The asphalt unspools ahead, a dark ribbon under the sodium glow of streetlights. This is where a machine should feel alive—where every steering input, every surge of power, should be a conversation between driver and road. The 2024 Mazda CX-90 Turbo S arrives on this scene with a pedigree that whispers promises: a rear-wheel-drive-based architecture, a sonorous turbocharged inline-six, a cabin swathed in materials that belong in cars costing twice its price. It’s the Japanese automaker’s boldest swing at the premium leagues, a three-row SUV built to challenge the established order. But after 40,000 miles of living with one, the conversation it offers is less a thrilling debate and more a monotonous monologue, punctuated by frustrating interruptions. The CX-90 isn’t a failure; it’s a profound compromise, a handsome body housing a soul that’s been quietly, consistently, neutered.
The Heart of the Beast, Dulled by a Thousand Cuts
Let’s start with the engine, because in a world of anonymous crossovers, a longitudinally mounted, turbocharged 3.3-liter inline-six is a statement. It’s Mazda’s answer to the German six-cylinder norm, a deliberate engineering choice to elevate the brand. In the Turbo S, it’s fed premium fuel to produce 340 horsepower and a meaty 369 lb-ft of torque, arriving low at 2,000 rpm. On paper, that’s a robust, flexible powerplant. In practice, the experience is schizophrenic.
Stomp the throttle, and the CX-90 lurches forward with genuine authority. The sprint to 60 mph improves over the test period from 6.4 to 6.1 seconds, and the quarter-mile dips into the 14-second range. The sound, however, is where the illusion cracks. Instead of the crisp, metallic growl of a modern turbo six, it emits a coarse, agricultural roar—a sound one editor likened to a “supercharged Mopar.” It’s not a symphony; it’s a complaint. Once that noise subsides, the powertrain’s true character emerges: lethargy. In its default Normal mode, the throttle mapping is so sleepy that the SUV feels like it’s wading through molasses. The steering is heavy and slow, with a 17.1:1 rack that demands constant correction. The body rolls like a ocean liner in a swell. The engine’s potential is constantly at war with a calibration obsessed with fuel economy, leaving a frustrating gap between request and response.
Sport mode sharpens the throttle’s reflexes, but it’s a half-measure. The steering still offers nothing but a vague warning of impending understeer. The real letdown lies in the transmission’s execution. Replacing a traditional torque converter is a multi-plate clutch pack, part of a 48-volt mild-hybrid system. Its mission is seamless engagement, but its execution is jarring. It hunts, it shudders, it disengages with the subtlety of a tectonic shift. The eight-speed automatic itself seems confused, often holding gears too long or shifting with a lazy, treacly slur, especially during that critical 1-2 upshift at low speeds. This isn’t a sophisticated powertrain; it’s a collection of good ideas poorly integrated, a technical specification sheet that fails to translate into driver joy.
Ride Quality: A Study in Contradiction
If the driving dynamics are a disappointment, the ride quality is an outright betrayal. A “premium” SUV, especially one targeting families, must master the art of comfort. The CX-90 fails spectacularly. Its suspension is tuned with a firmness that borders on punitive. Every pavement joint, every pockmark, every expansion gap sends a sharp, unmistakable thud through the cabin. It’s not a controlled, sophisticated absorbency; it’s a busy, jittery mess. “This thing hates highway chop—the ride gets so busy,” noted one editor after a long trip. The issue is compounded by the 21-inch wheels and tires.
The original test car wore Toyo Open Country A50s, which managed a skidpad figure of 0.86 g and a 70-mph stop in 172 feet. The replacement arrived on Falken Ziex CT60A all-seasons, and the degradation was immediate and measurable: grip dropped to 0.81 g, braking distance stretched to 176 feet. More damning was the wear; the Falkens were toast before 30,000 miles, a $1,133 replacement cost that stings on a $58,000 vehicle. Even switching to dedicated Pirelli Scorpion Winter tires only muted the tire slap, not the fundamental suspension harshness. A vehicle that weighs nearly 5,000 pounds should settle, not jitter. The CX-90 feels less like a luxury barge and more like a sport sedan that forgot to soften up, a critical misstep for its intended role.
The Cabin Illusion: Beauty and the Beastly Interface
Step inside, and the initial impression is a masterclass in automotive sleight-of-hand. This is where the CX-90’s “premium” argument gains traction. The materials are exceptional: soft-touch plastics, real metal trim, that fabric-wrapped dashboard with its elegant hanging stitches. The leather—whether the cream-white or the caramel tan of our long-termer—is supple and inviting. The front seats are supportive and comfortable. The second-row captain’s chairs in the Premium Plus trim are thrones, with ample recline and ventilation. For a brief, shining moment, you believe you’re in a luxury contender.
