There has long been a trope among car enthusiasts that American cars—specifically muscle cars—could go fast in a straight line but fell apart in the corners. Ironically, that stereotype now applies to the majority of new vehicles boasting 0–60 times under five seconds.
There was a time when acceleration was one of the first questions asked about a new performance car. If it could go from 0 to 60 miles per hour in under four seconds, it meant that car was something special. It signaled advanced engineering, focused design, and the kind of performance you only found in top-tier sports cars like the Ferrari F430, Porsche 911 Turbo, or hypercars like the Bugatti Veyron and Ferrari Enzo. Getting those numbers wasn’t easy—it took precision engineering, enormous development budgets, and a skilled driver with a clean launch.
But now things are different. Today, many electric SUVs and crossovers break that same threshold—effortlessly. Dozens of average-looking, even anonymous sedans, crossovers, and utility vehicles are deep into the threes, with some knocking on the door of the twos. As of the 2025 model year, mainstream cars that can rip off a sub-4-second 0–60 sprint include the Tesla Model Y, Lucid Air, Porsche Macan 4S Electric, Hyundai Ioniq 5, and—in a reversal of fortunes to end them all—the Hummer EV, a vehicle that once struggled to reach 60 in under fifteen seconds.
These aren’t sports cars. They’re tall crossovers, executive sedans, and lifestyle trucks. They aren’t designed to be thrilling or engaging like a Porsche 911 or BMW M3. They don’t come with the suspension geometry, brake hardware, or tire compounds needed to be driven confidently at the limit—and yet, here we are, timing them with the same four-second stopwatch.
And it doesn’t stop there. Many cars that aren’t even marketed as quick now hit 60 in the four-second range. The Volkswagen ID.4 AWD, BMW i4, Ford Mustang Mach-E AWD, and Mercedes EQE 350 4MATIC all land between 4.0 and 4.9 seconds. They’re not tuned for performance, but they’re faster than most sports cars from just a decade ago. Acceleration is no longer a differentiator. It’s default.
Even more than 0–60 times, quarter-mile performance used to be the final word. In the early 2000s, breaking into the 12s meant you were driving something genuinely quick—maybe a high-powered V8 sedan, an exotic, or a purpose-built muscle car on “cheater slicks.” The 2000 BMW M5 could almost do it, but only with a perfect launch and plenty of driver finesse. Today, the Tesla Model Y and Lucid Air do it in 12.0 and 11.7 seconds, respectively—no shifting, no wheelspin, no tension. Just press and vanish. The times are still fast. But the accomplishment is gone.
That’s why the numbers don’t mean what they used to. The Model Y, Macan, Ioniq 5, and Hummer aren’t designed for backroads or racetracks. They’re designed to be quiet, smooth, and seamless. Their speed is real, but it’s a side effect of torque and software—not the product of mechanical ambition or emotional purpose.
And in the United States, where speed limits are quietly trending downward—not for oil this time, but in the name of road safety and energy conservation—the contradiction becomes impossible to ignore. States and cities are lowering limits to curb battery drain and reduce the rising toll of traffic injuries, not just to pedestrians but to occupants of increasingly large, fast vehicles. At the same time, we’re building blah crossovers that can run the quarter mile in under 12 seconds. Why?
In a driving environment that actively discourages speed, and a policy climate drifting toward automation, what is the point of a family car that does 0–60 in 3.5 seconds? These cars are edging toward full autonomy. And in a world where the vehicle steers itself while your matcha latte sits in a temperature-controlled cupholder, what purpose does a launch control system that hits 1.1 g off the line really serve? We’re engineering performance into vehicles designed not to use it.
To be clear, the engineering is impressive—if uninspired. But when nearly every new vehicle can match or beat the performance of yesterday’s supercars, the numbers stop telling us anything useful. What used to be a brag is now baked into a $399/month lease.
For context: Ferrari didn’t sell a sub-four-second car (outside of its limited-run specials) until 2009 with the 458 Italia. Porsche didn’t deliver a standard 911 Carrera capable of that feat until 2019. Back then, those were hard-won benchmarks. Now they just mean “this car is electric.”
This is why true sports cars still matter. A Mazda Miata won’t impress anyone in a drag race, but it’s alive. A Porsche 718 rewards every shift and corner (for now—the 2026 will be an EV). The 911 GT3 gives you every ripple of the road while also being shockingly quick. These cars don’t just accelerate. They engage. They make speed mean something. And for those who care, the best way to access that feeling might be to buy something a generation or two old—back when engagement was the goal.
We’ve moved past the era when acceleration stats told the whole story. Car companies that still want to reach drivers—not just commuters—need to double down on feel, feedback, and mechanical coherence. Speed is everywhere. But joy is not.
The real question now is simple: does this very fast car make you want to drive—or is it just the quickest way to get from A to B?