The Highly Collectible BMW 2002: An Ode to a Classic of the 1960s and 70s
An ode to the late-1960s/early-1970s pinnacle of BMW perfection: the highly sought-after BMW 2002. Our automotive correspondent takes a reunion drive.
We all have sense memories that take us instantly to a particular time, place, or feeling. The frissive crinkling of moldy sleeping bags the first time you kissed a boy at summer camp. The ferrous drip the first time you were punched in the face. The muffled yet vicious sound of your parents fighting through the wall that separated your bedroom from theirs the night before they filed for divorce. But, if you were a weird, Bavarian-car-obsessed adolescent living in southeast Michigan in the mid-1980s—as your author was—the redolent scent of unburned fuel, decomposing vinyl, and worn horsehair seat pads warmed by the weak spring sun will immediately take you back to the anxiety, confusion, and elation of your senior year of high school.
Which brings us to that person flooring a borrowed and pristine blue BMW 2002, a car nearly identical to the one from high school, around the narrow roads of the 319-acre Cranbrook campus—the elite, Detroit-area prep school (yes, that one) I attended as a scholarship student—with three of my closest high-school friends, all en route to our 25th class reunion. Does such engagement conjure or vanquish demons?
The short answer is, vanquish.
The long answer is, now I really want a 2002 again.
The BMW 2002, produced from 1968 until 1976, pretty much originated the automotive category of “sports sedan,” and although it is the direct forefather of the brand’s current best-seller, the 3-Series, it is almost nothing like a contemporary car. It does not have power windows, power locks, power steering, or power seats. It does not have air conditioning, a right-hand side mirror, a rear defroster, or a radio. It does not have leather upholstery, cruise control, or cup holders of any sort. Its tires are as thin and flimsy as Romney’s support among college-educated women. Some cardboard bits are all that suffice for sound deadening, and the pillars that anchor its expansive greenhouse are so narrow that if they were to house the airbags that are required here on all new vehicles, they would need to be shaped like a clown’s balloon animal before all the tedious squeaking and twisting.
But the car is so lithe, its manner so instinctive, its mechanical nature so plainspoken, that when you’re behind the wheel it feels less like you’re piloting a vehicle and more like you are driving your own self down the road: eyes wide as its bugged-out headlamps, a planted tire gripped in each extremity, your throat growling with stereotypical vrooming engine noises. And, if you’re me—someone who compulsively spent every cent he earned buying, repairing, and restoring a battered 2002 more than 25 years ago—and you’re driving this pristine version, owned by BMW’s Classic Center, it feels like you’re driving an idealized iteration of your high-school self.
As an experiential metaphor, this is rather heady stuff. Feeling in command of the adolescent version of you—steering intently, with all the knowledge of your intervening decades of experience—is profound enough. But doing this in an exemplary incarnation of your youthful being—one that is mechanically and cosmetically perfect, maintained by loving and indulgent parents, upgraded in all relevant departments, and liberated from responsibility for any repercussions—is about as close to perfection as one can come. As proof of this, as we howled past the middle school, whizzed by Faculty Way, and ascended the hill by Lake Jonah, the friends I was chauffeuring to the reunion shrieked with the exact combination of unease, resignation, incredulity, and euphoria I’ve always and ideally aimed to elicit from them.
Quality 2002s like this one have become eminently collectible in recent years, so their price is escalating into the $20,000 to $30,000 range. But you can’t place a value on time travel, or transmogrification. Consider this the official start of my search.
Which brings us to that person flooring a borrowed and pristine blue BMW 2002, a car nearly identical to the one from high school, around the narrow roads of the 319-acre Cranbrook campus—the elite, Detroit-area prep school (yes, that one) I attended as a scholarship student—with three of my closest high-school friends, all en route to our 25th class reunion. Does such engagement conjure or vanquish demons?
The short answer is, vanquish.
The long answer is, now I really want a 2002 again.
The BMW 2002, produced from 1968 until 1976, pretty much originated the automotive category of “sports sedan,” and although it is the direct forefather of the brand’s current best-seller, the 3-Series, it is almost nothing like a contemporary car. It does not have power windows, power locks, power steering, or power seats. It does not have air conditioning, a right-hand side mirror, a rear defroster, or a radio. It does not have leather upholstery, cruise control, or cup holders of any sort. Its tires are as thin and flimsy as Romney’s support among college-educated women. Some cardboard bits are all that suffice for sound deadening, and the pillars that anchor its expansive greenhouse are so narrow that if they were to house the airbags that are required here on all new vehicles, they would need to be shaped like a clown’s balloon animal before all the tedious squeaking and twisting.
But the car is so lithe, its manner so instinctive, its mechanical nature so plainspoken, that when you’re behind the wheel it feels less like you’re piloting a vehicle and more like you are driving your own self down the road: eyes wide as its bugged-out headlamps, a planted tire gripped in each extremity, your throat growling with stereotypical vrooming engine noises. And, if you’re me—someone who compulsively spent every cent he earned buying, repairing, and restoring a battered 2002 more than 25 years ago—and you’re driving this pristine version, owned by BMW’s Classic Center, it feels like you’re driving an idealized iteration of your high-school self.
As an experiential metaphor, this is rather heady stuff. Feeling in command of the adolescent version of you—steering intently, with all the knowledge of your intervening decades of experience—is profound enough. But doing this in an exemplary incarnation of your youthful being—one that is mechanically and cosmetically perfect, maintained by loving and indulgent parents, upgraded in all relevant departments, and liberated from responsibility for any repercussions—is about as close to perfection as one can come. As proof of this, as we howled past the middle school, whizzed by Faculty Way, and ascended the hill by Lake Jonah, the friends I was chauffeuring to the reunion shrieked with the exact combination of unease, resignation, incredulity, and euphoria I’ve always and ideally aimed to elicit from them.
Quality 2002s like this one have become eminently collectible in recent years, so their price is escalating into the $20,000 to $30,000 range. But you can’t place a value on time travel, or transmogrification. Consider this the official start of my search.
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