Like the Mercedes, the M3 fell under the FIA's then-new Group A rule set for international touring car competition, which dictated stock bodywork, production-based powerplants, and 5000 street-legal examples. Faced with such constrictive limitations--Group A rules also vetoed nonproduction aerodynamic devices--the boys in Munich came up with a plan: rather than build a race car out of a road car, they would build a road car out of a race car. The result was a bewinged, fat-fendered blow dart that wore license plates and shared little more than a basic body structure with the "ordinary" 3-series. The M3's peaky, 7200-rpm four-cylinder had its roots in BMW's legendary 2002 and the 1000-plus-hp Brabham-BMW Formula 1 cars. The wing actually worked, helping reduce lift in concert with a new front bumper/air dam, and it sat on a redesigned, higher trunk lid made of fiberglass. A new C-pillar and reangled rear glass helped direct airflow over the wing and decrease drag. A limited-slip differential was standard.
My first ride in a four-cylinder M3--a friend took me to lunch in his--began with little more than a passing interest on my part. It ended with a slightly sideways, full-throttle jaunt up an on-ramp at the top of third gear, the M3 pumping out an unearthly live-from-the-Nrburgring wail. I wasn't even driving, and I was hooked. Less than a month later, I had sold almost everything I owned--including a 2002 that I loved almost as much as life itself--and bought the first M3 I looked at.
Around town, there's not much to be impressed with. The 192-hp, sixteen-valve four is geared shortly and lacks low-end torque, so you spend a lot of time shifting and flat-footing it to keep up with traffic. Peak power checks in at 6750 rpm; below five grand, things almost feel sluggish. Surrounded by a workmanlike, understated interior, you can't help but wonder, "What's the big deal?"
Funny thing, though--as ill-suited as the M3 is to the daily grind, that's how at home it feels once you set it free. Romping down a winding road, ripping from apex to apex, it all comes together: The engine's raspy, passionate yowl. The near-perfect throttle response and travel. Brakes with astounding bite and weighting. A state of suspension tune that tolerates--endlessly!--your clumsy lifts, your early turn-ins, your sloppy inputs. Good driving is made to look like great driving--and great driving is made to look like an act of genius. If you are half awake, you are a hero. In the end, that's what matters. SS
With both the 2.3-16 and the M3, the charm lies in how they make you feel, not in an abundance of brute force or absolute speed. What gets you is their personality, their finely focused sense of purpose, and the soul that permeates every panel. It's the kind of soul that might prompt someone to spend a hundred hours scraping ketchup off a dashboard--reconstituting it slowly with cup after cup of water so as not to scratch the finish underneath--or lead a dude to sell, on the spur of the moment, almost everything he owns for the sake of four wheels and a wing.