I pulled into a gas station halfway through a canyon run, and a guy in a brand new Mustang Dark Horse walked over to ask what I was driving. When I told him it was the new M2, he looked at the boxy fenders, the massive grille, the squared-off hips that look like they were carved with a butter knife, and said, “That’s the ugly one, right?” I told him it is ugly. It’s genuinely hard to look at from certain angles. The rear bumper looks like someone bolted on a diffuser from a catalog and called it a day. The front end has more creases than my father’s face after 40 years of worrying about mortgage payments. But then I tossed him the keys, told him to take it through the next set of switchbacks, and watched him come back ten minutes later with the look of a man who just realized his wife was right about something. That’s the M2. It’s the car you buy when you care more about what happens when your right foot hits the floor than what happens when your neighbor sees it in the driveway.
The engine is the reason you tolerate the styling. Under that chunky hood is the S58 twin-turbo 3.0-liter inline-six, detuned slightly from the M3 and M4 but still pumping out 473 horsepower and 406 lb-ft of torque in the manual version I drove. The numbers don’t tell the story. What matters is the delivery. There’s a meaty surge from 2,500 rpm that builds into a freight-train pull all the way to redline. At 6,000 rpm, the engine note changes from a deep, pressurized growl to a metallic shriek that bounces off canyon walls. It’s not as sonorous as the naturally aspirated V8 in the Ford Mustang Dark Horse, which has a more old-school, chest-rattling bark. But the M2’s engine feels sharper, more precise, like a scalpel compared to a hatchet. The problem is the sound insulation. BMW buried the engine noise under so much synthetic augmentation piped through the speakers that you lose the raw edge. I pulled the fuse for the Active Sound Design on day two, and the car suddenly felt more honest. A little quieter, sure, but honest.
The six-speed manual transmission is a masterclass in mechanical communication, but also a workout. The clutch engagement point is high in the pedal travel, and the shifter throws are longer than they were in the previous M2 Competition. When you’re stuck in stop-and-go traffic on the 405, your left leg starts complaining around mile three. The Toyota GR Supra’s manual—which BMW actually supplies the engine and transmission for—has a lighter clutch and a more forgiving shift feel. But the Supra’s shifter lacks the M2’s rifle-bolt precision. This one clicks into gear with a satisfying mechanical thunk, like closing the bolt on a well-maintained hunting rifle. When you’re heel-toeing into a tight corner, the pedals are spaced perfectly for a size 10 boot. No awkward ankle contortions. It’s the kind of manual that makes you take the long way home even when you’re already late.
The chassis tuning is where BMW earned my respect and my frustration in equal measure. The adaptive dampers in Comfort mode are genuinely comfortable. I drove this car to pick up my daughter from school, and she didn’t complain once about the ride. That’s a higher bar than any skidpad number. Switch it to Sport Plus, and the car transforms into something else entirely. The suspension stiffens, the steering weights up, and the rear axle starts hunting for grip under power in a way that feels alive. The Porsche Cayman GTS 4.0 has better balance and more delicate feedback through the wheel, but the Cayman costs $30,000 more and doesn’t have back seats. The M2 gives you 80 percent of the Cayman’s handling for 60 percent of the price, plus a back seat that can actually fit a teenager. My 14-year-old sat behind me with her knees not touching the seat. That’s a miracle in this segment.
I need to complain about the steering because BMW should know better. The electric power steering is accurate but numb. When you’re pushing hard through a decreasing-radius corner, you feel the weight build, but you don’t feel the texture of the road underneath. Compare it to the steering in a Cadillac CT4-V Blackwing, which uses a similar electric setup but somehow communicates more through the rim. The M2’s steering feels like it’s interpreting the road for you, translating the conversation instead of letting you hear it directly. It’s fine. It’s competent. But for a car that’s supposed to be the enthusiast’s choice, “competent” isn’t enough. I want to feel the pavement grit through my palms. I want to know exactly when the front tires are about to give up. In the M2, you find that limit through the seat of your pants, not through your hands.
The interior is a mixed bag that shows where BMW spent money and where they didn’t. The carbon fiber buckets in my test car are incredible. They hold you like a parent grabbing a kid before they run into traffic. But getting out of them is a circus act. I went to Home Depot to buy a bag of potting soil, and I had to do a sideways shimmy just to exit the car while holding the receipt. The Mercedes-AMG CLA 45 has seats that are almost as supportive but much easier to live with. The M2’s infotainment screen is massive and crisp, but BMW buried the climate controls in the touchscreen. I had to swipe through menus to change the fan speed while I was trying to merge onto a highway. Physical buttons are gone, and I hate it. The previous generation M2 had buttons for everything. Progress isn’t always moving forward.
I parked the M2 next to a friend’s 2021 M2 Competition to see how the two compare side by side. His car is smaller, lighter, uglier in a charming way, and feels more analog. The new M2 is faster, more stable, and easier to drive at ten-tenths. But it’s also heavier by over 300 pounds. You feel that weight in the corners. You feel it in the brakes. You feel it when you’re trying to rotate the car on a tight hairpin. The new M2 is objectively better on paper. But the old one is more fun to drive at seven-tenths on a Sunday morning. That’s the trade-off BMW made. They built a car that appeals to the guy who tracks his car twice a year and commutes the rest of the time. For that guy, it’s perfect. For the purist who wants a raw, lightweight missile, the used market is calling. The M2 is brilliant, flawed, heavy, ugly, and completely intoxicating. It’s the last of a dying breed, and I’ll miss it when it’s gone.
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