I was sitting at a red light in Greenwich, surrounded by silent Teslas and sensible Audis, when I realized that the 2026 BMW M5 is essentially a bodybuilder who decided to become a certified public accountant. For forty years, the M5 has been the undisputed king of the "executive sleeper"—a car that looked like a boardroom meeting but went like a bank heist. But this new G90 generation has gained over a thousand pounds in its transition to a plug-in hybrid. As I sat there, the car sat in an eerie, electric silence, disconnected from the very mechanical soul that made its ancestors legendary. We’ve reached a point where "progress" is measured in kilowatt-hours, but as an enthusiast who has spent two decades behind the wheel, I have to ask: at what point does a car become too smart for its own good?
The first time you mash the throttle, the M5 attempts to rearrange your internal organs with 717 horsepower and 738 lb-ft of torque. It’s a violent, effective display of physics that makes the previous generation feel almost leisurely. But unlike the old F90, which sang with a crisp, mechanical V-8 wail, this new powertrain sounds like a synthesized thunderstorm played through a high-end soundbar. It’s loud, yes, but it lacks that raw, metallic rasp that used to tingle the back of your neck. The acceleration is a digital event—instant, brutal, and entirely devoid of the gradual, soaring buildup you get in something like a Cadillac CT5-V Blackwing. The Caddy might be slower on paper, but it talks to you; the BMW just executes orders.
I absolutely loathe what BMW has done to the interior ergonomics. The dashboard is now a monolithic slab of glass that looks like it was stolen from a Best Buy showroom. To adjust the fan speed or change the drive mode, you have to navigate through layers of menus like you’re trying to cancel a gym membership. It’s a triumph of cost-saving disguised as "minimalism," and it’s a slap in the face to anyone who actually likes to drive. If I’m diving into a corner on a backroad in the Berkshires, I want a physical button for the dampers, not a touchscreen that’s probably covered in my own greasy fingerprints from lunch. The steering wheel itself feels less like a connection to the front tires and more like a high-end PS5 controller—heavy and accurate, but filtered through layers of silicon and software.
When you take it out for a grocery run or a trip to drop the kids off at soccer practice, the M5’s sheer mass becomes the elephant in the room. At 5,390 pounds, it’s heavier than some versions of the Ford F-150. You feel that weight every time you hit a mid-corner bump; the suspension has to be so stiffly sprung to manage the bulk that the ride quality on anything but glass-smooth asphalt is punishing. A Mercedes-AMG E63 might not be as sharp in a literal sense, but it glides over the world with a dignity that this M5 has traded for Nürburgring lap times. On a long-distance commute, the BMW is exhausting because it never truly relaxes. It’s always tensed up, trying to hide its obesity through active roll bars and rear-wheel steering.
There is, however, a strange genius to the way it handles its hybrid duties. For the 30 miles you spend in EV mode, it’s a remarkably composed luxury car. You can glide through your neighborhood at 6:00 AM without waking the dead, which is something a roaring Corvette Z06 could never dream of. But as soon as that V-8 fires up to assist the electric motor, the handoff feels slightly clunky, like a relay runner tripping over the baton. In a world where the Lucid Air offers seamless, world-shattering speed with half the complexity, the M5’s gas-electric dance feels like a desperate attempt to keep the internal combustion engine on life support.
If you are the type of owner who spends Sunday mornings in the garage with a torque wrench and a set of jack stands, this car will break your heart. The engine bay is a terrifying maze of high-voltage orange cables, cooling lines, and plastic shrouds. Gone are the days when you could realistically swap your own spark plugs or troubleshoot an oil leak without a degree in computer science. It’s a car designed for a three-year lease and a quick trade-in before the lithium-ion batteries start to lose their luster. It’s a phenomenal piece of engineering, but it’s no longer a machine—it’s an appliance.
The 2026 BMW M5 is the fastest, most capable, and most technologically advanced car in its class, yet it might be the least rewarding to actually own. It beats the Audi RS6 in a straight line and out-techs the Tesla Model S Plaid in terms of luxury, but it lacks the singular, focused identity that made the M badge mean something. It’s a car that tries to be everything to everyone and ends up feeling a bit like a ghost in the machine. It’s a brilliant achievement, but I’d trade every single one of its 717 horses for a car that weighed a ton less and had a volume knob I could actually turn with my hands.
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