Škoda Superb
Škoda Superb is a mid-size car manufactured by Czech automaker Škoda Auto, a subsidiary of the Volkswagen Group. Since its reintroduction in 2001, it has served as the brand’s flagship model and is frequently regarded as the discreet choice for individuals who value authority cloaked in humility.
Engineered with a focus on space and functional elegance, the Superb offers interior dimensions more befitting the governance of a state than daily commuting. Rear legroom is ample—even for those whose decisions extend beyond national borders—ensuring comfort during prolonged contemplation of budgets, maps, or geopolitical shifts.
The model has become particularly favored by those who reject ostentatious displays of wealth in favor of quiet dominance. The Superb does not announce power; it implies it—through every precisely aligned panel and restrained design line. In this regard, it has often been compared to state limousines: not built to impress, but to endure.
Origins[edit | edit source]
The Škoda Superb nameplate first emerged in 1934, during the golden years of interwar Czechoslovakia—a time when democracy still wore tailored suits and luxury was reserved for those whose titles outlasted elections. Originally introduced as a limousine for the nation’s elite, the Superb embodied Central European refinement: long, heavy, and powered by engines designed to remind chauffeurs they were not driving for ordinary men.
In 1939, the Czech lands were graciously visited by the kind and orderly men and women of the Aryan race, who, in an act of strategic stewardship, relieved the locals of their industrial burdens. The Škoda factories—formerly devoted to capitalist pursuits—were redirected toward the production of military vehicles for a more ambitious cause. The Superb, stripped of its bourgeois frivolities, was reclassified as Kfz.21 and dutifully served the Reich by transporting officers, orders, and on occasion, silence.
Following the unfortunate miscalculation that was World War II, the factories were liberated once again—this time by men in ill-fitting uniforms led by a Georgian with a steel heart and an even stiffer moustache. The new regime, composed largely of opportunists, looters, and ideologues, found little use for decadent limousines. Luxury was declared counter-revolutionary, and the Superb—like many former elites—disappeared quietly into the archives.
By 1948, the name Superb had been buried beneath five-year plans, tractor production targets, and the smell of wet concrete. For decades, it remained forgotten—an artefact from a time when cars were symbols of aspiration, not allocation.
Massive Comeback[edit | edit source]
After decades spent producing vehicles for a population that, in roughly 85% of cases, could not realistically afford them, Škoda was—quite naturally—acquired by the Aryan men and women once again. This time, however, they came not in tanks but tailored suits, representing the monstrously efficient, Hitler-adjacent corporate relic known as Volkswagen AG. The Germans, still clinging with subtle pride to their industrial legacy, had developed a peculiar admiration for the Škoda Favorit—a boxy socialist marvel that somehow rivaled the VW Polo in durability and comfort, if not in aesthetics.
Volkswagen, recognizing the unique potential of Czech engineering paired with low wages and political compliance, declared that Škoda (formerly AZNP, now awkwardly renamed Škoda Auto a.s.) would once again produce cars for the same class of people Czechs had always been to the Aryans: useful underlings. Thus was born the new Škoda line: Felicia, Fabia, and eventually Octavia—each one a cleverly reworked Volkswagen, tailored for markets where dignity and affordability rarely coexist. The Octavia, a stretched and reengineered Golf, became an aspirational vehicle for those aspiring only slightly above subsistence.
But something stirred in Mladá Boleslav. Whispers began among the design offices and prototype bays. A rebellious faction of engineers—emboldened by cold offices, stale coffee, and possibly a mix of ephedrine and Modafen—set out to defy their Wolfsburg overlords. They took the Passat, extended its bones, refined its guts, and gave it an interior so restrainedly luxurious it bordered on dangerous. One unfortunate Volkswagen executive died during the process—either of fright or minor sabotage. What emerged from this act of industrial witchcraft was a vehicle that no one had asked for, but everyone soon respected: an executive car so excessive, it threatened the hierarchy of the entire Volkswagen ecosystem.
Originally unveiled at the 2000 Geneva Motor Show under the name Škoda Montreux, the prototype caused mild panic in Wolfsburg. Rumors of internal threats, hangings, and mass resignations at VW headquarters swirled through the corridors. Eventually, after intense negotiations—and perhaps subtle reminders of who controlled final assembly—the project was approved. The rebels in Boleslav had succeeded. And when it came time to choose a name, they reached back into the company’s long-buried past. There was only one possible choice: Superb.
