By Blair Smith · February 25, 2026

A couple years ago, a friend called with news that felt like the beginning of a great car story… and the end of a marriage.

He was selling his 996 GT3.

Yes, the Mezger car.

Yes, that Mezger.

(I’ll leave the obvious “wife vs GT3” jokes to your imagination.)

He knew I’d been hunting for one, and the deal he offered was the kind that makes you stop mid-sentence, sit up straight, and start mentally rearranging your garage before you even hang up the phone.

I told my wife: I’m finally buying a GT3.

Not just any GT3 — a Mezger.

And if you’re deep enough into car culture, you already know what that means.

Hans Mezger isn’t just an engine designer. He’s mythology. Le Mans-winning engineering lineage. Air-cooled DNA evolved into something sharper, harder, more purpose-built. Owning a Mezger-powered Porsche feels like owning a mechanical artifact — a piece of racing history disguised as a road car.

I was ready for transcendence.

When he pulled into the driveway, I was already halfway emotionally committed.

The shape was right. The stance was right. The energy around the car felt… significant.

Sliding into the seat, the 996 interior felt familiar — almost comfortingly so — even if the higher seating position reminded me this wasn’t a stripped-out race car fantasy but something more nuanced.

Key turn.

Anticipation: maximum.

This was supposed to be one of those moments.

You know the ones. The moments where reality exceeds hype. Where the first drive rewires your brain and you immediately understand why enthusiasts speak in hushed tones about certain machines.

And…

It was very good.

Really good, actually.

But it wasn’t transcendent.

The engine was strong, precise, impressive — undeniably special. Yet it didn’t dominate the experience the way I had imagined. It didn’t overwhelm my senses or become the singular centerpiece of the drive.

Instead of feeling like I had strapped into a mechanical event, it felt… balanced.

Refined.

Almost restrained.

So I did something that still surprises people when I tell the story:

I passed.

Let me be clear: I love GT3s. Even the 996 — maybe especially the 996, because it’s still honest and a little misunderstood.

But sometimes what I’m chasing isn’t balance or precision.

Sometimes I want a car where the engine doesn’t just contribute to the experience — it is the experience.

The kind of engine that makes everything else feel secondary.

And the funny thing?

Some of the best examples aren’t six-figure halo cars.

Rev an AP1 to 9,000 rpm and try to tell me modern engines are objectively better.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Below 6,000 rpm, it’s polite. Almost reserved.

Above that?

Transformation.

The engine sharpens, hardens, and suddenly feels like it’s been uncaged. The urgency builds in a way modern turbocharged cars simply don’t replicate. It feels less like a car engine and more like a superbike drivetrain accidentally installed in a Japanese roadster.

Steering feel? Sure, it’s good — but honestly, who cares.

Just. Keep. Revving.

Ford naming this engine “Voodoo” feels less like marketing and more like a warning.

Flat-plane crank V8s aren’t supposed to live in Mustangs — at least not like this. The GT350’s engine doesn’t just spin toward redline; it thrashes its way there, vibrating with raw energy and mechanical intensity.

It feels alive in a way that borders on slightly unhinged.

If you want polite refinement, buy something else.

If you want peak internal-combustion drama — the kind that makes every on-ramp feel like an event — this is your car.

The S54 engine is a masterclass in balance.

Unlike the wild personality shifts of the S2000 or the brute drama of the GT350, the E46 M3 feels like a precision instrument tuned by someone who understood that smoothness and aggression don’t have to be opposites.

It pulls cleanly, relentlessly, all the way to 8,000 rpm.

Add a CSL-style airbox and suddenly the induction noise takes over the cabin, drowning out everything else and transforming a “hot” 3-series into something that feels far more exotic.

You stop thinking about horsepower numbers.

You start chasing sound.

Sometimes the best engine experiences come from the most unexpected places.

Early ’90s Mitsubishi Bravo kei van.

Tiny Japanese box on wheels.

DOHC three-cylinder.

9,000 rpm redline.

And somehow — somehow — it delivers pure joy.

The induction growl feels wildly disproportionate to the speed you’re actually traveling. You’re fighting to keep up with traffic, maybe losing a drag race to a Nissan Versa, but none of that matters.

Your kids step out of the van feeling like they’ve survived a rally stage.

You drop them at school, engine ticking as it cools, and they look back at you like you’ve just introduced them to a secret language.

“An angry little three-cylinder with a retractable Super-Aero Roof,” you say.

They don’t fully understand.

But one day, they will.

If the EV era has clarified anything, it’s this:

Enthusiasts aren’t just car people.

We’re engine people.

We crave sound. Vibration. Mechanical personality. The feeling that something alive sits in front of us, converting fuel into emotion.

GT3s absolutely deserve their reputation. The Mezger legacy is real, and for many drivers, it’s the pinnacle.

But sometimes the greatest joy comes from engines that abandon balance and chase character instead.

Which brings us back to Enzo Ferrari’s famous idea:

“You buy an engine, and you get the car for free.”

So tell me —

What engines make you feel that way?

— Blair Smith

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