I am regularly asked to name my favourite ‘M’ car and people often look slightly surprised when I don’t immediately namecheck the obvious E30 M3 or E34 or E39 M5s. Admire them though I do, it is the so-called ‘M6’ I’ve always loved the most.
And here’s why. Back in mid 1980s, my father had one. He had a little cottage in France just across the water from where we lived in Jersey which he used to describe as the launchpad. Because it was from there that he would launch himself on his various motoring adventures in Europe. The BMW was his rocket. He’d head off for weeks and many thousands of miles at time with his wife, my kid sister and all their luggage on board and really at the time there wasn’t a better car for the job.
The peculiar thing was he also had a Ferrari Mondial bought for precisely the same purpose and if there was ever a plausible reason for having both, I’ve long since forgotten what it was. All I know was that he always went on about how much better than the BMW was the Ferrari, but when the time came to actually drive one, he always took the BMW, his actions as ever speaking far louder than his words ever could.
And sometimes I’d go to the cottage with some mates for a long weekend and we’d chug around in the rusty 2CV he also kept there. But after I’d reached a certain age, I was told I could drive the BMW unsupervised, so I swiftly arranged another trip and took a small gang over for New Year. But before I could dream up a suitable excuse to drive the M6, we needed to get the wood in, because without lit fires we were going to freeze. And it was in the process of chopping said firewood that the handle of our axe broke while being wielded by my chum Alexis. And buried itself an impressive distance into his left hand.