The Honda Prelude is one of the more surprising nameplates to be resuscitated in the last decade. We first saw it back in 2023, as a concept, and the pearlescent white coupe soon blushed into a bright red version unveiled last year, when Honda announced that the sixth-gen Prelude would enter production in late 2025, after a nearly 25-year hiatus. The response to the new Prelude has been divided, to say the least.
Honda’s been consistently upfront about the car’s hybrid drivetrain, which is expected to arrive without the option of a manual transmission. Commence gnashing of teeth, torn hair, and public wailing. It’s an understandable reaction; most folks consider past ‘Ludes as defined by their revvy four-cylinder, slick manual transmission, and sharp handling characteristics, like most sporty Hondas of the 1980s through the 2000s. The new hybrid Prelude, then, will be an affront to the badge—another cynical cash-grab of the modern eco-era. Well, that’s the position of some enthusiasts, at least. Others, who are familiar with the preceding five generations of Prelude, are likely unsurprised at the new Prelude’s (seemingly) soporific powertrain.
I blame the modern discourse around 1980s and 1990s Japanese cars for this discrepancy. This fervor created heroes from hens, stripping so much context from a car that casual observers struggle to reconcile the original purpose of the car with its current status as a “classic.” What should thoughtful enthusiasts expect from the Prelude, past and present? The answer lies in the name.
For a little over 20 years, the Prelude was Honda’s stage for cutting-edge, production-ready tech, serving as the most technologically advanced and (sometimes) the highest-performance Honda short of the NSX. Over five generations, the Prelude became the brand’s first car to feature a power moon-roof, four-wheel steering, active torque vectoring, or anti-lock brakes, a Japan-exclusive option then charmingly referred to as “ALB.” While it wasn’t the first Honda to feature VTEC (that distinction goes to the Acura NSX), the Prelude was the vehicle that brought Honda’s signature variable valve timing technology to the masses. In essence, we should look to the Prelude as an, ah, prelude to the next generation of Civic or Accord.
The Prelude was not a peaky, high-strung counterpart to Honda’s Type R products. It’s best thought of as the techy, athletic sibling of the Accord, serving more as a foil to the Celica and Mazda MX-6 than a shot across the bow of the Supra or RX-7. That the Prelude is a buzzy, combustion-forward sports coupe with a manual transmission is more a symptom of its era rather than a defining characteristic of the nameplate.
With all that in mind, what should you expect from a classic Prelude? Thanks to Honda, we have the answer. As part of the lead-up to the sixth-gen’s production debut later this year, the automaker drafted five minty ‘Ludes from its sizeable vault for myself and other members of media to sample.
Let’s start from the beginning.
And … let’s keep moving! The oldest Prelude at the event was characteristically the most temperamental. Evidently, it had developed some manner of fueling issues between its time in storage, subsequent servicing, and reportedly faultless cruise from Honda North America’s HQ in Torrance, California, to the program’s basecamp in Palos Verdes.
I didn’t get a crack at this grand pappy of Preludes, but if current and contemporary reviews are to be believed, this is the one to skip. The original Prelude launched the same year that the Accord debuted in the States, and the cars’ mechanical and stylistic similarities are undeniable.
In fact, the original Prelude was criticized as an overly soft, relatively underpowered Accord coupe, closer to a Personal Luxury Car (PLC) than the contemporary Celica or Datsun 280ZX. Today, the first Prelude is unremarkable in a distinctly 1980s way, possessing not quite enough vintage verve to draw your glance in traffic. That said, it is rare to see such a wrapper-fresh 1980s Honda as this example.
Inside, acres of brown plastic and 1970s cloth sofa upholstery contrast well with some neon orange and yellow accents peppered on the gauge cluster and dash. Though I couldn’t drive the car, I futzed with everything, reveling in the spin-up actuation sounds of the turn signal solenoid and the ka-tink, ka-tink, ka-tink of the indicators. The shifter felt modestly snappier than other early 1980s cars I’ve driven, with the vinyl/rubber shift boot squeaking charmingly as I casually ran through the gears—with the engine off, of course.
It’s a bummer that the original Prelude wasn’t available to drive, but I can only imagine the stark contrast between this and its successor.
For most, this is where the Prelude story starts. Honda listened to the criticism and ensured the second-gen was a mechanical and aesthetic shift away from the Accord, by then riding on a (somewhat) proprietary platform. Where the first-gen Prelude was more ‘70s than it was ‘80s, its successor might as well have come with a trunk full of leg warmers and shoulder pads.
The 1983–87 Prelude moved away from a pony-car profile and sits solidly in wedgy territory. Headlights are now of the pop-up variety, a clear and intentional delineator from the fixed-headlight Accord—even though Honda’s mainstream sedan received a similar front-end pop-up treatment for 1986. No matter. Remember, the Prelude’s core raison d’être was, and is, to showcase what’s to come from the Big H.
