obsession with automotive excellence
As drawn by AI, prompts by NTI JR. It often gets details like wheels wrong, and making it stencil the (fictional) lettering on the side of the farm truck took about 20 tries before it stopped writing “SEEREN OKKS FRAM.”
I truly hope no one else can identify whose car each of these are, because if you can you might also want to see a neurologist.
Woodcliff Lake, N.J.—February 11, 2026. ALPINA, in close cooperation with BMW, proudly presents the first-ever BMW ALPINA B12 6.8 xDrive Sedan for the 2027 model year. Eclipsing the benchmarks set by the celebrated 2020 B7, the new twelve-cylinder flagship merges an all-new ALPINA V-12 with the advanced digital architecture, chassis systems, and comfort technologies of the latest BMW i7 M70—further refined in Buchloe—to deliver an unparalleled synthesis of performance, presence, and hand-crafted exclusivity.
The heart of the B12 is an all-aluminum, direct-injected 6,748 cc (6.75-liter) V-12 employing ALPINA-specific twin turbochargers with enlarged 56 mm turbine wheels, high-capacity intercoolers, and a dedicated low-temperature cooling circuit. Double-VANOS cam phasing and Valvetronic variable lift optimize response and efficiency. Peak output of 700 hp manifests at 5,400 rpm, while the plateau of 1,000 Nm extends from 1,500 to 5,000 rpm, endowing the sedan with relentless surge in every gear. Premium unleaded fuel (93 AKI / 98 RON) is required for full performance.
The ZF 8HP90 Sport Automatic, strengthened for the V-12’s torque, features ALPINA SWITCH-TRONIC buttons/paddles, and launch control calibrated for four-wheel traction. In Comfort, shifts melt away; in Sport+, upshifts under full load require barely 150 milliseconds without torque reduction.
A rear-biased xDrive algorithm and electronically controlled rear differential lock deliver neutral balance and assured grip, enabling 0-to-60 mph in 2.9 seconds, 0-to-100 km/h in 3.1 seconds, and an electronically governed 155 mph top speed†. The stainless-steel ALPINA quad-outlet exhaust, fitted with active valves, allows occupants to toggle between subdued elegance and a deep, unmistakable ALPINA timbre.
Continue reading “BMW Bought Alpina. Bring Back the B12.”
It is not likely that many M5 buyers were telling BMW, “I’d have one but only if you make it a plug in and give it 30 miles of electric range.” And yet that’s what they did.
There was a time when the arrival of a new BMW M5 could silence an entire room of car enthusiasts—sometimes with admiration, sometimes with a sense of dreading a return to the drawing board. If you were Mercedes, Audi, Jaguar, or Cadillac, the debut of an M5 meant one thing: recalibrate everything. If you were an enthusiast, you simply asked yourself—how did they make a 5 Series do that? From 1985 onward, the M5 has been the super sedan that set the pace. But somewhere between the sound of a naturally aspirated V10 hitting 8,250 rpm and the soft whirr of an electric motor waking up a two-point-seven-ton hybrid, something changed. The downward turn can first be observed in BMW’s retreat from the cutting edge with its iconic V10 and lack of creativity: the F10 model surrendered the title of most exciting sports sedan with its unimaginative twin turbo V8.
Now, with the G90-generation M5, BMW is selling a 717-horsepower plug-in V8 twin turbo hybrid that weighs 5,390 pounds—that’s about the same as the six-cylinder X7 xDrive 40i, a three-row luxury SUV. The wagon, finally U.S.-bound, inexplicably eclipses 5,500 lb. This isn’t mission creep; it’s a concession. The outgoing M5 CS was lighter than its predecessor. The new one is hundreds of pounds heavier than any gasoline 7 series, ever. And, as Auto Motor und Sport pointed out, the M5 now carries more than a metric ton of extra mass versus the original E28.
