Re: Published Articles on the 8 series (archive)

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I have a model of a bright-red BMW 85OCSi in my office. I painted the area between its roof joints and the cowl glossy black, as BMW Individual did to distinguish many of the coupes. Every time I look at it, I'm reminded of what a curious page of BMW history this car wrote. I was so ready to fall in love with the new 850i, as it was called at the time of its introduction in Munich in 1990. After all, a new V12-powered BMW coupe, at least on paper, was quite a mouth-watering proposition. But just a few miles into my first drive, all sorts of mental alarm bells started going off. The super coupe just didn't feel like a BMW. I had the same reaction to it as I did to the Porsche 928. "Boulevard cruiser," I muttered under my breath.

The 8 never really caught on. Conceived in the go-go `80s, when conspicuous consumption was politically correct, it saw the stock market collapse just prior to its introduction, drastically changing consumer values. Viewed from another perspective, BMW had the same bad timing with the 8 as Mercedes-Benz did with its just-replaced S-Class sedan; they were both too big and had too much fat-cat image for the `90s.

The 8 was to be a highly desirable status symbol: the ultimate elegant luxury performance coupe and a technological and aesthetic statement of BMW's leadership. None other than R&D chief Wolfgang Reitzle was its champion. The reality fell somewhat short of that aspiration, but that didn't diminish its enormous performance capabilities.

Our flight of two dozen 850s launched out of Munich on a gorgeous May morning, headed northeast to the charming town of Pegnitz and the equally charming Pflaums Posthotel. Every year this village is overrun by music lovers who make the pilgrimage to nearby Bayreuth for its famous Wagner Festival; the town is also adjacent to the Seventh Army Training Center at Grafenwohr, not far from field artillery firing points. The constant rumble of the 155mm guns prompted one unsuspecting journalist during an after-dinner stroll on a perfectly clear day to conclude, "I guess we're in for a thunderstorm."

Once on the (practically empty) Autobahn that ran right by the 850's birthplace factory in Dingolfing, we thought that in the interests of good journalism we should see how the then-relatively-new top-speed limiter functioned. BMW had recently entered into a gentleman's agreement with Mercedes-Benz and Audi to limit the top speeds of all cars to 156 mph; the fear was that a top-speed war among the car builders would be the excuse the anti-car socialists in the German government would need to slap a speed limit on the Autobahn.

The 850 was nothing if not silky smooth. It reached its terminal velocity in no time -- and cruising at One-Five-Six, to be honest, was no big deal. Try to push beyond that number and a combination of fuel flow and ignition timing conspired to bleed off any further progress -- without, as you would expect from BMW, lots of fanfare. It was a subtle message that, unfortunately, that's all there is.

Then it happened. A few kilometers up ahead, a big double-trailer truck-the Germans call them "road trains"-was lumbering along in the right lane. I'll never forget it; it was a bright yellow rig from the Wurth transportation company. Behind the truck, a lime-green Opel Record, moving about three kilometers faster than the road train, pulled out to pass. If you're following this, you realize the Opel pulled into our lane -- the Warp Speed lane.

They used to have this kind of problem at Le Mans, where a Ferrari, for example, would close on an Austin-Healey Sprite on the Mulsanne Straight at double the bug-eye's speed. Normally, it would be the overtaking car that would be catapulted into the forest along the famous stretch of road. That, I'll admit, was a historical factoid afterthought to what was going through my mind then.

What was going through my mind at the moment was how to avoid planting a kidney grille squarely in the rump of an Opel. That must have been the same thought on Ron Wakefield's mind; the barely audible gasp to my right let me know he had sized up the situation the same way I did. "I've got it" was about all I could muster in terms of an acknowledgment. In an instant, I was on the brakes.

The big coupe slowed dramatically, I thought. But when you're hauling down from 156 mph, 90 seems like you could open the door and get out of the car. Unfortunately, it was still much too fast-and now we were truly closing on the Opel at a frightening rate. Both of my arms were stiff against the steering wheel as I got back on the brakes in earnest. The brake pedal started its ABS judder. "Is that all we have?" I thought.

We were close enough now to see that the occupants of the Opel were an elderly couple -- and the driver was looking in the rear-view mirror with very wide eyes. Just when I thought about using the guardrail to shave off more speed, as they used to teach at the Nurburgring driving school, the 850 reached equilibrium with the Opel.

Now safely past the road train, the Opel driver pulled back into the right lane. Creeping by the truck, I noticed the driver staring in open-mouthed disbelief. Alongside the Opel, Ron and I waved meekly. Grandpa and Grandma waved back. It's amazing how quiet the cockpit of an 850i can be. A couple of kilometers down the road, Ron was the first to speak. "Pretty good brakes, huh?"

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