Honda’s 300ish-mile Dominican Red 1983 Prelude burbles to life with a low grumble, sounding (and vibrating) quite unlike the honed, quick-spinning four-cylinders that came to define Hondas of the 1990s and 2000s. The 1.8-liter carbureted ET-family four-cylinder is good for 100 hp and 104 lb-ft, figures that seem bleak until you start moving. Honda cites a curb weight of just 2180 pounds, giving the second-gen Prelude a svelteness on par with that of an early, NA-generation Miata.
The single-overhead-cam engine is only unhappy when you allow revs to sit under the bottom third of the tach, noticeably lugging and “blanking out” under throttle application when you approach a stop sign in second gear or enter fifth below 60 mph. Contrary to what that 100-hp output might suggest, the base, non-Si second-gen Prelude is more than capable of keeping up with modern traffic. When hustled, it easily crests and settles into the 70-mph range.
You’re gonna hustle this car quite a bit, too. Zipping around Palos Verdes’ sweeping coastal roads, it’s never been more crystal clear that the cure for modern automotive ills is lightness. The Prelude bobs, dips, weaves, and lunges unlike anything made in the past 20 years, save perhaps a Miata.
The 1.8-liter spins quickly enough, imparting both a gruff buzz and a sense that its engineers paid attention to detail, even if this 12-valve SOHC isn’t quite as smooth of a zipper as the later fuel-injected, 2.0-liter DOHC B20 Prelude Si that arrived in 1986. The five-speed manual transmission’s engagement is lovely, with all of the unfiltered notchiness we seek from hot hatches.
Steering inputs are incredibly feelsome and granular, matched by a chassis whose limits are predictable and unsurprisingly low. Like all performance and performance-adjacent cars of yore, the brakes are the weakest and most archaic part of the experience. The stopping power of the front discs and rear drums noticeably wicked away after hauling up the car after a particularly brisk and extended downhill cruise.
Depending on who you ask, the third-gen is peak Prelude. I can see where they’re coming from, especially from a packaging perspective. Best considered a serious evolution of the second-gen car, the 1988–1991 Prelude is the most well-proportioned of the bunch, incorporating all of the lovely Honda style and engineering excellence that set the marque apart as the driver’s choice.
My tester is a 1988 Si, sans both the revolutionary four-wheel steering system and a third pedal. Here, the 2.0-liter B20 four-cylinder is backed by a four-speed automatic transmission, managing a mighty 135 hp and 127 lb-ft of torque. Those figures grew incrementally to 140 hp and 135 lb-ft by the end of this generation’s lifecycle.
If the preceding car feels and operates like elevated economy, the third gen feels like discount Acura. Note the lovely three-spoke steering wheel, the gently raked dash, and the white accented gauge cluster. It’s all terribly evocative, and a good reminder as to why we all tend to gravitate toward this era of car.
The rev-hungry B20 is even better, sounding off with the familiar, intake-heavy blat that inspires deep (and frequent) draughts from the upper limits of the tach. The four-speed automatic is…well, it’s a four-speed automatic transmission from 1988. Not bad, not great, and certainly happiest when just pootling around town with normal throttle application.
Hitting the sport-shift button inspires admirably aggressive shifting behavior, but I struggle to see the appeal of an automatic third-gen Prelude, unless you’re simply looking for a nostalgic time capsule. Still, it handles even better than the prior gen, and its five-inch wheelbase stretch and general dynamic refinement pay large dividends when the road turns squiggly. I didn’t have the opportunity to toss any of these cars down some of California’s better canyon roads, but a few extended sweeping sections revealed the second- and third-gen Preludes to be some of the most engaging and tactile sport coupes I’ve driven in quite some time.
Wait! Some say this is peak Prelude, what with its VTEC, four-wheel steer, and tech-heavy interior. Only the fourth-gen car I’m driving doesn’t have VTEC. Unfortunately, the killer combo of four-wheel steer and Honda’s signature variable valve timing was not available in the U.S. This Si 4WS moves away from the prior B-series engine, incorporating the then-new 2.3-liter H23A1 four-cylinder that boasts a significant bump in output over the prior cars, with this Si rated at 160 hp and 156 lb-ft.
This power boost is needed, too, as this fourth-gen’s 2800-pound weight is some 600 pounds up on that of earlier Preludes. Compared to the featherweight, 2200-pound early Preludes, this 1994 Si 4WS sits at around 2800 pounds. It’s hardly an F-250, but the added weight is enough to make a significant difference in both driving experience and personality. Whereas the first three Preludes—due to their era and purpose—are somewhat tinny and delicate, the fourth Prelude is far more substantial, embodying the top-shelf, locked-down construction standards of 1990s Japanese cars that have come to represent that era.
