The single most wonderful perk of this job is the cars. Some are exciting; others are more mundane. Sometimes, a loaner car may sit for five of the seven days I have it in my driveway, a casualty of a busy life and a vocation that has me on the road nearly as often as not. But whenever I have the opportunity to drive a Miata — like the 2024 Club model pictured above — I make time.
Some cars are the main event; others are simply accessories. A third category entirely comprises just those rare machines that will eagerly retreat into the margins in the quest to provide a better driving experience. That’s the Miata: always ready, ceaselessly deferential. And for most normal people, utterly useless.
There was a time when I had no interest in owning one — zero, zip. not even an iota. In fact, when I first decided to dabble in amateur motorsports, I went out of my way to look at just about anything else to campaign. I wasn’t even so much opposed to the Miata itself as I was to its general popularity. Call it the rebelliousness of youth; I was dead set against it. And then, as tends to happen, one practically fell into my lap.
I bought my NA in 2008, just as the final wave of the $1,500 Miata phenomenon was receding (I paid $1,350). I’ve never owned another car as long as I’ve owned that Miata, nor do I expect I ever will. I certainly have no desire to sell it. It costs me nothing to own, and despite not having to rely on it (I have two other cars plus whatever Autoblog decides to send my way), it fires right up on command, asking only the attention of a modestly priced battery maintainer.
The shifter, sway bar and suspension bushings were all hanging on by desiccated threads. The shocks were original. The odometer read 210,000 miles. Not a single body panel was untouched by time, careless parkers or both. The “tombstone” piece of trim covering the center stack was missing entirely. There was a curious whine at steady speeds. A dying rear end? A failing wheel bearing? Crappy, unevenly worn tires?
I didn’t care. I knew the instant I turned the key that I was going to buy it.
An inspection revealed myriad small issues but no large ones. A suspension refresh and new tires cured the biggest ailments; the cosmetic bits were relegated to a short list that has only grown since — much like the then-nascent rust perforations in the Miata’s rocker panels.
I have that little Miata to thank for saving me a bundle of money. If it weren’t for my 200,000-mile clunker, I’d have certainly spent far more on a newer version of it by now. It’s like a vaccine for my finances; a few hundred spent maintaining that ratty little rust bucket inoculates me against spending thousands (or tens of thousands) on a newer, shinier example.
Because while they may indeed be shinier, new Miatas don’t really do much more than older Miatas — a fact of which I’m reminded every time one shows up in my driveway. Driving the latest doesn’t make me want to run out and buy a new one; it makes me want to invest more into making my now-34-year-old example roadworthy again. Mazda’s engineers have remained steadfastly dedicated to the roadster’s formula for the entirety of those three-plus decades. People often like to debate the merits of each generation, but at the end of the day it’s quite simple: The best Miata is the one you already own.
Despite its widespread adoration, there’s plenty the Miata is objectively bad at, and pretty much all of it stems from its size. It’s hard to describe to the uninitiated just how small a Miata is. Its cabin is cramped and utterly devoid of anything but the most fundamental of creature comforts. Back when Mazda’s little roadster was new, you could buy economy cars specced this way. Today, even the cheapest micro-CUVs feel palatially appointed compared to the ND roadster. And there’s no room to make your own space, either. In fact, if you plan to bring along both a beverage and a passenger, one of them is going to have a bad time.
This dearth of functionality is unheard of even in most of today’s sporty cars. The Toyota GR86 and Subaru BRZ may compete with the Miata in spirit, but they’re full-blown family haulers by comparison. Permanent cup holders? Functional storage cubbies? Back seats? Roofs? Might as well be minivans. Even the Corvette’s cabin feels indulgent after a stint in the Miata — and believe me, I’ve done my share.
Why was I so resistant for so long? Simple: I was a child of the magazine era, and the things that make the Miata great don’t translate all that well to print. The performance figures certainly aren’t staggering, and while the little roadster has always been able to count its looks among its positive attributes, it certainly doesn’t sell itself on sex appeal. The first-gen Miata didn’t look any more beastly next to a C4 Corvette or 964 than the current car does next to a C8 or 992.
But every time I fire up a Miata, new or old, I feel that same jolt. That same sense that this machine was built just for people like me. I love my CT4 Blackwing because it can do everything; I love my Miata because it can’t.
IMMENDINGEN, Germany – After dominating the Autobahn with the GT 63 S E Performance, we took a detour into the lush, undulating south German countryside. It wasn’t just to mix things up. There, lurking in the forest just outside the tiny town of Immendingen, was a Mercedes testing facility and the brief chance to sample the 2025 Mercedes-AMG SL 63 S E Performance.
And by brief, we mean it – two half-hour stints on twisty rural roads around the facility as well as some slow-speed village cruising. No Autobahn, and no high-speed blasts at the “Prüf- und Technologiezentrum,” either. It wasn’t a lot of time, but the good news is that the SL 63 S E Performance is basically a convertible GT 63.
