How often do you get to challenge a Jag?

[PropellerHead]

Sorry.. I mean "Jag-Yoo-are"

Now 1st of all, this was not street race or anything silly. It was a car show where my buddy came to see my E39. I'd parked my E53 with no resonator next to his Jag outside the competitors. However, we were within what would become an important earshot of the show. Well, my buddy's Jaguar is like really orange. And a 'vert. And like *looks* awesome. And it has a button.. for the exhaust.. that basically electronical-magically dumps it. And it sounds sah-WEET. Damn thing even burbles. I call it aural sex.

Well, since we were parked aside one another.. and it was totally my turn...

Anyone who's played with their E53 exhaust knows that sometimes, the thing will fire and make people duck in the parking lot. Other times, it kinda rolls into this subdued rumble that only those who listen for such a sound might hear. And even then, they're confused and looking for the sound that's way better than any pushrod. Even if those nods are rare and though the eyebrows may be few, they make it worth the fire.

Today was a good start up. Some raised eyebrows. And then.. the idled rev north of 4k. They jumped back from my soot-covered chrome tips as they belched a little more than air. No smoke, mind you. Just that stuff that gets let loose when the magic happens.

"WHAT the *hell* is THAT?" They said.

"How does the mom-mobile sound more angry than the Jag-with-a-button?!"

And this, my 3.0 brethren- those with whom I share both 7 years with my own 3.0 and the (oh Lord!) nearly EIGHTEEN with the '01 3.0- well, the sound is where the V8 and the i6's part ways. I dunno where in the XY chromosome gets embedded with that V8 sound- like a set of ceramic pads that seem to just last and last. But it does.

And we know it does. If you've ever heard an E46 M3 at WOT and thought.. "Hrmmfff. Seems like that'd be sweet with a V8." Well, there's a reason that happened. And as much as we adore that damn inline balance... the lumpy V8 makes a noise that harkens to days before our nads dropped. I don't know if I have the capacity to say it another way.

The damn thing even burbled. And it was magic set against the trees and grass of this idyllic setting. We were close enough to the British contingent of the all-Euro event that the Healys heard, the others screamed "O....MG!" and the Triumphs fell to the brawn of the extra 2 and 4 cylinders displacing air, fuel and fire.

Even the mighty Jag laid down it's beat up fiddle. My E53 is daily dirty, has soot-caked chrome tips, has big boy wear on the driver's seat and an engine bay wrought with the spills and dregs of at least 5 funneled oil changes. Oh, but the duel was over at a 2k rev. By 4k, the jag was silenced. It wanted no more from Herr X5. Like a well-funded garage band with orange hair, it simply held no meaningful relevance against the soulful blues of unrelenting maintenance and personal loyalty required by 123k miles with its E53 shepard.

We're both far from Georgia and the outcome of the famous song. In fact, this devil found it's way on top. Perhaps finding that the soul of a competitor wasn't worth stealing as much as it was worth shaming.