It’s not the raciest Prelude, but the fourth-gen might be the most experimental. Beyond the early powertrain tech adoption, this generation saw the first and only implementation of the “electroluminescent” (EL) wraparound dash, a signature design feature whose closest Honda equivalent is the digi-dash in the later S2000.
Other folks in attendance cited the fourth-gen as the most driver-focused of the bunch, a sentiment I agree with to an extent. From a pure numbers and capability perspective, this Si is the Prelude to pick if you plan frequent canyon carving or any manner of trackwork. In the brief moments of aggression I was able to enjoy, the ’94 was a satisfying intersection of classic Honda feedback and engagement with comfort and semi-frequent usability.
I do think a non-4WS VTEC fourth-gen Prelude is the way to go for those most concerned with performance, though I’d hesitate to pick a Prelude of any vintage if speed is your fixation. More on that later.
When I close my eyes and picture a Honda Prelude, it’s always the fifth gen. I never knew anyone with one, nor did I see them with any real frequency, but for me this remains the most visually memorable 1990s Honda, outside of an NSX and a family member’s 2000 Accord.
This (previously) final Prelude got a fair bit of flak in its era from both a styling and dynamic perspective. I think it looks striking, especially from a hard front view. That sloped front hood with subtly raised headlight fixtures is a clever bit of design, and goes a long way in separating this Prelude from the contemporary lineup. It comes across a bit more “JDM” than any other U.S.-market Honda offered in the 1990s, a funky bit of Honda experimentation that still looks incongruous in American traffic.
I received the keys to a Type SH (Super Handling) variant, the relatively uncommon range-topping Prelude that incorporated Honda’s then-new Active Torque Transfer System (ATTS). Still very much front-wheel drive, ATTS added a hydraulic planetary gearset in the front differential that actuates depending on speed, lateral acceleration, yaw rate, and steering angle. It’s an early form of active torque vectoring, sending torque to the outside front wheel when cornering is detected.
In-period reviews weren’t convinced the 44-pound mass of gears and gubbins was all that effective in the real world, and some enthusiasts preferred their Prelude sans SH. Though it’s not like you’d really notice the weight penalty, considering that certain configurations of the fifth-gen weighed more than 3000 pounds. Even with an even 200 hp and 156 lb-ft from its VTEC-equipped 2.2-liter four-cylinder, the 0-60-mph sprint is dispatched somewhere around seven seconds.
Inside, the fifth gen’s conventionality clashes with the (relatively) avant-garde exterior; its controls, gauge cluster, and general interior structure not entirely unlike the cabin of my family Accord. Build quality on this near-1000-mile example is predictably exceptional, with a fit and finish that’d make a modern plastic-fantastic car creak with embarrassment.
Power and VTEC activation is reasonably entertaining, the manual transmission mostly snappy, and the chassis generally taut and tidy, but the fifth-gen Prelude comes across as more of a grand tourer than a circuit screamer, with a character that is seemingly aimed at smart, sporty commuting with more style than substance.
***
How ironic that a lineage of cars meant to show us the future of Honda now represents what the automotive industry has collectively lost. For me, the featherweight footprint of the second- and third-gen Preludes would be the most interesting to own. That said, I’m not entirely sure whether they are good and engaging on their own inherent merits or if they shine because we have become so detached from the era to which they belong, when companies essentially engineered character “out” of and not “into” mass-market transportation.
The ultimate takeaway here is: My goodness, what a privilege it was to experience four generations of Prelude in near-perfect condition. They’re interesting and engaging cars for sure, but I’m still not entirely sure what they offer as enthusiast vehicles, particularly for those ultra-clean examples claiming the medium bucks on online auction platforms. Vintage Preludes are not particularly quick or exciting, and they don’t handle much better than a contemporary Civic or Integra. From a logical, data-driven perspective, I don’t get it.
Ah, but the collector car world is so rarely driven by logic. The blend of the second- and third-gen Preludes’ fabulously retro cockpits and their eager, effervescent personalities makes either a compelling weekend warrior. These make great “reset” cars, a digestif for the modern transportation cocoon that reminds us what made 1980s and 1990s Japanese cars such a revelation.
The fourth- and fifth-gens? Clean examples are excellent hits of nostalgia for those who grew up in their era, and with wider aftermarket support for these than earlier cars, these are ripe for modification—though, please leave super-clean examples like these alone. These later ‘Ludes won’t blow your hair back, but for many, they represent a segment of sport coupes sorely missing from today’s automotive landscape.
Based on the trickle of information available on the upcoming sixth-generation Prelude, I expect it to be closer in ethos to the fourth- and fifth-gen with the latest iteration of hybrid powertrain, a continuously variable transmission, 2+2 configuration, and suspension componentry pulled from the current Civic Type R—all stuff we can expect to trickle down to the next generation of Hondas.
True to its name, true to its nature.
