Have you ever wanted to feel like both a million bucks and also like you’re running around half mad pulling all the levers and knobs lest the boiler on a steam engine explodes? Well, this car can give you that in spades! Welcome ya buncha consumers, to 75 year old Bentley.

I need something like this in my life.

Once again, us dipshits managed to get our grubby grubs on yet another Bentley. And like the last Bentley, our MSIMA resident P-I-M-P has come in clutch. You see, his car hoarding antics are genetic! So while he’s out there roaming this dying earth to collect all the W126 Mercedes S-Classes, his father decided that a few funky Bentleys could satisfy a similar itch. And this is the first of hopefully several cars to come out of that brilliant idea, ignoring that 2001 Arnage for a bit.

This car has presence, but it’s a bit different to the ‘ol Arnage from last year. They’re both elegant, they both exude generational wealth, but this has presence. That Arnage looks like a million bucks but it doesn’t shout about it. Its image carries weight and importance but it also seems like it’s trying to be a bit subdued. The MK6 doesn’t give a damn about what the peasantry thinks, for its eyes automatically filter out people below a certain caste. It elegantly beats you with its mahogany cane until you move, for how dare you impede the wayward march of the noble class!?

And on modern roads, it just looks so out of place.

On modern roads that ten minutes before stepping inside this Bentley, I was flying up and down like a nut in a Subaru STI, man and machine working together. All that sappy driving bullshit seemed to make sense in that Subaru. And suddenly all of that became irrelevant once I stepped into this old thing.

In modern roads… this car feels lost.

Like a portal to 1948 just opened up and presented you with a two-tone, exceedingly British, sliver and burgundy escape from reality.

Enter the car, and the outside world begins to feel out of place.

Driving this car is cathartic. And I never want it to stop.

It was hard to digest what the hell I had just driven, but I knew no matter how much seat time I continued to get over the weekend, it would never be enough. And the idiotic smile refused to leave my face for a long time.

This isn’t a car that wants to kill you, mostly. It just exists. Far removed from the era this was made for, it feels like a step into another place like you’ve snuck behind a museum exhibit after hours. The mk VI first sold in 1946, as Bentley’s first post-war and all steel bodied car. This 1950 model isn’t far removed from its earlier iterations. And you feel it.

The car feels alive. It’s the car equivalent of the your great-great-grandfather’s ghost sitting next to you, waiting to start telling you stories from his time on this planet. And like a ghost, this car needs to be summoned awake, its cold metallic heart coaxed into life with clatters and bangs and (more than a few) swears.

I first saw the car in a newly built garage, a late-40’s mountain towering above a collection of mostly German 1980’s shaped car covers. The MK VI sat almost in defiance of being surrounded by so many w126s. It feels out of place; unreal for that shape to be here in front of me and not behind some movie poster.

And yet, the 75 year old car lies dormant at my feet. Its eyes shut, its heart stopped, silently waiting to be resurrected once more. My friend gets to work, ready to summon life back into the car. A hood flap is gently opened to reveal its stagnant heart: a 4-point-something liter, pushrod, SOHC inline six. The engine looked petit in that long and empty engine bay.

Peering in, the layers of corrosion and dirt caked on the engine bay make me feel as if I’ve just cracked open the door to some long forgotten mausoleum. The smells of Appalachia mix with oil, sawdust, and starter fluid mix the in the air now. Feverishly working to awaken the car, sounds banging and of swearing were downed out by the starter trying its best to breath life back into the machine.

And after a few minutes of fiddling, the motor sputters awake. Shaking and beating, the heart of the car is once again in motion, its eyes glowing yellow, its lungs softly coughing. The MkVI moves forwards, dragging forth ancient rubber until its cold metallic skin touches the unobstructed sunlight.

The driver’s door (the right door in this case) has been left open, its empty seat now an invitation to come and take command.

Sitting high and upright, a large wheel greets your hands and a short metal lever waits patiently at your right. The car is yours to command and the machine awaits your orders.

A fairly light clutch is paired to the most heavily mechanical shifter yet encountered. You don’t shift that lever with a fast throw, instead moving with smooth, industrial purpose. These people engineering fighter plane engines less than a decade before this car was made, and it shows. Time to finish getting aquatinted with its direct throttle and brakes somewhat suggestive, and watch in awe as the big Bentley lumbers forward.