Then you try to use anything. The infotainment system, controlled by a cumbersome console-mounted knob, is a masterclass in unintuitive design. Simple tasks become odysseys. Want to tune to a non-preset SiriusXM station? Prepare to navigate: Entertainment Menu > Menu Page > Tuner Controls Submenu > scroll through sidebar. Checking tire pressures? Information Menu > Vehicle Status Monitor > Maintenance Details (not the similarly named “Vehicle Maintenance Settings”). It’s a user experience that feels willfully obtuse, a relic in an era of touchscreens. The three-zone climate controls use separate buttons for up and down, defying muscle memory. The shift lever, a by-wire unit, requires a sideways motion for Park/Reverse and an up/down for Drive/Neutral—an ergonomic puzzle that elicits daily curses. The center console bin is shockingly shallow, a major oversight for a family hauler. The CX-90’s interior writes a check its electronics and ergonomics can’t cash. The promise of luxury is there, but you have to fight through a gauntlet of annoyance to enjoy it.
Third-Room Reality and Practical Shortcomings
For a vehicle built on a 122.8-inch wheelbase—a full 7.5 inches longer than the outgoing CX-9—the third row is a cruel joke. Adult-sized passengers will be folded into the cargo area, with a mere 33 cubic feet of space behind it. The segment leaders offer genuinely usable third rows; the CX-90’s is an afterthought, suitable only for children or very short trips. This spatial contradiction is emblematic of the whole vehicle: it’s big where it doesn’t need to be (wheelbase, overall length) and cramped where it counts (rear headroom, third row, front storage).
Storage up front is another weak spot. Beyond the door pockets, you’re left with a tiny center console bin and a pair of cupholders that force you to choose between beverages and a wireless phone charger. For a vehicle priced near $60,000, this is unacceptable. The cargo hold is more generous (75/40/16 cubic feet), and the SUV proved a capable road-trip mule, swallowing 16 carry-ons behind the second row. Its 19.6-gallon tank and a real-world 30 mpg highway figure (beating its EPA estimate) gave it a 580-mile range, a genuine strength. It also towed a 5,000-pound trailer without breaking a sweat, averaging a still-respectable 22 mpg while doing so. These are the pragmatic, commendable traits that keep the CX-90 from being a complete loss.
The Unshakeable Shadow of Its Predecessor
The most painful comparison isn’t with a Telluride or a Pilot. It’s with its own ancestor, the CX-9. The long-term data is stark: our 2016 CX-9, a vehicle 565 pounds lighter, posted a 0.85-g skidpad and a 168-foot stop. The heavier, more powerful CX-90 eventually matched and slightly beat those figures (0.83 g, 166 feet) after 40,000 miles, a testament to tire wear and bedding-in. But the numbers lie. The CX-9, for all its faults, had a soul. It had a communicative steering rack, a balanced chassis, a sense of dynamic finesse that made it feel like a Miata that grew up. It was engaging. The CX-90 is stoic. It’s demure. It isolates the driver from the road with a thick, padded glove. It prioritizes quiet compliance over connection. In its quest for a premium sheen, Mazda sacrificed the very driving spirit that made its three-row SUV stand out. It became what it sought to replace: another anonymous people mover.
Reliability: The One Unwavering Constant
In the face of all these criticisms, one pillar holds firm: reliability. Over 40,000 miles, our CX-90 required no unscheduled dealer visits. The only issues were two software-related recalls (addressing powertrain faults and a potential defroster/camera issue) that were resolved without incident. The driver-assist systems, while clumsy—with adaptive cruise overreacting to adjacent vehicles and lane-keeping being overly sensitive—never left the vehicle stranded. Service costs were reasonable: $1,579 total over the life of the test, dominated by a $1,133 tire replacement and routine maintenance. The powertrain, for all its coarse character and hesitant transmission, proved mechanically sound. This is a Mazda, after all. It will start, it will run, it will get you there. But “reliable” is not the same as “rewarding.”
The Verdict: A Check the Driving Experience Can’t Cash
The 2024 Mazda CX-90 Turbo S is a vehicle of profound contradiction. It possesses the chassis architecture and engine configuration of a premium contender, wrapped in a cabin that whispers luxury. Yet, its driving dynamics are marred by a lethargic default tune, a shuddering transmission, and a punishingly stiff ride. Its infotainment and ergonomics are a masterclass in frustration. Its third row is a token gesture. It is, as our logbook summarized, “a lovely looking, richly appointed SUV undermined by a host of annoying issues.”
It sits in a no-man’s-land. Its price, even at $58,630 as tested, pits it against the Hyundai Palisade, Kia Telluride, and Toyota Grand Highlander—vehicles that are more spacious, more comfortable, and more intuitive. Yet, its aspirations are clearly aimed at the Acura MDX, Lexus TX, and even entry-level Germans. It doesn’t have the polish for the latter, and it doesn’t have the sheer practicality for the former. It’s a compromise that satisfies none completely.
For the gearhead who longs for a Mazda with a soul, the CX-90 is a heartbreak. The bones are there for something special—a six-cylinder, rear-biased AWD SUV that could dance. Instead, Mazda calibrated it for a commute, for fuel economy, for a placid, inoffensive existence. The result is a vehicle that looks like it should be thrilling but drives like it’s apologizing. After 40,000 miles, the apology wears thin. The CX-90 is a handsome, efficient, reliable shell. But beneath that sculpted skin, the heart of the beast is beating to a dull, disappointing rhythm.
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