► Georg Kacher and his classic Bentley
► He could have virtually anything in the world…
► So why this?
Growing old is inevitable. Growing up is optional. Need proof? Look no further than my early-’70s Bentley T1.
It was love at first sight. Not everyone’s reaction, it’s fair to say.
A near-vintage Bentley saloon painted in dark Moss Green over bright Willow Gold metallic violated the concours conventions to such an extent that various petrolhead peers in the Munich area were downright hostile. But I loved it, instantly. Kitted out in supple Dark Pine leather, with finest burr walnut and adorned with plenty of solid chrome inside and out, to me this particular T1 is a true gatefold beauty worthy of a golden staple in the belly button.
This being 2013, our first meeting wasn’t online but old-fashioned, analogue and touchy-feely. Six photos plus a lengthy lyrical description presented on a single page of a glossy Dorotheum auction catalogue was all it took to set my heart aflutter.
At the time we were holidaying in Italy, so I asked a more handily located friend to travel to Salzburg to inspect the Austrian-registered object of desire, which he duly vouched to be in splendid nick cosmetically and mechanically. After my third negroni, a couple of frantic phone calls and an all-night internet session browsing various relevant forums, I put in a cautious bid worth half a bottle of house wine above the low estimate. A mere 48 hours later, sight unseen, it was mine, and on a flat-bed heading for Munich.
Reckless? Firing from the hip like this would normally be a big risk, but I told myself the money at stake would have struggled to buy a 10-year-old VW Golf GTI, so what the heck.
For many years I’d harboured the notion that Bentleys were more appealing than Rolls-Royces, which at the time were closely related. This was towards the end of the ‘gentle giant’ phase, when three consecutive generations of S-series cars in the ’50s and ’60s just seemed to hit the spot in the way the Rolls equivalents did not.
The T1 saloon, coupe and convertible that followed attracted an equally affluent but more introvert crowd – people who preferred to wear fur as a lining, not a statement. Mellowed by a five per cent stealth content over the Rolls line-up, the alternative aristocrats were my new dream cars: all the splendour on a less ostentatious footprint, exquisite interiors, goosebump waftability, ample performance and legendary refinement – it was all there in abundance.
About half a century later, the car my wife has nicknamed Mr Toad for its colour scheme received historic H plates and became part of the family. But it wasn’t my first Bentley. Its three predecessors all deserve a special mention as well as reserved parking spaces in memory lane.
In 1980, the T2 was replaced by a bunch of somewhat more advanced flying Bs – cars that proved instantly popular, but which I found quite a bit harder to love. With the honourable exception of the Turbo R/T and the Continental S and T, the cars being produced in Crewe under Vickers ownership were temperamental olde worlde cathedrals on wheels featuring four vanity mirrors, two picnic tables and a full set of reading lights even before Mr Mulliner introduced his personalisation services.
Unfortunately the sweeping heavyweights drove like luxury trucklets and cost a fortune to maintain. Mulsanne and Eight served as envy-breeding, vandalism-prone status symbols, whereas the members of the Turbo family were at least quick enough to pull away swiftly from the lower ranks.
Out of that horror cabinet of antiquated, under-engineered land yachts there was one particularly crass and socially unacceptable specimen I simply had to have, cost what it may, and that was the original Azure, co-produced with Pininfarina. Mine was a 2000 car in solid black with autumn leather and the upgraded 400bhp-plus engine (but without tacky Le Mans side vents and flash Rodeo Drive chrome rims).
As far as I was concerned it was an absolute beauty, and far more appealing than the small downtown bedsit or year-long vacation in the Maldives I suppose I could have spent the money on instead. True, it made the neighbours hate us, and my wife wouldn’t be seen dead in it. But Tessa the beloved Bavarian mountain hound resided proudly in the passenger seat, nose high into the wind and ears flapping, with Haydn’s opera Armida roaring out and the 6750cc motor unleashing a feisty 590lb ft at a hushed 2000rpm.
