BMW E28 535i: Splishy Splashy Wischwaßer

“Kids, it’s time to wake up now. The train is waiting! Oh wow, this room reeks!” 

Nemocon Train over the Andes.

Those were the waking words my dear and loving aunt Vivianne uttered as she entered my cousin’s room to wake us up. It was seven in the morning, and we needed to get ready for a lovely train trip in the countryside that our dear great-uncle, Albert, had so lovingly planned out for us.

Yet, at that moment, my aunt’s utterance sounded more like the clarion call of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. My dear cousin Steve and I lay half asleep in a dreadful drunken state, one which found me with my head stuck between our two beds, unable to reason how to escape my entrapment, and he, with his legs hoisted up 90 degrees against a wall, unaware why his vision was cloudy—he had a sock over his head. She left the room, and the agony began.

STEVE - “I am so dizzy, ugh.”

MICHEL - “Don’t scream at me.”

STEVE - “I am not!”

MICHEL - “AHHH, you just did!”

STEVE - “No, I didn’t!”

MICHEL - “Alright, alright, let’s both just shut up!”

Steve (left) - Michel (right) NOT the same night, rather, many years before.

Such was the state we found ourselves in that the simple words coming out of my aunt’s mouth, the need to get up and get ready, seemed like a herculean task.

You see, the night before, my cousin and I had partaken in a level of debauchery the likes of which we had never experienced. He was 16 and I was 15. We had raided my uncle’s library/study, where he had the liquor, cigarettes, cigars, and a quadraphonic stereo system, all ready for any of the adult guests who wished to partake in said delicacies. It was not for the children, of course. Not to be deterred, and with ambition in our hearts, we decided we would drink and smoke whilst listening to a non-stop loop of The Pet Shop Boys’ “King’s Cross”.  

“Dead and wounded on either side. You know it's only a matter of time. 
I've been good and I've been bad. I've been guilty of hanging around”

Maybe more akin to “It’s a Sin”. The problem lies in the stupidity and ignorance of youth, for instead of drinking in moderation, and say, opening a good whiskey or cognac, we went for the “good stuff”. We drank an entire bottle of Amaretto Disaronno.

Surprise indeed.

Oh, sweet death, do cometh soon, we beg for thy mercy!

Needless to say, this made sure I never, ever, became an over-drinker, for it afforded me the respect and fear drink merits. Something to be savoured, not indulged.

But stupid things were done that night, including the hatching of a hair-brained plan to stealthily roll out of the garage my uncle’s untouchable 1980 BMW E21 320i, and once around the corner, where the sound would not be heard in the house, fire it up and take it for a Ferris Bueller-type joyride.

“Ol’ Pineapple-face” Noriega

Of course, being teenagers (morons), and as such, in possession of the mental fortitude, the planning capacity, and the self-deluded foresight of millitary dictator—and man in need of a facial peel—Manuel Noriega the night before the U.S. invasion of Panama, the stunt never happened.

You see, my uncle had an automatic, and we had no bloody idea how to place it in neutral without starting it. As such, we could not roll it out of the garage.

Uncle David and yours truly in Kastanienrot Metallic

Thank goodness, for I am sure one of us would have been rolled over by the car: that was the level of tomfoolery we were engaged in.

Such was my desire to drive my uncle’s BMW. A car that single-handedly is more responsible for my condition of lust, love and desire for cars, and of course, for said brand, than probably any other car.

In the unendingly funny, loving, yet utter insanity that was my childhood, my uncle David, whom I have loved and admired since I can remember my name, represented for me the wise man figure, the counselor, the politician, the community leader, the voice of reason, the successful businessman, and…

The BMW driver.

He was also (and still is!) the eyes and voice of authority, for when he would lower his glasses down to his nose to stare at you, all done in silence, you understood it was time to stop the antics, listen to him, do your chores, stop horsing around, sit down to eat, dress up, stop talking, stand up, sit up, sit down, or go to sleep.

His 320i also in Kastanienrot Metallic

How one glance could have so many meanings is still one of the great mysteries of my life, but have that power he did…still does, and I loved him more and more each time he deployed it because I wanted to be like him.

I guess I still do.

But this is not a story about my uncle’s BMW.

Inspired by it as I might have been, this is the story of my 1985 BMW 535i.

The M30-powered E28 chassis masterpiece of designer Claus Luthe, which was born from the utter brilliance that was its predecessor, the e12, itself another tour-de-force, birthed from the genius of two other legends, Paul Braq, and Marcelo Gandini.

So many geniuses at work. What a time! I need to catch my breath.

BMW was indeed on fire in the 70s and 80s, with many of the iconic designs we love coming from that era.