First, then second, the car makes its way down a dirt driveway and onto an Appalachian backroad. Without fuss, the engine pushes on, however a calm experience this was not.

The tires are dry-rotted white walls from (probably) the 1990’s, the last decade this car saw any sort of major restorative effort. They’re easily overloaded, with the front end terminally under steering the moment you try to corner at the speed limit, pushing and squealing until you’ve slowed down enough to regain composure. You really need to feel the front end, and through that big wheel you can.

Steering takes effort. Firmly grasp it. Soon, you learn that its large steering wheel has a lifetime of play in it. Dead center is a myth since your hands never truly stop moving, even in a straight line. But, in its sloppiness, you still have a direct connection to the front end. Nothing can take that feeling away.

For a car whose goal is quiet, luxurious, and comfortable transportation, the driver is treated to a sensory overload of direct feedback. You feel the front end loose grip and push. You know exactly what the march to the limit is because this thing talks to you, even if its accent is three-quarters of a century old.

Power comes on but the car doesn’t really go anywhere. It’s a slow journey to thirty, complicated further by the windy mountain roads I’m on. You feel this car’s mass, all ~4000 pounds (1850 kg) and its 10 ft (3.048 m) length. It’s not a boat or a land yacht, it’s more like driving a mix of a motorized bathtub and a horse-drawn-carriage that’s riding on 90’s Mercedes suspension. This thing is massive, and takes concentrated effort to rein in the car on these narrow twisty roads.

Your hands are constantly moving. Between the ocean of on-center slop in the wheel and the shifter, you are always doing something. You need to keep it moving fast enough, often downshifting a gear to climb uphill. The task isn’t Herculean, instead it’s one and done fairly easy. The clutch is light, the shifter is easy to use and precise, and the engine responds almost instantly to your demands. All in an effort to maintain 35 or so mph before you get to another corner and the front end starts to slide wide.

The suspension tries to help you extract some level of performance out of the car. In the wheel, is a knob that controls the damper settings. Oh yes, in a 1950’s car that first sold in 1946, hydraulically adjustable dampers were implemented! And they actually make a difference too. The car will always still ride like a bit of a foam mattress, I don’t think it’s capable of fully relinquishing its squishiness. But at its hardest setting, you can feel the car tighten up and have a bit more cornering confidence. However, unlike a modern car with electronically adjustable dampers, the car’s “sport” dampening still isn’t enough to jolt you around and cause discomfort. You simply gain some stability.

For all its flaws – unfortunate tires, lack of any speed, heavy body on frame construction, being on the wrong side of the car… this MKVI was always a joy to drive. It was terrifying, mind you. The first time the front gave way into a sharp turn had my asshole tighten like a damn hydraulic press. You’re constantly trying to keep the stupid thing pointing straight and in its lane, the brakes are a suggestion, you’re aware of it’s weight, there isn’t have enough *oomph* to evade danger, and you’re always hoping that oncoming traffic stays in their lane. It’s a giant, lumbering, borderline dangerous mountain of a car.

And I still miss driving it.

Not even a Miata had managed to distill down the pure action of operating a machine. This thing is mechanical, you feel it in every action you take. The gear lever doesn’t feel rubbery or notchy, it feels like I’m operating a doohickey from a 1930’s thing-y-ma-bob. It’s well engineered and well built machinery. It’s a Time Machine that feels out of place on modern roads. And it just wants to be used. From the moment you get behind the wheel, there’s a sensation that it just wants to putt about and take you places. It doesn’t care that it could technically do over 100 mph, it goes at its pace and very clearly communicates what that is. As cheesy and moronic as it sounds, this more than all other cars, feels like it’s alive.

This car isn’t build for our world, with smooth roads, F150’s, and mix of modern and 70’s architecture. It would feel wrong to have driven it anywhere other than rural Appalachia (or maybe the UK), with its ancient mountains, old buildings, and general feeling of “this place is old”.

And that’s about it. I drove this Bentley for a few outings up and down the same mountain roads, with the dumbest smile and probably a look of terror on my face. It demands concentration and effort, and rewards you by taking your ass out of whatever years you’re in and slaps back in time in the late 40’s.

I think I need a car like this, a borderline contraption from almost 100 years ago. It made me feel alive.