Next, when wiser guys would have bought that city flat or invested in the stock market, I fell for another Azure, this time one of the first 2006 models, still with the sluggish four-speed transmission, but very chic in its dark blue livery, cream interior and period light wood. It was a much better car than the Mk1, no doubt about that: dynamically superior thanks to newly acquired VW know-how and the funds of the Volkswagen Group, which had acquired Bentley in 1998 while BMW had to make do with Rolls-Royce. O
Frida became the new Tessa, and the fox-red lab also loved to share the front-row lookout with her hatted keeper. The rest of the family were, however, unconvinced. Eventually, a few years later, I made peace with them by trading in the extrovert Azure for an early Continental GTC Supersports, which went like stink, handled like a proper sports car and was kitted out to perfection with Bugatti Veyron seats and carbon-ceramic brakes.
We eventually sold the Conti too, but it turned out that life without a Bentley was a bit like life without a dog. Hence the two-tone T1 acquired in 2013, which felt right, but took some adjusting to since it was from an earlier, pre-VW era.
There have been many other Bentleys over the five decades, some of which I may have liked the idea of owning… others not so much. The wide-body Corniche was a charming piece of kit, the last-of-line turbocharged Corniche soft-tops were instant collectibles, and even the fatboy Turbo R somehow still captured that irresistible and enthralling pre-war sporting spirit.
But the most interesting time was the period between 1998 and 2003, when the ex-Audi CEO Franz-Josef Paefgen and his CTO Uli Eichhorn made the ageing rear-wheel-drive platform fit for the second-generation Azure, the Brooklands coupe and gen-two Mulsanne while simultaneously preparing Crewe for a brighter future with the VW Phaeton-based Continental GT/GTC and Flying Spur.
The marque’s charm then nosedived in 2015 with the arrival of the unpretty yet hugely successful Bentayga. The ostentatious period it initiated continues to this day with the hot-selling, in-your-face Conti GT and the Flying Spur, which looks rich and ritzy but does not ride as well as a Mercedes S-Class. Resale values also drop fast.
But I digress. If there is a thread that ties the charming T1 to the current power-and-glory model range, it’s the sublime craftsmanship which has been the brand’s core virtue for decades. Although the car which started life in the UK as VBY 289L now wears its second coat of paint (its woodwork, too, has been refurbished), the original Connolly leather wears its age amazingly well, and the engine, gearbox and chassis are also largely untouched since Mr Toad first saw the light of day exactly 61,188 miles ago. It gets an MoT check-up every other year, and has passed the last five inspections without difficulty. Yes, there are a few oily spots between engine and transmission, around the differential and on parts of the rear suspension.
That said, over the years it’s had a fair bit of money spent on regular maintenance and running repairs. The brake calipers needed rebuilding and new discs and pads were fitted, along with fresh cut-to-size front brake lines. The air-con has needed refilling at three-year intervals, the exhaust manifold gaskets needed replacing, the rear central locking system and one window winder were infested with stubborn electric bugs, the sagging self-levelling rear end received new adjustment valves twice, a broken speedometer cable was
replaced, and we also renewed just about every rubber bushing, mount, bearing and seal.
At an authorised Bentley dealer, this treatment would have cost a small fortune, but Jo Appl’s specialist workshop in Halfing near Rosenheim did a fantastic job at mate’s rates. We agreed he should leave the gigantic old car phone and massive amplifier squatting side by side in the boot, untouched.
The bodywork was in good condition when Mr Toad joined us. But after a couple of years the corroding upper parts of all four doors needed a respray, and last year the small rust bubble which had blossomed on the nearside front wing begged for some filler, primer and paint. I’ve always shied away from a close inspection of the car’s Waxoyl anti-rust-treated underside. The odd dark flake of a material previously known as metal has been shed, but the MoT man is happy they’re not from structurally critical areas.