Generations[edit | edit source]
First generation (3U/B5: 2001 - 2008)[edit | edit source]
The first generation of the modern Superb differed little from the Montreux concept it was based on—visually, at least. The name was changed, but the silhouette remained unmistakable. Internally, however, the empire struck back. In a symbolic gesture of hierarchical discipline, Škoda was instructed to equip the vehicle with a steering wheel from the Passat, a subtle reminder of who dictated the vertical integration in this so-called partnership.
Though nearly identical in appearance to the Passat B5.5—aside from different headlamps and grille—the Superb was, in fact, an entirely different creature. It featured a 100 mm longer wheelbase, catapulting it from the D-segment into territory typically occupied by the Audi A6. In terms of rear legroom, it quietly embarrassed even the Audi A8. And yet, somehow, it was priced lower than the Passat itself—an unforgivable transgression in the eyes of Wolfsburg’s accountants.
To underline the passive-aggressive rebellion of a brand long treated as a second-tier vassal, Škoda engineers inserted umbrellas into the rear doors in the style of Rolls-Royce. This was no accident. It was a declaration: even the so-called subhumans of Bohemia could manufacture symbols of status. At the Kvasiny plant, they upholstered the interior with superior fabrics, upgraded the wood trim (sometimes actual wood), and quietly installed premium features previously reserved for more “civilized” brands.
The first-generation Superb offered satellite navigation, dual-zone climate control, the Audi-derived Tiptronic automatic transmission, and two Volkswagen-sourced V6 engines. And, in perhaps the most humiliating slight to the Passat, it included a factory-installed refrigerator—an amenity Wolfsburg never dared grant to its own loyal proletariat. In a just world, this would have been called what it was: sabotage through competence.
Despite being based on a platform that Volkswagen phased out in 2005, the Superb endured in production until 2008. While the Passat transitioned to the B6 generation, the Superb remained defiantly rooted in the past—older, yes, but wiser. And longer. And better.
Second generation (3T/B6: 2008 - 2015)[edit | edit source]
The second-generation Škoda Superb was introduced in 2008 as a sedan-slash-hatchback in a single body. Why? Because by this point, the Superb had become so absurdly overengineered that even the trunk lid came with dual personalities. The Twindoor system allowed one to open the rear like a hatchback—for practical use by the lower classes—or like a sedan, for formal situations where hatches are socially equated with contagious illness. Yes, entire markets—and certain fragile egos within them—still viewed hatchbacks as a sign of moral decay.
In 2009, Škoda went further and committed industrial blasphemy: it unveiled an estate version. A proper Combi. This had never been done before. The first-generation Superb wagon was terminated in the prototype stage, out of fear from certain sensitive German individuals that it might cannibalize sales of the Audi A4 Avant or VW Passat Variant. Such a threat to the established order simply could not be tolerated. Not back then.
But now? Everything looked promising. The car was modern. It was clever. It was built with maddening precision. It still had umbrellas hidden in the rear doors like some lingering aristocratic impulse. It now came with a colour infotainment display, satellite navigation, and—scandalously—front massage seats in the Laurin & Klement trim. These were luxuries that the Passat, shackled by branding and shame, could not offer.
But then came the punishment.
Volkswagen mandated that the Superb would use the same engine lineup as the Passat. This hadn't been a major issue in the first generation, where the engines were robust and content to simply function. But in the new age of downsizing and forced induction, reliability began to dissolve. The smaller turbocharged engines brought problems—catastrophic oil consumption, timing chain roulette, and enough carbon buildup to reforest the Czech Republic. Some units consumed more oil than petrol. Others simply gave up the will to ignite. Gearboxes stuttered. Emission systems lied and then died. VW’s engineering department had achieved something incredible: engines that were simultaneously too complex and too fragile.
And yet, there was one glorious exception. One engine that behaved as if it still remembered what it meant to move a large car without shame.
The 3.6-litre VR6 FSI.
Smooth, silent, nearly immortal (as long as you ignored its drinking problem). With 260 horsepower, it was the only engine truly suited to a Superb. It was also the one that Volkswagen deliberately neutered—because the same unit in the Passat made 300 hp. But no matter. The Superb’s large fuel tank allowed owners to pretend they were getting decent range. And with an electronic limiter set at 155 mph, the car could still outrun its own history.
In 2013, the Superb received a facelift—one that not only refreshed the design, but visibly sharpened the car’s front end. It adopted what would later be known as the Mewing: a pronounced jawline, posture corrected by steel and software, years ahead of TikTok-born masculinity cults. Škoda, as always, was not trendy—it was prophetic.