Every M5 became heavier, faster, and more complicated, and often less special. The E28, E39, E60, and F90 had clarity of purpose. The F10 and G90 will go down in history as embarrassing tarnish on BMW’s super sedan crown.
Continue reading “Who Asked For This? BMW Folds with Overweight, Slower G90 M5”
A recent article by Hagerty titled “The Tech Driving Today’s Vehicles Could Turn Them into Tomorrow’s Junk” has sparked considerable discussion, but not debate within the automotive world. The piece correctly observes that as modern vehicles grow increasingly dependent on proprietary software systems, integrated connectivity, and touch-based user interfaces, they may face early obsolescence once the supporting infrastructure—updates, servers, and service expertise—inevitably fades away. Much like smartphones that become unusable despite functioning batteries or screens, these vehicles could be rendered effectively worthless if their tech backbone is allowed to collapse. The comparison is apt.
Continue reading “GM’s Rebuke of CarPlay Will Not End Well”
Someone has to say it: Jaguar is gone.
The much-hyped “Copy Nothing” rebrand—complete with an “exuberant modernism” campaign—has drawn fierce ridicule, even as the company claims it is going to field something like its concept called Type 00. This pastel pink-and-blue fastback “commands attention, like all the best Jaguars of the past,” Jaguar claims. In reality, it looks to many observers like an awkward oddity: a low-slung EV with butterfly doors, a glassless tailgate, Miami-bright colors, and no trace of the brand’s snarling-cat crests. The whole rebrand has purged Jaguar’s identity—discarding the leaping-jaguar “leaper” logo and round crest in favor of a minimalist wordmark and neon-accented pop-art ads. Online, the reaction was swift and merciless. The logo was mocked as un-Jaguarish. The ads were panned for showing models in Prada amid 1970s furniture but no cars. Even the concept’s tribute—laser-etching a miniature leaper onto pop-up brass panels—felt timid, not reverent.
While the brand chased cultural reinvention, the metal disappeared. Jaguar’s lineup has now effectively vanished. By 2024, the XE, XF, and F-Type were gone. The I-Pace and E-Pace were discontinued later that year. Only the F-Pace remains—and even that is marking time. In practical terms, Jaguar has stopped selling new vehicles globally for a full two years while it winds down operations in advance of a hoped-for 2026 electric relaunch. There are no new models. There are no confirmed production plans. And there are no cars in the pipeline that buyers can touch, drive, or order.
Continue reading “Jaguar Land Rover is Dead. Long Live Land Rover.”
In early 2024, Bentley retired the W12 engine with orchestral fanfare and legacy speeches—but with no electric flagship in place. No halo product. No hero prototype. In its place are a pair of hybrids and vague promises of something eventually electric. Worse, unlike its storied 6.75-liter V8 that died with the Mulsanne, this 4.0-liter V8 and 3.0-liter V6 are barely removed from the engines of the same configurations and displacements used by Audi and Porsche SUVs.
Rolls-Royce, by contrast, offers its clientele the choice of either the exquisitely smooth and powerful BMW-derived twin turbo V12 and, with the Spectre, the most expensive electric car in serial production. It has made the combustion-to-electric transition feel not only dignified but desirable. Bentley, once the performance standard-bearer within the Volkswagen Group, now trails behind most of its corporate cousins: no plan, no presence, no propulsion story worth telling. It is not quite Jaguar’s full-scale identity collapse—but it rhymes.
Continue reading “What is Bentley Thinking?”
At first glance, Lucid Motors appears to have accomplished something impossible. Out of thin air—no heritage, no decades-long brand development—Lucid produced a luxury EV sedan capable of beating Mercedes-Benz and Porsche. With meticulous interior detailing, industry-best aerodynamics (a drag coefficient of 0.197 for the Air), and power figures approaching hypercar absurdity, Lucid embodies the kind of confident ambition Detroit hasn’t reliably delivered in decades. General Motors, despite vast resources and technical capability, stands by as Lucid reshapes perceptions of American automotive engineering. That Lucid exists at all is a searing indictment of Detroit’s own hesitancy—and the Oldsmobile Aurora is the missed chance that proves it.
