German cars bore me.
2007 BMW 325d Review:
My girlfriend, Julia, has been hunting for a car recently and, seeing as how her knowledge of motoring is limited at best, I’ve been drafted in to help. Unfortunately, this is one the contenders.
A BMW 325d. Should I be worried about our relationship? I tried to steer her towards something Italian. I really tried, but I was shot out of the sky. It turns out that she knows just enough about cars to have heard of their “hideously unreliable rot-box” stereotype, so the motoring produce of the entire nation has been kicked into touch.
Undeterred, I suggested something small and Japanese. She said that they “looked like eggs” and that she didn’t want one. She then suggested something quirky and French. I said she’d be better off walking because the body would disintegrate in a strong breeze and the engine would surrender after a month.
British cars were rejected for committing the same sins as their Italian cousins; Korean cars weren’t even discussed, and American cars were vetoed for being gaudy and crap, leaving only one nation to shop from. Germany.
I’m not sure if I’ve made this clear, but I don’t like German cars. To me, they’re nothing more than soul-less, overpriced dishwashers, useful only for ferrying the world’s businessmen between meetings, normally at a distance of six inches from the car ahead. I don’t find them appealing for the same reason I don’t find Bosch stereos or those fancy Miele coffee machines appealing; they’re nothing more than apathetic, characterless appliances.
And, having now driven one, my opinion hasn’t changed. I still find them as cold and clinical as a dentist’s waiting room and have no interest in buying one. However, I now see why people do. Annoyingly, they’re good cars. The one I drove had over one-hundred-thousand miles on the clock and still felt as tight as a drum. All the electrics worked, the interior trim hadn’t rattled itself loose and every button provided a satisfying Teutonically-engineered click when pushed. They’re fastidiously well built.
The engine, for example, felt barely run in. The 3.0 litre turbo-charged diesel is rated at 194 bhp and 295 ft/lbs of torque from the factory, and I’d wager that almost all its performance has remained imprisoned within the walls of its engine block for the last eleven years. It felt remarkably pokey for a car of its size; the boost came on strong and the power delivery was consistent. Plus, there were no plumes of black smoke belched out of the exhaust when I floored it. Which is nice.
However, despite the high torque figure, I found I needed to work the engine to get its best. It struggled to accelerate from 30 mph in fourth gear, requiring a lower cog and a heavy foot to push the revs above 2000 rpm and back into the engine’s power band. The throttle was also rather doughy, providing little to no engine response until after my foot passed the half-way point.
My main gripe was the indicators. I hated the indicators. I can see why BMW drivers don’t use them. Allow me to paint a picture. I’m trundling along the streets of Carlisle, and need to change lanes. I indicate right and slide into the middle lane. I then attempt to disengage the right indicator, only to engage the left indicator because the sodding stalk returned to the centre of its travel rather than staying where I left it. I then try to disengage the left indicator, only to re-engage the right indicator. And so on, and so forth. Suddenly, I find myself trapped in an endless loop of ticking indicator relays and irritated horn-blasts from confused motorists, whilst I paw helplessly at the stalks in a desperate attempt to prevent a twenty-car pile-up.
Thankfully, the chassis was designed better. Rear-wheel drive makes an enormous difference to the way a car handles. The 325d doesn’t understeer. There was no disappointing scraping from the front tyres as they wash wide from an apex whilst simultaneously scrabbling for grip and wrestling with the power of the engine. Where I steered was where it went.
The suspension was slightly too harsh for a daily driven saloon, though. It felt very sporty and involving, which is good if you’re a petrolhead but less than ideal if you value comfort over handling. The eighteen-inch wheels and run-flat tyres on this model didn’t improve matters either; it was jiggly over rough roads and downright unpleasant over potholes.
It’s not a particularly happy car. The engine revs to 5000 rpm, but the noise it makes is droney and boring, like the selfish whine of an irritated baby on an aeroplane. Its styling is subdued and inoffensive, its cabin is roomy and accommodating, its image is neutral and nondescript. It's been built by a computer programme rather than by human hands, and you feel this when you drive it. Everything's just a little bit too perfect.
And that’s my problem with the 325d. The steering was heavy, precise and provided plenty of feedback. The gearbox was notchy and satisfying, with an excellent throw. The pedals were all well-weighted and well-located. The seats were sublime. It’s mechanically perfect, but it lacked emotion. It felt cold and lifeless, like artificial intelligence or an evacuated city. The underpinnings were there, but it lacked that certain “human” quality that allows the driver to bond with it. Which, for me, is a deal breaker.
It’s good as an appliance. But nothing more.
Luke Wilkinson 2018 ©