What It’s Like to Own an E63 AMG WagonS

The Mercedes E63 AMG Wagon is loved by Mercedes-Benz and journalists alike. Journalists love it because, by virtue of simply being a journalist, there is a requirement to love fast wagons. This dates back to the days of the Oregon Trail, when journalists would hitch a really fast ox to the front of a Conestoga wagon and write about how it was great, but it’d be better if it were a diesel.

Meanwhile, Mercedes-Benz loves the E63 AMG Wagon because it allows them to put the E-Class in front of journalists. If not for the E63 AMG Wagon, journalists asked to take an E-Class press car would politely decline, reminding the Mercedes-Benz PR office that they don’t work for the AARP Magazine. (In the next issue: Does the E-Class have enough room for an orthopedic exercise ball? We investigate.)

The problem is that once journalists spend a few days in the E63 AMG Wagon, they inevitably give it back and it’s sold to someone who should probably be arrested for child endangerment. Indeed, beyond a few short reviews, we rarely hear any more about the zenith of the fast station wagon. But have you ever wondered what it’s like to live with an E63 AMG Wagon?

I did. So I bought one. And I’ll say this: It’s awesome.

I’ve already written extensively about my E63 AMG Wagon elsewhere. So rather than write another review, I’ll take you through a typical day during the period in my life when I owned a 507-horsepower station wagon with rear-facing child seats.

8:15am: Wake up. This would usually be a problem, since I live 15 miles from work and have to be in by 9. But remember: I have an E63 AMG Wagon.

8:30am: Get gas. The tank was empty because I used the car the prior night to visit my girlfriend, who lives four miles away.

8:45am: Arrive at work 20 minutes early. If any Atlanta-area police officers read Jalopnik, this isn’t because I broke any laws. Traffic just happened to be light. Especially on the shoulder.

8:50am: Enter elevator. I worked at Porsche’s corporate headquarters. An executive steps in behind me. “What are you driving these days, Doug?” My response prompts a head nod and an unspoken “What the hell are we paying this guy?”

Noon: Go for lunch. My colleagues pile into the AMG Wagon. Two think it’s funny sit in the rear-facing third row. Unfortunately, putting adults back there is like Hakeem Olajuwon doing push-ups in the parcel shelf of an SL550. Despite the space restrictions, they ride in back anyway. Because when was the last time you got to sit in a rear-facing third row?

1pm: Return from lunch. Pull up at a stop light next to an E63 AMG sedan. The driver glances over, then returns to his phone conversation. Ahh, AMG camaraderie.

6:30pm: Leave work. Meet up with friends to visit the quarter-mile Atlanta Dragway an hour from the city in rural Commerce, Georgia. On the way, stop for gas. Again. No one says anything about my car. This is contrary to when I owned a Lotus, and men would walk up to excitedly tell me about the time their sister’s husband’s mom owned a Corvette in 1987.

7:30pm: Arrive at dragstrip. During second run, fuel is low again. Stop for gas about an eighth-mile down the strip. Still run a 14.

8:30pm: Everyone who was making fun of “the station wagon” now loves it. Except for the guy in the ’69 Camaro with slicks who keeps losing to it. He gets especially mad when a friend rides in the wagon’s rear-facing third row and waves to him as we pull away.

9:30pm: Leave dragstrip. In the parking lot, the wagon’s “check engine” light goes on. The navigation screen flickers. Tomorrow, I’ll visit the dealership, where I’ll be subject to a $1,500 repair bill. But first, I have to get gas.