LARRY GRIFFIN

INGO BARENSCHEE

Charles Darwin died in 1882, four years too early to contribute anything to automobile engineering, but he was hell on wheels when it came to his theory of evolution. Almost single-handedly he threw a monkey wrench into by-the-Good Book, old-time religion. Roughly put, Darwin held that God didn't really pop packets of Instant Adam 'n' Eve into his celestial microwave; instead, the subhuman race took time to crawl before it could walk, and somewhere along the line we Homo sapiens all had apes swinging in our family trees. Now here we are, naturally selected simian descendants—smack in the age of manna, Vanna, and hot-car nirvana—and those of us who like to monkey around with cars have got the good life. For proof that automotive evolution can be nearly as miraculous as God's more basic monkey business, you have only to go out and strap on the new BMW M5.

Webster's definition of Darwinian theory concludes "that the forms which survive are those that are best adapted to the environment." As BMW knows, survival in today's auto environment calls for power, and lots of it—thanks largely to cheap gas, and lots of it. Under the M5's hood rages a twin-cam, 24-valve, 3.5-liter, six-cylinder ghost of an engine. Resurrected from the fabulous mid-engined M1 coupe of the late seventies, it whirs with 256 horsepower in its new home. Hand-assembled by BMW's Motorsport branch, the big six hurls the meaty-tired, big-braked, tautly suspended M5 brickbat to almost 150 mph. As a prime example of the high-performance roadware thundering through our times, the M5 proves that, Darwin and your loan officer notwithstanding, now is the age to go ape.

So what if the M5 looks as if it were designed when Darwin was still living? Bimmer buyers have naturally selected this shape as one that strikes their fancy. BMW roughed in the profile of its second generation 5-series sedan back in the late seventies. In those days, the factory was determined not to digress from its familiar blocky styling, and the four-door's contours came out like almost a genetic duplicate of its predecessor's.

LARRY GRIFFIN

In 1982, BMW delivered its new box to America as the 528e. Its low-revving, 2.7-liter engine paid homage to fuel economy and low-end torque, undercutting BMW's reputation as a builder of "ultimate driving machines." While Europe continued to enjoy the output of BMW's horsepower department, American Bimmer loyalists were forced into the slow lane. BMW's U.S. sales continued to set records, however, as the company coasted on an image built on fifteen years of rave reviews.

Then, in 1983, a new evolutionary form emerged: Audi's slick 5000S blasted out of the wind tunnel and threatened to show the rest of the world's sedans just who was the fittest of all. Not only was the trimly rounded Audi the first modern sedan to manifest serious attention to aerodynamics, but its creators quickly backed up their threat with turbocharging and four-wheel drive.

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io