Fresh blemishes include a couple of hairline cracks on the cowl where steel and alloy meet. The chrome is now beginning to pit on the bumpers. The aftermarket foglamps and the tinted windscreen show small signs of de-lamination. The electric Kienzle clock has always taken the scenic route, ever since the car’s purchase in July 2013, initially dropping about an hour per day. Eleven years later, one lap of the small hand equals a week and a bit. The gauge indicating the fuel level in the cavernous 100-litre tank does work, but needs tapping after every restart to make it jump into life.
Unlike the hostility attracted by the Azures, Mr Toad seems to have nothing but fans and admirers. A similar level of affection
attaches itself to my Yugo 45L. Whereas many Rolls-Royces of similar age become wedding chariots, our T1 was the family’s designated family-fun transport – until, that is, a 2016 BMW 640i convertible arrived recently. It quickly became the dog’s new number one, especially with the top down and the snout high up in the wind.
The T1 has covered 10,000 miles in our ownership. The longest journeys were excursions to the Salzburgring in spring and summer; the shortest were weekend hops within the local lake district.
Neither son ever warmed to the Bentley. I guess that makes sense when your daily driver is a Porsche 911 or BMW M3 Touring. They’ve never actually put a foot inside the plush two-tone carriage, and if they had they may well have been underwhelmed by the driving experience: sedate engine, vague steering, billowing chassis, tardy transmission, casual brakes, token cornering grip. No thanks, Dad.
From my perspective, in certain respects the ancient T1 even eclipses the very latest Flying Spur. Ride comfort for one. Wearing 235/70 HR15 Avon Turbosteels, the vintage 2120kg saloon irons out obstacles like a hovercraft, only without the noise. I cannot think of a modern car which feels as cushy over challenging terrain as this stately saloon. Potholes are smoothed out, transverse irritations recede into the ground as if by magic and unilateral undulations are neutralised by a mix of eiderdown shocks and super-comfy seats.
The heavily assisted recirculating-ball steering is admittedly more approximate than accurate. The play granted by the thin-rimmed two-spoke black bakelite wheel measures about two palms in either direction, and the response is provocatively relaxed. Like an early 911 Turbo, the T1 is curse, challenge and contentment all in one. But in both case, once you’ve mastered the quirks they’re richly rewarding.
The Bentley is nose-heavy, softly sprung and fitted with spindly and twisted anti-roll bars, so cornering involves a lot of understeer, lateral grip is lackadaisical, and traction in the wet can involve some unwelcome surprises. On the credit side, one can only applaud the commendably tight turning circle, the effective yet frighteningly complicated triple-circuit brakes and the trick rear suspension, fed by a Citroën-style camshaft-driven central hydraulic system.
What were the options 11 years ago when that spare cash was burning a hole in my trouser pocket? I briefly considered the Rover P5 coupe but couldn’t find a suitable left-hooker. A similar problem O ruled out the Bristol 408. At the time, I also owned a Porsche 968 CS, a Lancia Kappa coupe and an Audi Coupe S, so buying a sports car wasn’t my priority. Having previously possessed an Ami 6, a DS21 and an SM (a keeper for almost 15 years), a very early chrome-less pre-Pallas Citroën CX would have made a compelling substitute. But again, no luck – all the market had to offer were GTI and Prestige models. A low-mileage manual Audi S8 MkI was sold under my nose to a higher bidder, a pristine Lancia Thesis was ultimately too quirky even for me, and a Buick Grand National popped up only to be dismissed again for its third-world handling. Next in line were a bunch of interesting coupes. The list stretched from the way too expensive Facel Vega HK500 over the Jensen Interceptor I and the Alfa 2600 Sprint to the Fiat 2300S Abarth, Volvo 780 by Bertone, Renault 17TS with fabric sunroof, Mercedes 250SE W111 and Fiat 130.