Continue reading “GM Can Answer Lucid With A New Aurora”
At a Los Angeles intersection, a 1964 Impala lowrider bounces gently on hydraulic suspension, its chrome flake paint glinting like fish scales in the sun. On one side: a glossy white Tesla Model Y with a peeling sticker that reads “I bought it before he went crazy.” On the other: a Verde Ithaca Lamborghini Murciélago LP670, crouched low, its carbon-fiber rear wing twitching like a snake about to strike. No words are exchanged, but the stories are loud. The Impala is Chicano heritage on wheels—wire wheels, candy paint, and ancestral memory. The Tesla broadcasts faded virtue, now tempered by market saturation and the baggage of its CEO. The Lamborghini, all angles and carbon, remains pure excess—Silicon Valley money reincarnated as Italian performance. Even now, in an allegedly post-materialist age, the car is still the clearest declaration of self. You are what you drive—perhaps now more than ever.
Continue reading “You Are What You Drive”
(Extremely Rachel Maddow voice): To understand why, we need to look at the 1957 Eldorado Brougham—and a man named Antoine.
At $340,000, the Celestiq isn’t competing with Tesla or Mercedes. It isn’t even trying to be part of the same conversation. It’s a rebuttal—to a century of decline, to a half-century of compromises.
For ten grand more, you can have a Rolls-Royce Ghost with its BMW-derived V12 and more leather and English pomp and circumstance than a battery-powered car could even dream of. But Cadillac has made audacious moves like this before. The original Seville was its answer to Mercedes. It was probably the best American car of its time—but it carried a stratospheric price tag: $14,267 in 1978 (in 2025: $67,000), when a Caprice cost $5,500 (in 2025: $26,000) and an S-Class 450SE rang in around $23,000 (in 2025: $114,000). The Eldorado of the late 1960s introduced front-wheel drive wrapped in Bill Mitchell’s finest proportions. And the 1957 Eldorado Brougham was, at the time, the most expensive American car ever built—priced at $13,074 (in 2025: $137,000)—and a better all-around car than the erstwhile monarch, the Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud.
Continue reading “The $340,000 Celestiq Hatchback is Cadillac’s Only Hope”
If you’ve never shifted a manual transmission in anger, it may be difficult to understand what the fuss is all about. A properly executed heel-toe downshift is earned—a tactile reward that people now pay a premium for in the age of performative electric car “shifts” and CVTs with pantomimed gear ratios. Manuals are slower, less forgiving of mistakes, and, especially in the case of gated manuals, ornamental more than functional. Yet their presence on the most expensive sports cars of the 20th and early 21st centuries presaged the current market for all manual transmission cars. The manual no longer exists to provide the fastest acceleration; instead, it signals intentionality—a preference for “mechanical intimacy” over outright speed.
The thrill of a perfect upshift, the ritual of winding a vintage Omega Speedmaster, the intentional pull of a shot from a La Pavoni, or the meditative process of cleaning and filling a Montblanc 149 are all rooted in a satisfaction that arises from direct, analog interaction. These experiences form a connection to the underlying craft, something that sterile, digital interfaces—like a smudged piano-black steering wheel control—cannot reproduce. Your actions have direct consequences in a way that they do not when you accelerate in an electric car, pick your Apple Watch up off its charger, press a button on a Breville, or simply pick up a new Pilot G2.
Raw speed has become ubiquitous and, at the top end, almost irrelevant. A 2024 Honda Odyssey is quicker to sixty than any Ferrari 308 ever made, just as a microwave cooks a steak faster than a charcoal grill. The Porsche Taycan Turbo GT Weissach’s 1.77-second sprint and low-9-second quarter mile outpace any supercar or hypercar ever built, but for many enthusiasts, a slower, manual-equipped Porsche GT3 Touring or Ferrari 550 Maranello holds infinitely more appeal. This desire for mechanical intimacy—a nearly physiological pleasure in the operation of precise, analog machinery—has led to a renaissance in demand for tactile interfaces, from stick shifts to lever espresso machines. The reward is psychological as much as it is physical, something no number of programmable drive modes can replace.
