2013 Bentley Continental GT Speed Convertible

Bentley

"So we continue. 150… 160… We hit 170 mph with nary a vibration in sight."

Bentley thought it wise to give us 48 hours in its latest opus of opulence and engineering, the GTC Speed, so we could experience its sheer magnificence firsthand. The company set us free on a 600-mile journey from Phoenix, Arizona, up to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, and ending in the comforting hearth of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Las Vegas, Nevada. How could we refuse?

Saturday

8:53 a.m., Scottsdale, Arizona

We are not mice; we are men. This is what I tell myself nervously as I wait for my copilot to swing our blood-red Bentley GTC Speed around the driveway of the W Hotel. One would think that driving a gleaming $300,000 apotheosis of hand-built luxury and engineering would be a joyous occasion. And it is. But that’s a lot of responsibility to put into the hands of a guy who doesn’t even have health insurance. Still, I’ve done this a million times. What’s there to worry about?

9:24 a.m.

My co-pilot, a fellow scribe named Jared, who currently lives in the remote wilds of Maine, asks me to drive first, so I’m making my way up Route 87 through the Tonto National Park toward Payson. Power-wise, the car seems adequate, but nothing exceptional. Which is odd, as this is the Speed iteration of the GTC, meaning it is the most powerful convertible that Bentley has ever built, and with a 202 mph top speed, the fastest four-seat drop-top the world has ever seen. So with 616 horses corralled under the expansive hood stretching out before me, I expect a little more pick-me-up. We come across a truck ahead, and I mash the throttle, and although the GTC passes the 18-wheeler with relative ease, the torque is hardly earth shaking. What’s wrong? Then I notice the Sport setting -- we’re not in it. I push the “S” button down, and, instantly, everything shifts: I feel an instant boost of about 30% more power at the throttle. Now that’s more like it. Seemingly the rear haunches flair, the tires fatten and the W12 engine grows more obese. A loud bass growl fills the cabin. Even with the soft-top down, the sound waves vibrate through your body.

Now we’re talking.

9:43 a.m.

Past the tiny town of Payson, full of trailer homes and decaying odes to the copper mining days of yore. This is Heisenberg territory. We’re humming along pleasantly at a cool 95 mph, the wide barge that is the Bentley GTC cutting through the arid desert seas with barely a wiggle. The engineering of the cabin is admirable; with the windows and windscreen up, you can chat as if in a hardtop, even when riding with the top down. The desert is cool in these winter months, but the sun is bright and everything feels right. We thank the Bentley planners for skipping the vanilla interstate that is the 17 in favor of this back road.

10:24 a.m.

A yellow sparkle appears in my rearview mirror and quickly morphs into a gold juggernaut tearing up on my left-hand side. Another Bentley flies by me as if I’m standing still, and I’m inching on triple digits. As it passes, I make out the face of a Middle Eastern journalist I’d met at breakfast, smiling and waving, scarf flowing in the wind. “I guess this is our chance to see what this thing can do,” I say to Jared.

It’s time to test out the Speed portion of the Bentley’s namesake, so I scan the horizon to ensure the coast is clear. A straight shot ahead with nothing in sight -- no cars, no traffic hindering progress and, by far most importantly, no police. So I pin the throttle to the floor mat's thick wool, and a gorgeous bellow rips from the W12 engine and fills the cabin. I shoot off behind the man from Lebanon, watching the speedometer creep up to 110… 120… 130… 140… At this point I start getting nervous, but the GTC doesn’t even feel like it’s breaking the speed limit. It feels so firm on the asphalt, at once planted like a sumo wrestler and yet still remarkably agile, as if it can handle whatever surprises come our way. So we continue. 150… 160… We hit 170 mph with nary a vibration in sight. Top-down, Red Sox hat firmly planted with barely a flutter. How is it possible we are going one hundred and seventy miles per hour and the car feels like it’s cruising along at 60? It’s unbelievable. Then, suddenly, a warning sign appears on the digital display next to the speedometer:

“Tyre Pressure Not Safe For This Speed.”

I guess our all-weather tires weren’t rated for 170 mph, so in the interest of not blowing a tire -- and sending the GTC disintegrating across the Arizona landscape in a glorious, Emmerichian fireball -- I ease up on the throttle. Who knows what speeds that dapper Middle Eastern journalist and I might have otherwise reached.

God bless the internal combustion engine. Next Page >>