About being understood

Lets face it, cars like BMW's M3 make no sense at all. Except that, in circumstances that permit it, they thrill the senses.



That 'permit it' is the pothole in the M3's path. There's nowhere outside its home country that there are the opportunities to legally run such cars to their potential on the open road.

And even there, the squeeze is on. The state of Bremen has just passed a law that puts a speed limit on autobahns within its boundaries.

Also, with a fuel consumption of around 14 l/100km, and that when taking it easy in the Irish context, the CO2 fascisti get to muttering and glowering as you go by. I couldn't help wondering when there will be roadblocks manned by green-and-daisy uniforms wielding 'Tut-tut' signs. With powers to take your car off you if you have exceeded a monthly CO2 footprint allowance.

But that is when, this is now. And how to trip the sensory overload when one is here and not over there? Without tripping the penalty points avalanche at the same time?

Only one way, really. Get up very early and go to a quiet road in the hills that you know very well, and which you know has little or no resident population.

Then sit for a moment behind that growling 4.0 V8. Savour a short anticipation. Chance a foreplay blip of the accelerator. Tap the switch to the right of the gearshift, the one labeled 'Power'.

Let that unsuspecting baby hare stagger safe across the road, blissful in ignorance of its squashability.

Then floor the right pedal, dropping the clutch without any attempt at finesse.

The 420 horses will try and hit an instant full tilt gallop. Those massive rubbers will scream against what would be an inevitable spin if the traction control gubbins didn't wrest control from the laws of physics and dynamics.

Gripping the leather-clad wheel, you'll get a fair indication of the fighting that's going on between the power of the engine and the strain on the suspension.

But you won't have much time to consider it. If, as was the one I had, the car has the manual six speed gearbox, there will be much demand on your driving attention, with redlines that get reached in amazingly short times, accompanied by an engine howling in orgasm and demanding immediate shifts for more.

And that's just the engine on song. There's also the road being wound under the wheels in ever faster measure, and bends that seem to have a motive power of their own, they come at you so quickly.

You can hack it or you can't. You will or you won't. The M3 for the driver is black or white. Grey is not an option. Full thrust or wimp home.

And, heck, the car would be going back tomorrow ...

BMW make nothing if they don't make great engines. And outside the Formula One circuit, this is arguably the best engine they make.



In fact, it is built using technology developed by the Munich company for the race track. Honed for minimum weight and micro-tolerence and breathed on for maximum power output, it is designed to give its best at high revs. Which means that there's still awesome pull at 8,300rpm. And a diesel-quality torque of 400Nm at a tad under 4,000rpm.

There was a time that Alfa engines sounded like this. A definite metallic tone to the song, a harmonic tribute to engineers reaching for the last millimetre of excellence. A reciprocating diva in her prime. But now BMW has taken this aspect to the next level, and no car that I have driven in recent years offers as much auditory pleasure as this M3 did.

Leaving power to one side ... well, you can't, but you know what I mean ... the sheer magnificent balance of this machine when pushing it through some of West Wicklow's less than perfect bends is a joy in itself. And it is something that simply wouldn't work without the level of power which the M3 produces, when a gentle push on the accelerator provides instant extra urge.

Like I said, the car makes no sense for the increasing mundanity of today's driving experience. But it can be an antidote to the sad driver syndrome which is an inevitable consequence of the commuter convoys.



The M3 isn't perfect. It has frustrating elements, even one or two annoying ones. Like the layout of the pedals, the strong offset to the right being typical of the 3 Series generally. That meant I stabbed at the clutch instead of the brake a couple of times, not a thing to be recommended on a high speed tour.

It was also a little over-eager on roll-off in first gear, sometimes smoothly matching power up and clutch uptake at slow speeds being a difficult chore. I ended up most of the time launching in second gear and found it much less embarrassing.

But over my few days with the car I did get close to the sense of why there are people who truly desire it.

And it isn't, I think, to show off the fact that they can afford the ultimate driving machine of the ultimate driving machines. No, it is just appreciation. The same people appreciate good port, fine whiskey, art of deft genius, and women of beauty.

All of which on their own might often make no sense either. But flower to wonder in the golden light of being understood for their own intrinsic personality.

This is something the fascisti can never understand.

Brian Byrne