I also wondered about a different Bentley. A pre-facelift gen-two Mulsanne would have been the perfect piece of driveway furniture. It’s extremely yet tastefully plush inside, cosmetically not as OTT as the post-facelift version, effortless thanks to the twin-turbo 506bhp, 752lb ft V8, a much better drive than the compromised Arnage and a true gem in terms of craftsmanship and build quality. But it’s also two sizes bigger than the T1, ostentatious, vastly more expensive to buy and to run, in many ways even more a thing of the past than its slimmer, non-catalyst predecessor.
I also wondered about a Brooklands coupe, that epitome of elegance and period splendour. I don’t need the fancy extra-cost brakes, but a darker colour with a matching interior would be nice to have. Trouble is, I would have to sell my T1 five times over to afford one.
In any case, Mr Toad is no slouch, thanks to the legendary 6750cc V8, type-approved in Germany at 193bhp. The brochure described the peak power output nonchalantly as ‘adequate’, and didn’t even quantify the maximum twist action of 406lb ft, available from 2500rpm. Mated to a three-speed auto that struggles with take-off and upshift torque slip like a tipsy juggler, the cam-in-block two-valver accelerates the majestic five-seater 0-60mph in around 11 seconds. The advertised top speed is 118mph. This one rarely exceeds 100mph because doing so would drive up the petrol and oil consumption along with the owner’s fears of a costly breakdown.
We are currently running a very mixed bag of six cars: the T1, a Mini Countryman PHEV firmly in the hands of Mrs Kacher (and Pucki the former Roman street dog, new to the team), the 1972 Barolo red 2002tii (which has featured in CAR), the aforementioned Yugo 45L (ditto) and 6-series, plus a BMW X5 M60i for the winter on a short-term lease.
The Bentley would have to go if I were to get another car – there simply isn’t room. If it’s a modern collectible, it could be a base Alpine A110 GT. Or a Ferrari 599 GTB. Or an Alpina D5 Touring. If it’s a classic, it better be a zero-depreciation investment like Mr Toad, who has been a cost-neutral boarder even with all the repair and running expenses factored in. But what else could generate anything like the same feelgood factor? I’m really struggling.
50 and not out: Georg and CAR
Flash back 50 years to 1975. CAR was privately owned, the editor was Mel Nichols, and the team of five was headquarted next to Smithfield meat market. One day in July of that year, an office fire demolished half the typewritten manuscripts exactly one week before the mag was due to go to press. The morning after, ‘a big dark shadow filled the frame of my office door’, Mel would later recall. ‘It was Kacher, who had applied for a job twice before but was denied it for lack of journalistic training.’
In the wake of that fire, however, they needed copy more badly than they needed a qualification; a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. Six weeks later, my first story – a travelogue about driving a used Peugeot 504 from Munich to Tehran and selling it there – appeared in the October issue. Going strong 50 years on, the career that started a stone’s throw from the Hand & Shears pub turned out to be a dream come true.
In that time CAR’s been arguably both the world’s best motoring magazine and the most influential. Breaking news and early drives were key, and being based in Germany I could get my hands on Audis, BMWs, Mercedes and Porsches long before the competition.
Connections are everything. I conducted the first Porsche 959 versus Ferrari F40 comparison test (part of it on the Fiorano test track) and tapped unofficial channels to jump the queue for every new BMW and Porsche. I milked my contacts 24/7 for information on cars not yet in the public domain, working with fearless designer friends, visionary engineers and outspoken CEOs like the unforgotten Sergio Marchionne to compile countless early scoops and prototype drives.
But the best part of this job was – and still is – the chance to live life in the fastest of fast lanes. Highlights? That 226mph autobahn stint in a Bugatti Chiron, the Mille Miglia and the Carrera Panamericana in a Mercedes 300 SL and some amazing GT Porsches, from the scalpel-sharp 1997 GT1 widowmaker to the awesome 700bhp GT2 RS.
Am I done? Not yet. Truth is there’s just too much going on, from battery breakthroughs to the European car makers’ brand-centric fight for survival. It’s a lot to digest after one’s 73rd birthday. But while I’m still full of curiosity and hungry for knowledge, I have no intention of calling it a day.