Manual transmission sales, having dipped to just 0.9% of new cars in 2021, have since doubled. Manuals now stand out, not as a cost-saving measure, but as a distinguishing mark of enthusiast cars in a landscape of haptic feedback and dual-clutch automation. Ferrari has floated the possibility of reviving the manual in its multi-million-dollar Icona line, and Porsche has raised the price of the manual GT3 Touring by $80,000 in seven years. The post-COVID car bubble brought oddities: manual 911s built since 2020 have barely depreciated and are frequently marked up by tens of thousands over sticker. The GT3RS, only available with PDK since the 991.1, often brings $500,000 or more—well above its $241,300 base price.
If you want a new Ferrari, a Roma, 296, or SF90 can be had near MSRP, but only with paddle shifters. The real drama lies in the pre-owned market, where the last manual V12 Ferrari—the 2006–2012 599GTB Fiorano—has climbed from an original $475,000–$500,000 new to between $600,000 and $880,000 today, a real appreciation of over a quarter million dollars. This reversal is a market verdict on the enduring value of participation and engagement over pure metrics. Ferrari is now rumored to be reintroducing its iconic gated manual, suitably, on its Icona line of supercars—at $2M and up. Future hopeful Ferrari buyers, even of used cars, are thus essentially shut out completely from its manual transmission cars unless they have at least $300k ready to spend.
For most of automotive history, the manual transmission was not a niche choice for purists but the standard. Its dominance was a consequence of mechanical necessity: early cars like the Benz Patent-Motorwagen and Ford Model T required the driver to directly modulate engine power and manage complex linkages and pedals. By the late 1920s, innovations like Cadillac’s synchronized gearbox softened the learning curve, and for decades, a three-pedal layout was simply assumed. The postwar landscape in Europe reinforced this pattern—manuals were lighter, cheaper, and more efficient in markets where high fuel prices and narrow roads demanded careful throttle and brake control.
Even during the manual’s heyday, there were attempts to increase ease without surrendering engagement. Automatics like Oldsmobile’s 1940 invention of the Hydra-Matic, Ford’s Cruise-O-Matic, and Chrysler’s TorqueFlite—initially expensive options—became status symbols and eventually mainstream. Manufacturers leaned into this, marketing the “effortless” driving experience and relegating manuals to economy models, trucks, and the lowest trims.
Beginning in the 1940s, manufacturers like Packard, Chrysler, and Fichtel & Sachs also developed clutchless manual systems that automated clutch operation while preserving manual gear selection. These designs sought to reduce driver fatigue and broaden accessibility, but most remained technical curiosities or were relegated to niche segments, never displacing the centrality of the manual.
The most prominent clutchless manuals emerged from Porsche and Volkswagen in the late 1960s. The Porsche Sportomatic (1968–1980) and Volkswagen Autostick (1968–1976) reflected a shared engineering philosophy—both paired a torque converter with a vacuum-actuated dry clutch, allowing the driver to shift through a manual gate without a clutch pedal. The systems were engineered independently, yet the conceptual overlap was unmistakable, a function of both corporate ties and shared supplier ecosystems. The driver retained full control of gear selection and timing, and smooth shifts still depended on skillful throttle management. Other manufacturers followed: Mercedes-Benz’s Hydrak system, Citroën’s DS semi-automatic and C-Matic, Renault’s Ferlec, AMC’s E-Stick, and others all aimed to automate the clutch while preserving driver agency, but most struggled with complexity, cost, or tepid demand.
