A few weeks ago I bought a Mercedes C124. It’s nice. Being the coupe it’s certainly on the eye-catching spectrum of the 124 line-up. But it was never really a dream car.

In fact, if you’ve asked ten-year-old me what I wanted parked on the driveway, a boxy E Class with plastic wheel trims would have been near bottom of the list. Which is exactly what makes buying one now so interesting.

For me that was much more likely to be something truly exceptional like a hydraulic Citroen DS. That was a car that fuelled imagination. By comparison, an W124 was an omnipresent, ageing old bus. Usually missing a wheel trim and on its fifth owner by the time I was 10. It existed in the background.

As a car-obsessed kid in the early 2000s, it was the diesel estate loaded with bikes and luggage on the way to France. It was the somewhat questionably modified coupe the manager of the local Spar used to drive. Before that, it was the choice of architects, solicitors and dads, who bought cars for reasons that seemed painfully sensible.

Not exotic. Not exciting. Simply, Mercedes. A few years ago though, I stopped slowing down every time I saw one. Not because it’s valuable. It’s not even that rare. But because somewhere along the way, my appreciation of what makes a great car changed. 

Built to be the benchmark.

Launched back in 1984, the W124 really was never intended to become an icon. It was simply the replacement for the long-in-the-tooth W123, aimed squarely at continuing Benz’s reputation for building the world’s finest cars.

Despite the fact it was designed to last three decades, it was never an exercise in how to create a classic. It was the days before manufacturers could build a marketing campaign around heritage, and a good three decades before the invention of social ads. This was simply a group of highly skilled engineers led by Bruno Sacco, tasked with creating an exceptional, un-exceptional car.

The resulting design didn’t shout. But it was quietly exceptional. Very much so.

Even today, the drag coefficient of early 124 models remains impressive. The rear-link suspension? Well that still serves as the basis for manufacturers across the globe. Innovations such as the single windscreen wiper with its eccentric sweep pattern demonstrates an attention to detail that bordered on obsessive.

None of these things sold the car on their own, but together they created something extraordinary.

When engineers held the pen.

The 124 arrived during the final years of an automotive philosophy that feels impossible today. Mercedes was still largely driven by engineers, and the brief wasn’t ensuring a car would hit a monthly finance payment. It wasn’t to maximise screen size or software subscriptions. It wasn’t even to beat a competitor that offered a few extra creature comforts.

The objective was simpler: Build the best car possible. And that philosophy manifested itself everywhere. Door hinges felt overbuilt. Switchgear operated with mechanical precision. Interior materials seem chosen with decades rather than years in mind.

European taxi fleets regularly covered half a million miles, and some comfortably exceeded one million. It might not have been designed to be indestructible, but it was simply engineered with margins no manufacturer could justify today.

The world changed.

It’s tempting to conclude that Mercedes simply lost its way, but in reality, things are more complicated. The automotive world that created the 124 no longer exists, which is no surprise considering the obligatory first-aid kit in the parcel shelf proudly declares the fact it was “Made in West Germany”.

Geo-politics aside, crash regulations transformed body structures. Pedestrian safety changed has front-end design. Emissions legislation reshaped engines. Electronics became unavoidable. Connectivity became expected. Most importantly, global competition intensified.

Today, shareholders demand efficiency and customers demand competitive monthly payments. The “engineering first” philosophy has arguably been lost. And Mercedes knew this.

What would come after the W124? The primary challenge facing Mercedes wasn’t building a better car; it was building a better business.

The software became as important as steel

Mercedes has given up its badge mascot on most of its models. But that isn’t the biggest difference between the modern stuff and a 124. The new stuff is written by code.

The W124’s characterful robustness came entirely from its inherent mechanical engineering prowess. Today’s Mercedes is equally defined by software. Batter management. ADAS. Infotainment with over-the-air updates. In truth the car no longer leaves the factory finished. It continues evolving throughout its life.

That’s an astonishing achievement, but it also means engineering excellence is measured completely differently. Invisible craftsmanship once found in panel gaps, castings and bearings now lives inside processors and programming. Steel gave way to silicon.

Will there ever be another W124?

Technically? Of course it’s possible. Commercially? Probably not. A car developed with the same philosophy today would be significantly heavier, dramatically more expensive and almost impossible to justify in a market where customers replace vehicles almost as quickly as they replace their phones.

Modern luxury means different things. In 1989, luxury meant engineering that would outlive the owner. Today, it means a seamless infotainment system, autonomous driving tech and software that improves your car while you’re tucked up in bed.

Neither is inherently better really, but there are few products that show the direction the world has headed better than a big Mercedes.

Have we lost something?

Yes. But we’ve gained things too. A new E Class is several hundred percent safer than Bruno Sacco could ever have imagined possible. Cleaner and more efficient too. Quieter and better equipped.

The fully electric models represent one of the biggest technological shifts in automotive history. But somewhere along the journey, something became harder to measure. Not reliability, not quality, but character.

The W124 feels like a machine designed by people who believed every component mattered, even if the customer never noticed. Perhaps that why enthusiasts still notice now. 

The cars stay the same. We don’t.

I sometimes wonder whether I’d have appreciated the W124 if I’d driven one when it was new.  I’d likely have dismissed it as conservative and sensible. In reality, I was mistaking restraint with dullness.

As a kid I was fascinated by cars that tried to be different. Citroens with hydropneumatic suspension. Saabs with strange ignition keys. Anything with pop-up headlights. Meanwhile, the Mercedes just got on with its job. 

And, while the 124 itself didn’t change, my perspective certainly did. Experience teaches us to value different things, and with the changes the last decade has seen in the automotive industry, engineering and perceived quality starts to matter. Longevity matters too.

Perhaps the best cars aren’t the loudest ones. It’s the quiet ones that silently continue to do everything exceptionally well. The W124 appears to have transcended fashion precisely because it was never designed to chase it. Not built around a trend, it just got on with its job with extraordinary competence.

Perhaps more than any other, it captures a closing chapter of a certain era of car making. Today, we’re certainly writing a very different chapter; software-defined, increasingly electric.

One day, I’m sure people will look back at today’s EV’s with the same affection, because they’ll represent another moment when the industry fundamentally changed direction.

They’re not opposites. They’re just different chapters of the same story, and the W124’s chapter will most likely never be repeated.

Analogue and electric. Past and future.