The powertrain is identical, including the 4.0-liter twin-turbo V8, nine-speed automatic, 4Matic+ all-wheel-drive and a rear-mounted motor fed by a 6.1-kilowatt battery pack and sent through a two-speed rear gearbox. The SL 63 S E Performance has the same 805 horsepower and 1,047 pound-feet of torque as the GT version, plus the same estimated 8 miles of electric range in European testing. It’s only a tenth of a second slower to 60 mph (2.8 seconds) and 3 mph slower in top speed (196 mph).
The similarities don’t stop there. The two cars share the same width and wheelbase, are nearly the same length (the SL is shorter by a little more than half an inch), and the interiors are basically the same. Rear axle steering, carbon ceramic brakes and the trick Active Ride Control suspension are similarly all standard. The SL is basically a convertible GT with a different front fascia and a center screen that can tilt to reduce glare with the top down.
So mostly everything we said about the GT 63 also applies to the SL. But there are indeed some differences. The biggest, well, aside from that cloth roof, is the suspension tuning. Though it also has the Active Ride Control suspension (among a variety of wildly complex elements, the adaptive dampers are interlinked hydraulically), the tuning is a bit softer across the board than the GT. It’s not a dramatic difference – the SL is darn-near as fleet-footed on the street as the GT – but it’s enough to imply that the SL is meant to be a bit more relaxed. It sacrifices that little bit of response for a little less harshness. This character shift also helps make the somewhat disconnected steering much more forgivable.
So what we have is the GT, but just a tad more chill. There may be merit to that for some, but we’re ultimately left with a less intense version of a car we concluded wasn’t intense enough given its prodigious power. It almost seems wasted, even more so in the SL. The 577-horsepower, non-hybrid SL 63 offers more than enough wallop, making the 805-hp S E Performance overkill, and not necessarily in a fun, Hellcat sort of way. A boisterous AMG V8 will sound just as growly with the top down whether or not it has an electric motor up its backside.
Now, what the non-hybrid can’t provide, is peaceful, silent, top-down cruising. As fun as hearing that V8 echo through the German hills was, it was equally as lovely to let those pipes go quiet and just enjoy the wind rustling past as the sun set. The sleepy little villages we silently passed through probably didn’t mind, either. Also, as we previously covered, the motor’s 200 horsepower is plenty for toodling around, even up to highway speeds.
But then we ran into the same problem as before: You can barely go anywhere on electric power. In no time at all, you’ll have drained that dinky all-electric range, and you’ll be needing to run the V8 to recharge the pack. That’s also assuming you charged it up before hand.
So just like the GT, we’re left wondering about the powertrain’s fitness for the purpose. In the GT, it seemed like the car was bestowed with enormous power, but not made sporty enough to properly take advantage of it. In the case of the SL, it’s more that it seems like Mercedes didn’t go far enough in electrifying it. The electric function is highly appealing, but the range so meager as to be nearly pointless for just weekend outings, never mind daily driving. And since it’s not a maximum-attack sports car, it would’ve been nice to see Mercedes focus more on range and capacity, instead of rapid discharging and power. For that matter, it leaves us pining for a fully electric SL.
There is something we know about the SL that we don’t about the GT: price. The base price for the SL 63 S E Performance will start at $208,150. That’s a pretty similar price jump between the SL 55 and the SL 63, and for a much bigger power increase. So at least in terms of power per dollar, it’s not a terrible deal.
If you want the most SL, the S E Performance is unquestionably the choice. And it’s still a beautiful, comfortable and fast machine, one that’s a pretty reasonable price considering what it adds on paper. But what it adds in experience is more questionable. Its V8-only siblings offer nearly all the gas-powered experience, while its own electrified benefits are negligible. It’s conflicted, and as result, so are we.
CHICHESTER, England – Everything seems like it's moving faster these days than it used to. Whether it be trendy memes or systems of government, what was popular yesterday doesn't stand a chance today. That's true of cars, too. Every major model is expected to have a refresh every couple of years followed by a complete reboot after five or six.
In that context, the 21-year staying power of the Jaguar XJS is nothing short of remarkable, especially if you look at the decades it spanned.
Introduced in 1975, the XJS (or XJ-S as it was initially known) survived all the way into 1996 before finally running out of its nine lives, all with such subtle visual tweaks that you have to be a bit of an expert to spot the differences introduced over the three decades it covered.
The 1996 model you see here is as new as it gets, yet it still very much looks, feels, and even smells like a much older machine -- albeit with some curious injections of technology here and there to spoil the air of nostalgia.
This one is a British-market 4.0-liter inline-six-cylinder model with 242 horsepower and 289 pound-feet of torque sent through what must be the laziest transmission I've ever encountered, a four-speed ZF automatic. But relaxed, as it turned out, would be the overriding vibe of this car, something I actually came to appreciate before my time with this beautifully preserved example was through.
We didn't get off to a great start. My test drive took place on the historic Goodwood Circuit, best known for the high-class hooning of the annual Goodwood Revival.
I would not do any drifting, nor crashing thank goodness, but the on-track nature of my run did mean I needed to wear a helmet. That proved to be a bit of a problem.
