Journal writer A.J. Baime and his family drove for more than two decades, witnessing milestones like bringing newborns home from the hospital, teaching the kids to drive, and many road trips. Despite its age and lack of air conditioning, the Baimes can’t let go of the car because it’s a cherished member of the household, holding between its Cheerio- and Lego-strewn seats and battle-scarred bumpers a treasure trove of memories and shared experiences:
At some point, the car took on a name: Dougie. And at another, it shifted from the place where we taught our kids about the facts of life to where we became their students. Michelle and I saw our classic rock CDs gather dust as we learned to love SZA and Jay-Z through this new thing called Pandora that blasted from a smartphone. We learned the identities of all the Thomas the Tank Engine trains and the nuances of every generation of iPhone.
Automotive performance, ultimately, is defined through a winding process of complex, often highly subjective value judgments. It is worth revisiting the mistimed prototypes and the Dougies of the world every so often, if only to be reminded of the plot.