I am the Mazda 13B. Born in the fires of Hiroshima’s engineering halls, I am twin rotors spinning in eternal, perfectly balanced motion. No clumsy pistons slamming up and down like drunk blacksmiths. No heavy crankshaft throwing itself around like a wrecking ball. Just me—smooth, screaming, alive. And I am here to tell you exactly why I am a better engine than that lumbering brute, the Chevy LS V8.
Let’s start with the obvious: size. I am tiny. A compact 1.3-liter miracle that weighs barely more than a well-fed housecat compared to the LS’s portly 400-plus pounds of cast iron and aluminum excess. Stuff me into an RX-7 or RX-8 and the car becomes a scalpel. The LS? It’s a sledgehammer that needs its own foundation poured just to sit still. I let designers put the weight where it belongs—low and centered—for razor-sharp handling. The LS forces engineers to compensate for its beer-gut mass with bigger brakes, stiffer springs, and endless compromises. I dance. The LS lumbers.
Now, revs. Oh, the revs. I sing up to 8,500, 9,000, even 10,000 rpm when properly built. Each rotation is pure joy. The LS? It grunts to maybe 6,500 on a good day before valve float and rod failure start whispering sweet nothings of destruction. My power comes on like a banshee’s wail—linear, intoxicating, addictive. You feel every degree of throttle as the rotors sweep fresh air and fuel into the chambers with hypnotic precision. The LS delivers its torque in a lazy wave down low, sure, but that’s just brute force pretending to be character. I deliver excitement at the top where real driving happens. Bridge apexes at redline in third gear and you’ll understand why my drivers grin like madmen while LS owners are already shifting and yawning.
Weight is destiny in performance. I make cars feel alive. Drop me into a Miata or an FD RX-7 and the power-to-weight ratio becomes ridiculous. The LS crowd loves to brag about 500, 700, even 1,000 horsepower builds, but they’re usually hauling around an extra 300-400 pounds of unnecessary engine. That extra mass kills acceleration in the real world, hurts braking distances, and murders cornering grip. I let chassis engineers chase perfection. The LS forces them to chase forgiveness for its own sins.
Sound. Let’s talk about the voice of God. My exhaust note is a raspy, screaming howl that rises and falls like a turbine crossed with a chainsaw. At idle I burble with that signature rotary chatter. On boost I rip the sky open. It’s unmistakable. Iconic. The LS? It’s a muscle car rumble. Respectable, sure. Classic, even. But ultimately forgettable—like every other V8 on the planet. Mine is the sound of something alien and wonderful. When people hear me coming, they don’t think “another Camaro.” They think “What the hell is that?” And then they smile.
Reliability? The haters love to point at apex seals like they’re some fatal flaw. Sure, neglect me and I’ll teach you expensive lessons. But treat me right—good oil, proper warm-ups, quality parts—and I’ll spin happily for hundreds of thousands of kilometers. Bridge-port me, run a proper ECU, keep the temps in check, and I become a high-revving monster that outlives many neglected LS engines running on 87 octane and wishful thinking. The LS is “reliable” the way a tractor is reliable: boring and overbuilt for farm duty. I am reliable the way a samurai sword is reliable—devastating when wielded by someone who understands the blade.
Fuel economy? I’ll grant the LS wins here on paper. But who buys either of us for economy? I’m not here to sip fuel like a Prius. I’m here to devour it with passion. And when you factor in my smaller overall package allowing lighter cars with better aerodynamics, the gap narrows. Plus, nothing beats the grin-per-gallon ratio I deliver.
Simplicity is another lie the LS crowd tells. They boast about pushrods and two valves per cylinder like it’s a feature. I have no valves. No camshafts. No timing chains to rattle. Just rotors, eccentric shaft, and seals.