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Bow Down to the Mercedes-Benz E63 AMG Station Wagon

Sure it’s a station wagon. It’s also fast. Maybe even too fast.


Photos Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz USA

For some people, there is no enticement imaginable that will convince them they need a station wagon. Give it ground effects, a massaging seat, Paul Newman’s pedigree. All that matters to a hater of station wagons is a simple fact: it’s a station wagon.  

Now, I’m a lover of all cars, but I have a special place in my heart for station wagons. When I was a kid, I did some terrible things in the way back of my mother’s Chevy Caprice Estate. I rolled joints and I smoked them; I became acquainted with the fairer sex. When I was a little younger, I tried to toss my younger brother out of the rear window.


Photos Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz USA

However, none of that compares to the terrible things I want to do in the Mercedes-Benz E63 AMG wagon. I know you’re wondering: a wagon? Yep. I know this is not a Koenniggsegg Agera. It’s not a LaFerrari or a Porsche 918 Spyder. It’s not even a Bentley GT, good sir. It’s a station wagon—and one that costs more than $100,000. And yet it ignites something inside of me that almost no other car can. Maybe it’s the irrationality of its design: a station wagon, meant to convey soccer cleats and brown paper grocery bags. But it’s been blessed with a level of hedonism and savagery that would send a sane mother running for the nearest Toyota Sierra.


Photos Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz USA

The grille of the black-on-black S-trim package that I tested has unsettlingly sinister lines. The wheels are silver trim on black alloy. The engine is a ripsnorting biturbo V8 that displaces 5.5 liters and generates 577 horsepower. That’s more than a Ferrari 458 Italia. It’s a lot more than a Porsche 991 Carrera S. It’s more than many cars.

I’m not calling this a supercar, and it’s sort of unfair to compare it to the much lighter Carrera S. If someone were to garrote me and force me to choose between the E63 AMG wagon and a 458 Italia, I don’t have to tell you I’d eventually choose the Ferrari. But on Willow Springs racetrack, in the desert way outside Los Angeles, instead of carting children to tuba practice, I unleashed my own inner child and outdid almost every fantasy I ever had in the back of my mom’s wagon.


Photos Courtesy of Mercedes-Benz USA

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