M is for Yummy
So this morning, my friend presents me with a challenge– switch cars for a day. Sounds tempting, right? Consider the stakes– my friend has an 2010 M3 and I have a 2011 German SUV whose 0-60 and torque both beat the M3. Why would I switch, you ask? Well, first for the benefit of you, dear reader, and because my car is filthy (the stench of raisins and Cheerios is almost unbearable), my fuel tank is empty and I’m really sick of all of my cds. Thus, I took grabbed my cell charger, warned him of the empty washer fluid, grabbed the keys and took off.
Now I’m normally not a fan of the M3. Not for any rational, analytical reason but because I’ve always looked at it as the car that a rich kid’s dad buys him upon graduation so he can tool around Greenwich (or Beverly Hills), tip down his Oakleys and say something offensive to the girl on the sidewalk. Personal experience? Perhaps.
But my drive today, may converted me to the cult of the blue, bluer and red. First of all, the driver’s seat is truly ergonomic, with all of the controls easily accessible (even more than the Carrera), complete with a little robotic arm to hand me my seat belt– no shoulder dislocation necessary. Sitting in traffic for the first 30 minutes, allowed me to sample the automatic transmition, which was smooth and surprisingly tame. But when I switched it into manual mode, I realized where this little baby really shines. Unlike other clutchless manuals, this was aggressive and shockingly satisfying (however my left foot was still a bit lonely). In fact, on the commute home, when PCH magically opened up like the parting of the seas and I saw all 7 gears in action, I said outloud, “rocket ship.” Granted, I was also showing off to the guy at the 76 station on Sunset who mouthed “how you doin’?” from the side of his 650 (yuk)– and shown he was.
When I pulled into the driveway, I was reminded that the M3 does have an annoying habit of putting itself into Park. But other than that, I was sad to take its key off of my keyring and slide my sweaty, adrenaline-fueled ass out of the driver’s seat and into my house.
Maybe one more day…