By the 1990s, more sophisticated systems appeared—Saab’s Sensonic and RUF’s EKS used electronics and hydraulics to automate the clutch, while Ferrari’s Valeo system, offered on the Mondial t in 1992 and 1993, used an electro-mechanical actuator for the same purpose. Only a handful of Valeo cars were built (plus a clutchless F40 for Gianni Agnelli), making it the last notable analog attempt at a two-pedal manual. Across all eras, clutchless manuals reflected a recurring ambition to balance ease and engagement, demonstrating that the essence of manual driving lies not in the act of operating a pedal, but in the experience of choosing and timing one’s shifts.
Europe held onto the traditional manual longer, driven by fuel prices, urban density, and its driving culture. As late as 2005, over 80% of new European cars had a manual gearbox. But even there, change was inevitable. A new generation of automated manuals, beginning with BMW’s SMG in 1996 and Ferrari’s F1 system in 1997, offered paddle-shifted gear changes without a clutch pedal. Volkswagen’s DSG dual-clutch, introduced in the 2003 Golf R32, and the rapid proliferation of CVTs in Japanese cars signaled a larger trend toward automation, pragmatism, and efficiency—often at the expense of tactile engagement.
In the US where the market had long since been ceded to automatics, the manual transmission was by the 21st century primarily reserved for enthusiast models—Ford Mustang GT, Subaru WRX, BMW M3; or stripped-down economy cars like the Nissan Versa, Ford Fiesta, or Hyundai Accent. The middle class of the manual transmission automotive market had disappeared. Manuals moved from default to fringe, and, in parallel, fewer young drivers learned to operate them. By 2020, fewer than 3% of new vehicles in North America had a manual, and fewer than 10% of new drivers had ever used one. Rental companies and driver’s ed programs phased them out. The default interface became an anachronism.
Yet even as manuals receded, a stubborn core of enthusiasts, instructors, and engineers continued to value the manual not for speed, but for feel. Porsche, after a brief PDK-only run in the 991.1 GT3, reintroduced the manual to dramatic success with its 991.2-generation 911 GT3 Touring. Mazda, BMW, and Toyota each maintained or revived manual offerings in key models. These were not the top sellers, but they became cultural signifiers and, increasingly, filters for participation.
By 2021, manual sales had bottomed at 0.9%, then began to climb. The manual’s revival was not driven by performance metrics, but by experience. Buyers chose manuals in products where automatics were quicker, more efficient, and more capable, seeking not numbers but involvement. The manual became a signal, a credential—rare, but meaningful.
The decline of the manual transmission in the U.S. resulted from a cumulative shift in regulations, dealer preferences, educational practices, and drivetrain architecture. Early emissions and fuel economy rules, beginning with CAFE standards in the late 1970s, initially favored the simplicity and lower mass of manuals, but, as automatic transmission technology advanced—with computer control, efficient torque converters, and ever more gears—automatics began to match or surpass manuals in both performance and efficiency. Manufacturers found it easier to certify automatics for emissions and economy, given their consistency and the ability to tune shift strategies for test cycles. The variability of human input on a manual made compliance riskier.
Dealership logistics accelerated the trend. As fewer buyers sought out manuals, dealers stocked fewer on lots, creating a self-reinforcing cycle of declining visibility and demand. Manuals became special order only, and manufacturers dropped them in response to low take rates. Driver’s education programs eliminated clutch training, creating a generational skills gap. Corporate fleets and rental agencies phased out manuals, further erasing the opportunity for exposure and learning.
Vehicle architecture evolved. Where once platforms were engineered around a manual and adapted to automatics, by the 2000s this was reversed. Transmission tunnels, firewall provisions, and integration with software and driver assistance features were designed for automatics first, making the manual a costly afterthought. Offering a manual meant recertifying drivetrains for crash and emissions compliance—an unjustifiable expense for a niche option that was usually less expensive than the alternative model.
