New Bentley, Old Classmates Meet On Memory’s Turnpike
I called it “the reading-glasses reunion.”
The Class of 1985 started out strong, full of life and that indestructible optimism only youth can sustain. We embraced our manifest destiny and launched into the world. We were unstoppable, until, of course, we were stopped.
From that magical senior year (our football team really did win the state championship) to the realities of life, our 30th high school reunion proved that at least 40 people from the Class of ’85, were, in fact, still alive – though many of us suffering from joint pain and other midlife maladies.
Now, a room full of former classmates approaching 50 and teachers nearly our same age, held menus at arm’s length, waving them around as if that was the secret to seeing the 14-point fonts in dim light. We collectively let out that small sigh of humility and pulled out our reading glasses to avoid using our smartphones as beacons to our feeble eyesight. The wisdom of age tells you sometimes it’s better to be able to read than look good.
After 30 years, I will readily admit that I like my former classmates. Even the ones I don’t know well, they’re a respectable collection of people. Then again, I still want to impress them.
And what’s more impressive than a Bentley Flying Spur? It exudes luxury like few other vehicles. It’s regal. Kings ride around in Bentleys. And I’d bet a hard roll and regular coffee (served in a blue paper cup with some Greek writing on it) that some kings even grovel a little bit to borrow them.
For me, home is Somerset, N.J., a middle-class enclave of suburban homes and open fields in central New Jersey. Woodlands still sprinkle parts of Franklin Township, but the roads are wider and some of the farmland has disappeared to cookie cutter homes and empty strip malls. Gas stations still have attendants and, as I think law requires, a pizza shop of some sort for every five miles of asphalt in Somerset, which has served as the demilitarized zone between Princeton and New Brunswick for hundreds of years.
The Flying Spur seemed to relish my return to New Jersey as much as I did. The 6L, 616 hp, 590 lb.-ft. V-12 offers this rocket ship type power as I tried to blast off along Easton Avenue (my first ticket was on nearby JFK Boulevard). I never got a chance to reach its top speed of 199 mph along Amwell Road but did enjoy a luxurious ride through Colonial Park. The car feels heavy (it should, it weighs 6,500 lbs.,) but like my classmates and me, those additional pounds are mostly well placed. But the Flying Spur is unencumbered by its weight; it can go from 0 to 60 mph in 4.6 seconds. It’s a beautiful beast.
When I picked up the Bentley at the airport, the valet never even parked it. They left the car out front, wondering who was going to drive it away. It’s exterior is modern without being obscene. It’s four bi-Xenon headlights are carved into the front fascia, two on each side of the massive grille. The classic hood ornament has been transformed into a chrome plate above the grille.
It sits on four 20-inch wheels stuffed into the wells that give the Flying Spur a powerful stance. People may not know exactly what car it is, but it turned heads everywhere it goes. Crowds gather around it in parking lots as someone mentions its $200,000 price tag and they wonder who’s driving it.
The ride is pure luxury. The 120-inch wheelbase provides a smooth compliant ride on the Turnpike or just around town and the air suspension makes it feel you’re on a cloud. Despite its massive size – it stretches over 208 inches in total length—it remains easy to drive. As I pulled into the parking lot of the Somerset Dinner in search of a pork roll, egg and cheese sandwich, I remembered that James Gandolfini stood in front of the diner during the opening credits of “The Sopranos,” an official source of Jersey pride nearly on par with Bruce Springsteen.
Both the fictional Tony Soprano and the real life Stone Pony star would live well inside the Flying Spur. The interior smells of leather and old money. Cowhide wraps everything, the steering wheel, the gear shifter and the front and back seats. Inspectors spend days sorting through the leather that will make the cut for a Bentley before hand stitching it together. It’s a thicker leather than you might see in on a chair in someone’s study or personal library.
There are chrome accents throughout the cabin and old-style pull knobs to control the vents. It’s a mix of old world charms with new world luxury. It’s the kind of luxury that you will eventually take for granted. The complex made to feel simple and deserving. By the end of the weekend, I belonged inside this Bentley, even though I knew it cost more than my house in Michigan.
Perhaps the only disappointing moment during the reading-glass reunion was that the car was parked in a garage the entire time. No one saw that beautiful car outside of the hotel. No one got the chance to ask me if those were my wheels. And no one saw me getting into or out of the Flying Spur. Certainly, it was a lost moment for them.
Of course, that didn’t stop me from wanting to bringing up that I had the keys to an incredible machine. It would be easy to work into just about any conversation, I thought.
“So what have you been up to?” someone might ask.
“Oh, today, I drove to Manville Pizza in the Flying Spur.”
“Any kids?”
“No, but if I had a child, I would name it Bentley, after the Flying Spur I was driving around today.”
I never got the chance, but I was ready.
Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again. And if you are going to cruise down memory lane, I’d highly recommend doing it in Bentley Flying Spur.
