Dene McQuaid spends his days collecting and protecting classic BMWs – a dream job for any champion of the German marque
HOW WOULD you like to spend your retirement? Faffing about on a golf course? Learning to crochet? Going on coach trips to Lourdes? Or just shouting at the TV?
Fine ambitions, one and all. But nothing compared to what Dene McQuaid is doing with his: lovingly curating a wonderful collection of classic BMWs.
Following a lengthy career selling cars for Frank Keane, he retired a few years ago. But the petrol wouldn’t leave his veins. So Keane, smart fellow that he is, asked him back into the fold to look after the 15 or so classics housed at his showroom on the Naas Road.
These include an exquisite pre-war Frazer Nash-BMW 328, a couple of 2002s, the last Z3 brought into Ireland and a red E30 320i Sport, one of 21 ordered by Keane in 1992 to mark 21 years in business. All are extremely low mileage and utterly immaculate.
Drooling like a bloodhound in a sausage factory, I’m drawn to two machines in particular – the 1981 M1 and the 1992 850i – either of which would have pride of place in any petrolhead’s dream garage.
The 850i is about as in-your-face as cars get. With a specially-commissioned Ferrari yellow paint job, it’s louder than Liberace’s underpants. Shrinking violets need not apply. But it’s not all show. Under the brash exterior, it’s a technological masterpiece powered by the silkiest V12 you’ll ever have the privilege to hear.
The jewel in Keane’s crown is undoubtedly his M1. One of only 404 built, it features a straight-six 277bhp engine capable of pushing it to 160mph. While nothing special by today’s standards, it was outrageous when it first came out in 1978. Wedge-shaped, mid-engined and low as a badger’s oxters, it is one of the all-time great supercars.
Keane tells me that while he was in the BMW base in deepest Bavaria to pick up his M1, he was plonked down beside a sheikh, who asked him, conspiratorially, why he chose that particular car. “I told him it was because it was so well-built, that there wasn’t a single rattle anywhere.”
Some days later, he got a call from an exceedingly grateful BMW salesman, who told him his Arab friend put in an order for “some” M1s after their little chat. What, he asked the salesman, did he mean by “some”?
“Twenty-nine,” came the breathless response.
McQuaid’s job is to keep all his charges in tip-top shape, tuning engines, charging batteries and valiantly battling tinworm. “It’s a never-ending labour of love, there’s always something to do,” he says.
Of course, he doesn’t spend all his time tinkering and polishing and buffing. He gets to drive the cars too. “If they’re not used, things start to go wrong,” he reasons, fooling nobody.
We hop into the 850i. As he puts the foot down, the V12 rumbles into life. A noise like Odin gargling hammers blasts from the four exhausts. The world melts into a blur as an invisible elephant plonks itself on to my chest, squashing me into the seat. The LED display says we’re averaging a wallet-violating 14.3 mpg.
Glancing over at my pilot, who is grinning like a dead pig in the sun, I have something of an epiphany. When I grow up, I want a job just like his.
