France in the 1990s was a peculiar place for carmakers.
On one hand, you had the Peugeot 106 Rallye, a featherweight hot hatch that felt like a terrier wired to a firecracker. On the other, Citroën was building spaceships disguised as saloons, with the XM redefining what suspension could do and the Xantia Activa clinging to corners like Velcro.
Renault, meanwhile, had carved itself into motorsport history. Its F1 engines were dominating grids, its rally cars were still terrifying small villages, and its road cars were a mix of brilliant economy runabouts and oddball luxuries. But amid all of that came something almost nobody remembers: a twin-turbocharged, all-wheel-drive executive car that could, in theory, embarrass your boss’s BMW. That car was the Renault Safrane BiTurbo.
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A transcript, cleaned up via AI and edited by a staffer, is below.
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Transcript:
France in the 1990s was a peculiar place for carmakers. On one hand, you had the Peugeot 106 Rallye—a featherweight hot hatch that felt like a terrier wired to a firecracker. On the other, Citroën was building spaceships disguised as sedans. The XM redefined what suspension could do, and the Xantia Activa clung to corners like Velcro.
Renault, meanwhile, had carved its name into motorsport history. Its Formula 1 engines were dominating grids, its rally cars were still terrifying small villages, and its road cars ranged from brilliant economy runabouts to ambitious luxury cruisers. But amid all that came something few remember today: a twin-turbocharged, all-wheel-drive executive car that could, in theory, embarrass your boss’s BMW. That car was the Renault Safrane Biturbo.
The regular Safrane, launched in 1992, wasn’t exactly thrilling. It was Renault’s attempt at an executive hatchback—yes, a hatchback—meant to rival the BMW 5 Series and Mercedes E-Class. Smooth, comfortable, and undeniably French, it was more competent than exciting. Spacious, well equipped, and powered by a V6 option, it was respectable, but hardly memorable.
But Renault in the mid-’90s wasn’t content with “good.” The Clio Williams had already proven that the French could build serious hot hatches, and the Alpine A610 showed they still knew how to make proper sports cars. So, someone decided the sensible, grown-up Safrane should get a touch of Formula 1-inspired madness. Enter the Safrane Biturbo.
In 1994, Renault took its 3.0-liter PRV V6—the same engine found in the Alpine—and handed it over to Hartge and Irmscher, two tuning specialists known for squeezing extra power out of BMWs and Opels. Their solution was simple: bolt on a pair of KKK turbochargers, turn up the boost, and give France its first proper executive rocket.
For its time, the numbers were impressive. Output rose to 258 horsepower and 268 lb-ft of torque, with the boost arriving as low as 2,500 rpm. Unlike the high-revving Germans, the Renault surged forward from motorway speeds with the relentless pull of a freight train. Zero to 60 mph took 7.2 seconds—hardly remarkable now, but solid in the early ’90s.
Sending that power only to the front wheels would have been disastrous, so Renault fitted its Quadra all-wheel-drive system from the 21 Turbo. Combined with a five-speed manual gearbox, it demanded genuine driver involvement—no automatic option here.
The chassis received equal attention. The Biturbo featured an adaptive suspension system by Boge, a rarity in the early ’90s and virtually unheard of in a French luxury car. It wasn’t a floaty, roll-happy barge. Contemporary reviews praised its ability to blend supple comfort with remarkably flat cornering—like a magic carpet that could also tackle a twisty road.
Inside, the Biturbo delivered all the trappings of a French executive flagship. Leather covered the seats, doors, and dashboard. Every convenience—electric windows, mirrors, and seats—came standard. In Baccara trim, the top-spec version, Renault added every luxury it could think of. This was France’s idea of a super saloon: indulgent, eccentric, and quietly confident rather than brash or clinical.
On paper, the Biturbo couldn’t quite match the raw pace of a BMW 540i or Audi S4. At nearly 1,800 kilograms, it was heavy. But where the Germans were precise and surgical, the Renault was a velvet hammer—quieter, smoother, and more comfortable, yet still capable of a wicked punch when the turbos came alive.
Hartge reportedly considered pushing output to 300 horsepower, which would have made the Biturbo a true rival to Porsche and BMW’s best. But Renault, cautious about reliability and warranty costs, capped it at 258 horsepower. It’s a shame—at 300, it might have been remembered as France’s answer to the M5.
Instead, it sat awkwardly between categories: too fast for a typical Renault, not fast enough to challenge the Germans, and too expensive for most buyers. The result was extreme rarity. Between 1994 and 1996, only 806 examples were built—making it rarer than a Ferrari F40. You’re statistically more likely to see an Italian supercar than a twin-turbo French executive sedan.
Today, finding one is almost impossible. But for those who’ve driven it, the Biturbo is unforgettable. The combination of twin-turbo thrust, all-wheel drive grip, adaptive suspension, and unapologetically French luxury made it a compelling alternative to the German establishment.
It wasn’t the fastest, the lightest, or the most reliable—but it was different. And in a world of executive cars that often blur together, “different” is what makes something worth remembering. The Renault Safrane Biturbo is one of those rare oddities only the French could have built: ambitious, technically fascinating, and executed with equal parts genius and folly.
It never stood a chance commercially, but it didn’t need to. It proved that Renault could challenge the Germans—not by copying them, but by doing things in its own distinctly French way. Nearly forgotten today, overshadowed by hot hatches and Alpine sports cars, the Safrane Biturbo remains one of the great hidden gems of the 1990s.