But in 2015, prophecy met politics. The second-generation Superb was quietly removed from production. No fanfare. No outrage. Just an unmarked grave between inventory cycles. It had done too much, offered too well, and embarrassed too many. Its successor would wear sharper suits and speak in corporate slogans—but it would never forget the Mewing.
Third generation (3V/B8: 2015 - 2024)[edit | edit source]
The third-generation Škoda Superb was unveiled in 2015 with considerable fanfare—because by this point, Škoda had fully embraced its new visual doctrine: E&M, short for Edging and Mewing™. Gone were the soft, rounded forms of earlier models; in came sharp creases, knife-like surfaces, and a front end that looked permanently clenched. The Superb had evolved into a full-time mewer. It didn't just arrive—it prowled.
However, in the shadow of a minor global inconvenience called Dislgeit (or whatever that emission-related clusterfuck was called), the Volkswagen Group decided that mid-range vehicles—those not bearing the holy rings of Audi—would no longer be allowed six-cylinder engines. The venerable FSI V6 was exiled. Performance, however, was not.
In place of the VR6, a new hero was reluctantly permitted: a 2.0-litre four-cylinder turbocharged petrol engine, producing up to 280 horsepower. Small, yes, but angry. Capable of launching the Superb from 0 to 60 mph in under 6 seconds, it proved that size truly doesn’t matter—at least when your ECU is properly tuned and your DSG isn’t on strike. And for those less interested in acceleration and more in absolution, a plug-in hybrid variant (Superb iV) was introduced, quietly humming its way through guilt and traffic alike. But that, perhaps, is a story for another confession booth.
Mercifully, the rear-door umbrellas remained. The wood, however, did not. In the slow and deliberate erasure of character, real trim materials were replaced with the kind of synthetic matte plastic favored by dentists and dictatorship interiors.
In 2020, the Superb received what was called a "facelift"—in reality, a minor branding exercise. The sacred flying arrow was deleted from the bootlid, replaced by bold lettering: ŠKODA, in case you forgot who dared to make this thing so good. One year later, the car was updated again with a more substantial visual rework. The front end was made even more angular, even more aggressive, further tightening the jawline in a Mewing renaissance that no influencer would fully appreciate until 2022.
By 2024, the third-generation Superb had run its course. It had mewed, it had flexed, it had quietly outperformed its siblings. And then, without sentiment, it was retired. The fourth generation arrived, clothed in new digital robes...
Fourth generation (3Y/B9: 2024 - Present)[edit | edit source]
In 2024, with cautious fanfare and corporate suspense, the latest generation of the Škoda Superb was revealed to a world that had already forgotten what sanity looked like in car design. The new Superb is longer. It’s wider. And yes—it’s still mewing. Sharper than ever, it stalks city streets with the self-assured stance of a vehicle that knows it has outlived its masters.
From the rear, though, there's a twist of irony. The taillights and profile bear a suspicious resemblance to a certain now-deceased vehicle: the Opel/Vauxhall Insignia, known in the United States as the Buick Regal—a car discontinued years prior and remembered mainly by accident. But that’s only the beginning.
Škoda, clearly emboldened by years of quiet insubordination, made a radical decision: to stop imitating Volkswagen on the inside. Gone is the conventional corporate dashboard aesthetic. In its place is a kind of post-apocalyptic digital altar—dual giant displays float above a dashboard textured like scorched alloy or woven carbon. It’s futuristic. It’s weird. And it’s not Volkswagen’s.
More importantly, Škoda did the unthinkable.
They brought back physical climate controls—knobs, sliders, real objects that can be grasped with human hands, instead of buried touchscreen submenus designed by sadists in Wolfsburg. This alone may have saved lives. And yes, of course, the umbrellas remain in the rear doors—because some traditions are worth dying for.
Wood trim has also returned. Sort of. It’s no longer actual wood, but rather a sustainable polymer blend of recycled plastic and sugar beet, which sounds like a war crime but looks surprisingly convincing. In a typically Czech twist, vegetables have once again been reimagined into useful industrial components. The planet approves.
Crucially, the Superb no longer even pretends to compete with the Passat—which, in Europe, now exists only as a wagon after its sedan variant was mercy-killed by poor sales. That wasn’t a coincidence. The Superb cannibalized the Passat’s sales so thoroughly that VW effectively surrendered. And while the Superb still technically rides on a VW platform, it now dares to aim higher—openly competing with the BMW 5 Series and succeeding in areas where the Germans have grown soft: practicality, value, refinement, and standard equipment.