I'm not a particularly lanky 6-foot tall, and the XJS is not a small car, so without overthinking it, I tucked my way in, ducking beneath the low roof of this XJS cabriolet. I expected that, once inside, I could adjust the seat and get myself situated.
Whoever had driven this previously was apparently quite a bit shorter of stature because the seat was bolt upright and tight to the wood-rimmed steering wheel. Now properly trapped and in a bit of a panic, I stabbed at the chunky, plastic seat controls on the door only to quickly learn the seats won't move without the ignition on. My knee was wedged so tightly up against the steering column that I couldn't reach the ignition.
After a few attempts, I got the key turned and the seat in motion. Further and further back I had to recline the thing before I could finally uncoil my neck. It's a Corvette-like posture I had to assume here, knees akimbo and arms outstretched.
My newly laid-back seating position seemed to fit with the aforementioned vibe of the car, and now somewhat comfortable, I took a moment to enjoy the time capsule. It makes a good impression, the XJS. Beautifully polished walnut abounds, including the ball atop the spindly tall shifter that you'd be forgiven for mistaking for a manual.
That lovely wood, however, is punctuated by all manner of things, a few of which ruin the mood. There's the polished metal ashtray, a lovely touch reminiscent of many high-end '60s GT cars, like the Lamborghini 400 GT. It's a lovely relic from the early days of this car's design that sits just a few inches away from less enjoyable relics: a clumsy black plastic cassette deck and digital clock.
The XJS, then, doesn't give the time capsule effect so much as it provides a retrospective of three decades worth of motoring highlights and lowlights.
The XJS is, of course, most famous for its V12. Alas, I drove the lesser 4.0-liter inline six-cylinder, which runs so quietly I couldn't tell when I should let off the starter. It didn't honestly get much louder as I pulled out onto the Goodwood Circuit and began to wind everything up to speed.
Goodwood is a generally simple track but a beautifully flowing one, mostly a series of multi-apex right-handers perfectly designed for machines with simple suspension and rudimentary brakes. These are descriptors that can certainly be applied to the XJS.
Turn that lacquered steering wheel to enter a corner, and there's a good moment or two where nothing at all happens. Be patient, though, and the long nose eventually begins its journey toward the inside of the turn. An instant later, the outside door of the car initiates its own trip down towards the asphalt.
Again, “relaxed” is the way to describe it, with the XJS leaning and meandering through the turns without much in the way of hurry or feedback. The brake pedal likewise has a long throw to it, and you'd best get used to exploring every degree of it if you want to bring this big cabriolet down to a reasonable speed before turn-in.
At first I couldn't help laughing at how unsuited the car felt at speed, but after a lap I started getting comfortable. Again, thanks to the flowing nature of this track, the flowing nature of the XJS was quite enjoyable. The challenge was to pick a given amount of steering input early into one corner and hold it all the way through the apexes so as not to upset the suspension.
Holding a consistent, steady line is the way, and when following a gentle gliding arc like that, the XJS is surprisingly fun. Then, once I learned to get the throttle buried to the floor a good few seconds before the apex, I started to enjoy the inline-six a bit, too.
When it finally works its way towards the upper end of its 5,700-rpm tachometer, it offers decent shove and a nice sound, too. I could just hear the engine over the wind noise, though, which, despite keeping the roof up, was louder than many modern convertibles I've driven with the top down.
So, not ideal for a technical track (but who’s bringing an XJS to one of those?), and that relaxed transmission and power delivery likewise will leave you a bit frustrated if you're the sort who gets impatient running between traffic lights. But on a wide, flowing road with lots of miles ahead of you, I could see the XJS being a genuinely rewarding ride.
A little buyer's advice
Looking to bring an XJS into your life? The good news is you've got 21 years' worth of cars to choose from. But you're most likely to find a cleanest example among the later generation, like you see here, which ran from 1991 to 1996.
There are two engines to choose from: the 4.0-liter inline six driven here and the V12, which evolved from 5.3 to 6.0 liters. Which one is for you? That depends on whether you want to maximize reliability or number of moving pieces. Regardless, don't imagine that you're getting yourself a hot rod even if you go with the bigger motor. At its peak, that V12 made just over 300 horsepower, about 60 more than the inline-six. These days, neither is going to feel like a rocket ship.
Per Hagerty, a 1996 inline-six convertible like you see here is worth $15,500 in good condition. Want a V12? You're looking at $18,000 in the same condition. Just make sure to budget a little extra for maintenance. As ever, it helps if you're handy yourself, as issues with the car's electrical system, rear suspension and fuel system are common, and your friendly local mechanic will surely roll out their premium rates when they see you cruise up in one of these.
Plus, Formula 1 is back, and the VW ID.Buzz gets a price
Plus, Cadillac's gorgeous Sollei, and we chat about the Fiat 500e and Infiniti QX80
Plus, we also try out the Mercedes-Benz EQE SUV and discuss the week in car news
Plus Mazda CX-50 hybrid debut, electric Porsche news, a helicopter-derived Caterham and more