Performance cars, once the stronghold of the manual, turned to dual-clutch and advanced automatics for faster shifts and lower warranty risk. The Nissan GT-R, Ferrari 458 Italia, and Lamborghini Huracán arrived with no manual option, justified by numbers but signaling a cultural shift. Meanwhile, electronic and safety features—automated cruise, lane keeping, emergency braking, and stop-start—favored automatic integration, leaving manuals incompatible or kludgy.
Manuals faded, not through technical failure, but through gradual exclusion from evolving expectations around technology, compliance, and convenience. Their disappearance was systemic, not sudden. By the late 2010s, only a handful of enthusiast products remained.
Yet even as the manual vanished from mass-market product plans, its symbolic value grew. Scarcity, combined with intentionality, drove up price and cultural relevance. The revaluation began in the secondary market. By 2015–2022, auction and resale data showed manual-equipped cars commanding significant premiums over automatics—sometimes threefold, as in the case of the Ferrari 599 GTB. The 911R, the E46 M3, the Civic Si, and the Miata all became case studies in appreciation and resilience. Manual cars became a filter for participation—access points to involvement rather than cost-cutting relics.
This value is now assigned by interface, not metrics. In a world where acceleration is democratized—where a Hyundai Ioniq 5N and a Lamborghini Huracán are separated by fractions of a second in acceleration figures—buyers distinguish products by tactile fidelity and authenticity. The manual transmission, once the default, is now a cultural signal.
Mechanical intimacy is the direct, physical engagement between human and machine—an experience defined by resistance, feedback, and skill. The manual transmission exemplifies this relationship. The act of shifting—a tensioned linkage between the driver and the mechanical heart of the car—is neither abstract nor simulated. Mastery is learned, reinforced by feedback from the drivetrain, sound, resistance, and motion.
This relationship is not unique to driving. It finds analogs in horology, where winding a watch confirms correctness through torque and click; in espresso, where the lever requires attention to grind and tamp; in photography, where the Leica rangefinders’ shutter and focus demand timing and coordination; and in sailing, where manual trim and winch control provide analog cues. What unites these experiences is a structure: resistance, control, feedback, and satisfaction. The reward is not the result, but the act itself.
Digital interfaces, by contrast, aim to eliminate friction, abstracting effort with logic and code. Paddle shifters, touchscreens, and haptic controls sever the causal link between motion and confirmation, producing results without involvement. The appeal of mechanical intimacy is not nostalgia for inconvenience, but a search for systems that provide truthful response—where slowness is felt and mastery matters.
This preference is not merely generational. Surveys reveal that younger enthusiasts, despite less exposure to analog systems, now value physical control over gear selection more than performance numbers. Competence, once commonplace, becomes a mark of distinction when it is rare.
The consequences for design are substantial. When feedback is embodied, attention is focused and skill develops. Mechanical gearboxes do not ask less of the driver—they demand more, and the satisfaction arises precisely because the request is answered with care. How many times has a journalist bemoaned the fact that a Porsche Turbo is simply too easy to drive fast? The list of cars for which this is true is only growing.
By the late 2010s, manufacturers faced backlash for excessive abstraction in interfaces. Volkswagen was one of the first to fold, with a complete reversal from capacitive touch surfaces to physical buttons on the Mk8 Golf reflecting a widespread demand for tactile reliability. Hyundai, Audi, and others have responded similarly. Regulatory bodies like Euro NCAP now penalize overcomplicated digital controls in safety assessments. Automakers have reintroduced analog elements, distinguishing “driver-focused” trims by their physical controls and manual options.
Porsche’s strategy exemplifies this recalibration: the manual is reserved for performance-oriented variants and marketed as a “driver’s choice” component, not a cost-saving measure. The segmentation of analog engagement is deliberate. Mechanical controls are no longer the base standard, but are positioned where they add value to the experience and brand. The newest 992.2-generation 911 Carrera T has an almost silly number of explicit references to its manual gearbox, with LED puddle lights showing a shift pattern and a “MT” logo tacked on to the center console.