Before BMW became a status weapon of realtors and the one-hand-over-the-center-wheel drivers (not the brand’s fault, by the way—blame success), the brand carried such enormous gravitas, and not necessarily for being expensive or a status symbol, but as true drivers cars: you knew what the hell you were doing if you owned and drove a BMW, just as if you owned a Porsche. Except you, the BMW driver, were a bit more practical and wanted to share the experience with—or scare—more than one passenger.

It was in 2011 that I decided I wanted to have a 4-door sedan to drive around when I was not Blitzkrieg-ing the town in my S54b32-powered BMW E86 Z4M Coupe.

I surmised this meant I wanted a slush-box-luxo-barge, an American Land-Yacht, which would allow me to float down to the office.

But… what a fool believes he sees… no wise man has the power… to reason away…yet, reason I did, that no, a Land Yacht was not needed for one to enjoy Michael McDonald, Ambrosia or Steely Dan.

My brother had been talking to me about his desire for an e28 528i, apparently because I infected him with the desire to own more cars.

I reminded him that the 528i would be as quick as a glacier, and instead, he should look at the 535i, which set off an undeclared arms race to find and buy an e28 chassis 535i, manual of course.

Fritz und Claus - circa 2013

We both did, and on the same day. He purchased a Dolphin Grey 1986 535i, and I brought home a Cosmo Blau 1985 535i. His came to be known henceforth as Claus, and mine as Fritz.

The poor man who sold me the car had the appearance of someone who had been ground down, who was giving up. I did not ask, but he looked as if he did not want to sell the BMW.

What was also clear, by the racket his kids were making and the state of dirtiness the car was in, inside and out, was that the run of the house was not under his control.

Fritz, my 535i. Still as handsome as ever - circa 2025

I paid for the car, and I drove it to a hotel before heading home the next day with the 535i on a trailer, lest we discover a problem on the 250-mile drive home.

That next morning, Fritz had his first encounter with Zeh Splishy Splasy Wischwaßer, or my convoluted bastardized-German-like term for “a bath”, along with a thorough interior cleaning, where I was astonished to find that the car I had purchased was in fact in great shape.

It was not just mechanically sound, but overall in great shape. In particular, the interior—which under the pigsty state it was in, had been impossible to determine its true state—was in almost mint condition.

On our drive back to Miami, and as to prove the gods of cars were in approval, we crossed paths with uncle David, my aunt Vivianne, and my cousin Steve, and his family, who had also stopped at a Florida Turnpike food court on their way to Disney World.

Yours truly, and uncle David in…Kastanienrot Metallic?

It was a serendipitous moment that would allow me to show my uncle my “new” 535i, which, although different from his 320i, still had the family resemblance and was of the same period. 

I could see the pride and nostalgia in his eyes upon sitting at the helm of Fritz, which, just as it was in his 320i, wrapped itself around the driver in a way that means business. Both have the same upright greenhouse and that classic submarine-under-attack red instrument panel lighting.

The 535i is truly a driver’s car. It might be 40 years old now (it is 2025 as I write this essay), yet it can still keep up with most cars today, and it possesses perfectly balanced handling, regardless of its front-biased weight distribution. All it means is the tail can be spun out with ease, as the car-gods have forever willed it. It was clearly designed for spirited driving, be that sitting comfortably and drama-free at 95mph on a motorway, highway, or autobahn, or letting loose on a curvaceous road. It has enough power to get you out of trouble, or into it, depending on your level of mastery…or stupidity. 

Its M30 engine growls and pushes above 4000 RPM in a way that makes it clear more is coming and that it wants more, and that its predecessor’s blood, the Neue Klasse, particularly the legendary 2002 tii, runs through its veins.

Fritz.

This is no Bavarian Bierhalle Yuppy hauler slouch. This is an Ultimate Driving Machine. Made to carry demanding men and women. Built by people who knew what the hell they were doing, and who had the clarity and determination to make the best car they damn well could.

It’s been 14 years since I purchased Fritz, and in those years, he, yes he, our Teutons are all boys, has had a lot of work done, from full suspension work with the help and guidance of my dear brother, Jack. I have replaced a water pump, added a new AC, and replaced the Federal sealed headlamps in favour of the gorgeous asymmetrical European headlamps. It is still in need of repainting, which has been put off until its diving board federal bumpers are removed and changed into the European small-lipped ones, which I have in storage, thanks again to the foresight of my brother.

Papa Claus Luthe

I sometimes ask myself if, on that night so many years ago, had my cousin and I been successful with our 320i escapade, would the yearning to drive and have a BMW have continued to simmer inside me? Frankly, I think so, for there were many other episodes that led me to fall in love with many a BMW.

The 320i was simply the spark.

But, since what is not allowed can sometimes prove to be more enticing than what is, I am sure the taboo of the 320i—the not being able to learn firsthand what it was to drive it back then—helped feed a flame that grew into a firestorm.