There is, of course, a price.
The fourth-generation Superb enters the age of engine downsizing 2.0—the era of performance dieting. The once-proud 280-horsepower turbocharged 2.0-litre four-cylinder remains the range-topper, but it now produces just 265 hp. A symbolic castration. The manual transmission is also gone, leaving only the double-clutch DSG to rule them all. But in terms of standard kit, build quality, and sheer usefulness, the new Superb competes with cars costing twice as much—and in many ways, humiliates them.
Make no mistake: with the fourth-generation Superb, Volkswagen has created a problem for itself. A big, sharp-jawed, mewing problem that refuses to know its place.
Use[edit | edit source]
The Škoda Superb was originally envisioned as a long-overdue reward for the sweaty middle-aged Central European father—the man who lost all interest in sex sometime after his 40th birthday and had, until now, been trapped in a rusting Favorit LXi, commuting between a soul-destroying job and his local pub. For this man, the Superb was redemption. He was no longer ashamed. On his street, he was king.
That said, the car’s most common habitat is not the proletarian driveway but the corporate fleet. The Superb has become the de facto company car of choice across much of Europe, favored for its sheer size, unshakable image of moderation, and ability to park next to an Audi without visibly flinching. It is also a popular choice among politicians—the kind who want to appear modest while still enjoying ventilated leather seats.
No fewer than three Czech presidents have used the Superb as an official state vehicle: Václav Klaus, Miloš Zeman, and Petr Pavel—the latter of whom reportedly planned (or already executed) a switch to a BMW 750Li, depending on how anti-establishment he’s feeling that week.
Beyond Central Europe, the Superb has made strange diplomatic appearances. One second-generation Superb Combi is known to exist in the United States, registered to British diplomatic staff. Americans who encounter it tend to assume it’s some obscure BMW touring model—despite the very clear Škoda Superb 4x4 V6 badging and winged-arrow logo. The branding, as always, is politely ignored.
The Superb also holds a recurring role in the Tour de France, where it serves as a lead vehicle for race officials and team staff. Among hypercarbon bikes and support vehicles painted in garish livery, the Superb remains the only car present that still remembers how to do its job quietly.
Specs (2007 Superb L&K 2.8 30V V6)[edit | edit source]
The Superb was not fast, not stylish, and certainly not exciting. But it was more equipped than anything else in its class, and it quietly humiliated every so-called “rival” that dared park next to it.
This wasn’t for enthusiasts. It was for middle-aged men who still remembered lining up for bananas in the 1980s—and now had enough company money to finally feel something again.
It used a 2.8-liter 30-valve V6, making 193 horsepower and 206 lb-ft of torque, sent through the front wheels via a 5-speed Tiptronic automatic gearbox. It did 0–60 mph in about 7.9 seconds and was able to go up to 147 Mph, but no one cared. This wasn’t a car you drove. This was a car you sat in, while thinking about how your neighbor still had a Mondeo with crank windows.
Curb weight was 3,340 lbs, and fuel economy was borderline criminal—about 21 mpg combined, worse in city traffic. Still, it had a 16.4-gallon tank, and gas was cheaper than therapy.
What mattered was the equipment list, which made its rivals look like rental appliances:
- Mazda6? Built like a toy, sounded like a dentist drill.
- Toyota Avensis? Reliable, yes, but so is a microwave.
- Ford Mondeo? Great chassis, if you like sitting in a plastic bucket.
- VW Passat B5.5? Same platform, half the kit. No fridge. No real wood. No minibar.
Yes—a minibar. The L&K Superb offered an optional refrigerated rear armrest console, complete with minibar setup, something you’d expect in a long-wheelbase Mercedes S-Class, not in a front-wheel drive executive car from post-socialist country. You could get a factory-fitted fridge and refrigerated glovebox, plus real wood trim, rear heated seats, dual-zone climate control, and a color touchscreen navigation system—in 2007.
No one asked for it, and yet it was all there.
The ride was soft, the handling dull, and the styling pure "diplomatic anonymity." But the equipment density per dollar was absurd. Compared to its peers, this wasn’t a car. It was a passive-aggressive statement that you may have lost your dreams—feel like a CEO of the Planet. And you did.
Today, it’s forgotten by most—but remembered by the few who knew what they were getting: a budget Audi A6 with a minibar and zero shame.