Manual transmissions now exist within a framework of curation, offered only on specific trims, platforms, or markets. Scarcity is the result of strategic product differentiation, not technical limitation. The manual serves as a filter for access. Toyota’s GR Corolla, BMW’s G87 M2, and Porsche’s Touring and GT-model 911s (notably, not the Boxster or Cayman, where the GT/RS models are limited to PDK) reserve the manual for those who seek engagement, while Ferrari has moved in the opposite direction, discontinuing factory manuals and inadvertently creating a parallel but robust aftermarket for high-cost conversions. Dealers of all brands ration access to limited-run manuals based on enthusiast credentials and customer loyalty, embedding selectivity in both allocation and marketing language. Some simply mark up the price by tens of thousands of dollars, accepting indulgences in lieu of actual loyalty.
This reclassification of the manual—no longer a default, but a selective, deliberately assigned technology—represents an inversion of its historical meaning. Scarcity now signals value. Access implies proficiency. Manuals, like other analog controls, have become tools of curation within brand strategy.
The resurgence of manual transmissions is not nostalgia, but an empirical shift. Market data, auction results, manufacturer trends, and cognitive science all point to the persistent value of tactile control. The manual is no longer installed for cost or efficiency, but to create a differentiated point of engagement—an elective, not an afterthought.
Manual gearboxes filter buyers by intention, demanding skill and rewarding attention. This rarity, combined with agency, is now a form of economic and cultural value. The manual is not obsolete; it is elective, its continued inclusion a marker of differentiation. Its survival does not depend on mass-market appeal, but on the specificity of the experience it offers.
This structure extends to internal combustion itself. ICE platforms, paired with analog controls, can be curated for performance or heritage product tiers. Automakers that retain both—BMW, Porsche, Toyota—treat them as premium-access features. These are not leftovers; they are strategic assets. Ferrari is taking perhaps the most cynical view, making them only available on cars that cost multiples of the average new home price—and adding a zero to its semiautomatic lineup’s MSRPs. Regardless, it has become clear that manufacturers can sustain ICE manuals as curated driver experiences, offered at a premium to meet a market need that electric drivetrains cannot fulfill.
Mechanical systems that preserve user involvement are increasingly interpreted not as obsolete, but as meaningful. Buyers do not seek difficulty for its own sake—they seek tools that reward improvement. The manual transmission survives not out of necessity, but because it remains specific, scarce, and, above all, deeply satisfying.
Mechanical intimacy is not for everyone, but it will remain sought after for the initiated and the invested. Manuals survive not because they are needed, but because, for a few, they are the only thing that feels honest. In the end, that’s what makes them valuable, whether measured in dollars or smiles.
| Model | Trim / Engine (Manual) | Base MSRP (USD) |
|---|---|---|
| Nissan Versa | 2025 S – 1.6L I4, 5MT | $17,190 |
