So, the Volkswagen Golf GTI is turning fifty. Get out the balloons and the overpriced merchandise, because Wolfsburg is desperate to convince you that the new “Edition 50” is the ultimate tribute to the Grand Tourer Injection legacy. It’s a cute attempt, really, if your idea of “ultimate” involves some new wheels and a few badges that make the accountants happy.
But if we’re being honest, the real GTI peak happened nearly two decades ago, and it wasn’t something you could actually buy without being a corporate deity. Back in 2007, when the world wasn’t yet obsessed with plastic “green” spreadsheets, VW built the W12-650.
It wasn’t just a concept. Volkswagen has dusted off this monster, now repainted in Tornado Red, to remind us of what happens when engineers are allowed to drink something stronger than decaf. This is a “hybrid” in the only way that matters: a Frankenstein’s monster stitched together from the best parts of the VW Group’s high-end pantry.
Underneath that Mk5 body, which was widened by a massive 160 millimeters just to keep it from exploding, lies a 6.0-liter twin-turbo W12 heart ripped straight out of a Bentley Continental GT. They shoved it behind the front seats, turning a practical compact car into a mid-engine beast.
We’re talking 641 HP and 750 Nm of torque sent exclusively to the rear wheels. To manage this chaos, they used a six-speed automatic from the ill-fated Phaeton and added the front brakes from an Audi RS4. The rear axle and stoppers? Stolen from a Lamborghini Gallardo.
A 0-60 mph sprint in 3.7 seconds. Even today, that makes the high-tech, all-wheel-drive Golf R look like it’s stuck in a school zone. It allegedly tops out at 202 mph, though nobody at Volkswagen had the courage to officially verify that on the Autobahn. With a carbon fiber roof air scoop and a C-pillar redesigned just to feed that hungry W12, it’s the most “unobtanium” Golf ever conceived.
Driving a short-wheelbase hatchback with that much torque to the rear wheels on 295mm tires is less like “motoring” and more like wrestling a greased lightning bolt. It’s moody, it’s impractical, and it’s completely unnecessary.