| Toyota GR86 | 2025 – 2.4L H4, 6MT | $29,495 |
| Honda Civic Si | 2026 – 1.5L turbo I4, 6MT | $29,950 |
| Mazda MX‑5 Miata | 2025 Sport – 2.0L I4, 6MT | $30,515 |
| Subaru BRZ | 2025 Premium – 2.4L H4, 6MT | $31,315 |
| Toyota Tacoma | 2026 SR – 2.4L I4, 6MT (4×4) | $31,500 |
| Mazda3 Hatchback | 2025 2.5 S Premium – 2.5L I4, 6MT | $31,835 |
| Jeep Wrangler | 2026 – 3.6L V6, 6MT (Sport) | $32,095 |
| Volkswagen Jetta GLI | 2025 – 2.0L turbo I4, 6MT | $32,715 |
| Subaru WRX | 2026 Premium – 2.4L turbo H4, 6MT | $34,095 |
| Hyundai Elantra N | 2025 – 2.0L turbo I4, 6MT | $34,350 |
| Subaru BRZ | 2025 tS – 2.4L H4, 6MT | $35,345 |
| Toyota GR Corolla Core | 2025 – 1.6L turbo I3, 6MT | $36,995 |
| Ford Bronco | 2026 – 2.3L turbo I4, 7MT (Base) | $40,990 |
| Ford Bronco | 2026 – 2.3L turbo I4, 7MT (Big Bend) | $43,215 |
| Nissan Z | 2025 Sport – 3.0L twin‑turbo V6, 6MT | $44,110 |
| Honda Civic Type R | 2025 – 2.0L turbo I4, 6MT | $45,895 |
| Ford Bronco | 2026 – 2.3L turbo I4, 7MT (Heritage Edition) | $51,470 |
| Ford Bronco | 2026 – 2.3L turbo I4, 7MT (Badlands) | $52,380 |
| Acura Integra Type S | 2025 – 2.0L turbo I4, 6MT | $51,995 |
| Ford Mustang GT | 2025 – 5.0L V8, 6MT | $53,075 |
| Cadillac CT4-V Blackwing | 2025 – 3.6L turbo V6, 6MT | $62,195 |
| BMW M2 Coupe (G87) | 2025 – 3.0L turbo I6, 6MT | $64,900 |
| Ford Mustang Dark Horse | 2025 – 5.0L V8 (500 hp), 6MT | $64,000 |
| BMW Z4 M40i | 2026 – 3.0L turbo I6, 6MT (Handschalter) | $66,450 |
| Porsche 718 Cayman | 2025 – 2.0L turbo H4, 6MT | $74,795 |
| Porsche 718 Boxster | 2025 – 2.0L turbo H4, 6MT | $76,895 |
| BMW M3 Sedan (Base, RWD) | 2025 – 3.0L turbo I6, 6MT | $76,000 |
| BMW M4 Coupe (Base, RWD) | 2025 – 3.0L turbo I6, 6MT | $80,100 |
| Cadillac CT5-V Blackwing | 2025 – 6.2L supercharged V8, 6MT | $96,990 |
| Lotus Emira | 2025 – 3.5L supercharged V6, 6MT | $102,250 |
| Porsche 911 Carrera T | 2025 – 3.0L twin‑turbo H6, 7MT | $138,700 |
| Porsche 911 GT3 | 2025 – 4.0L NA H6, 6MT | $222,500 |
| Gordon Murray T.33 | 2025 – 4.0L NA V12, 6MT | $1,800,000 |
| Aston Martin Valour | 2025 – 5.2L twin‑turbo V12, 6MT | $2,000,000 |
| Hennessey Venom F5-M | 2025 – 6.6L twin‑turbo V8, 6MT | $2,650,000 |
| Aston Martin Valiant | 2025 – 5.2L twin‑turbo V12, 6MT | $3,000,000 |
| Koenigsegg CC850 | 2025 – 5.0L twin‑turbo V8, 6MT | $3,100,000 |
| Pagani Utopia | 2025 – 6.0L twin‑turbo V12, 7MT | $3,400,000 |
BMW, a company known for well-made sports sedans, so thoroughly shocked the system with its new V12 and 750i/750iL (L for long wheelbase) that Mercedes delayed its new S-Class—taking an agonizing four years to respond. The undisputed elite, Rolls-Royce and Bentley, stuck to their tried-and-true formulas through 1998, arguably leading to their acquisition by BMW and Volkswagen Group, respectively, by the end of the 20th century. Jaguar was utterly outclassed. Aston Martin’s bizarre Lagonda was a non-entity, but the 750iL walked all over it as well. The Americans, well, they hadn’t been players since the 1950s—Cadillac had become a footnote in luxury automotive history and Lincoln was making livery cars. Make no mistake—the 1988 BMW 750iL changed everything that makes a luxury flagship, and its influence on what modern luxury means cannot be overstated, 38 years and counting later.
Continue reading “The BMW 750iL Changed Everything“