10/10: The Event Horizon. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. (A multi-axis approach to insanity.)
10/10: 1981–1997 Rolls-Royce and Bentley SZ (Silver Spirit, Silver Spur, Mulsanne, Turbo R, et al.).
Directional lug nuts, each topped with a little arrow so even the footman could keep the wheels sorted. Citroën hydropneumatic suspension and brakes, twin hydraulic accumulators, and electrics by Lucas, which were best approached with a priest. The ride was level as a billiard table until the spheres failed, and then it knelt in the driveway like it was awaiting the bishop’s blessing. Deep-pile lambswool, book-matched burled walnut, picnic tables, and a car phone the size of a watermelon. The Turbo R produced over 300 horsepower and 480 pound-feet of torque, hitting zero to sixty in under seven seconds, all in a 5,300-pound British brick. Buyers paid $200,000 for a car with J.C. Whitney-esque instruments, thrift store special Jaguar and GM switchgear, and a three-speed GM automatic. Dual air conditioning units, an owner’s manual thicker than the Old Testament, and maintenance best handled by a retired naval engineer with a sideline in séances. When VW and BMW arrived, the SZ era’s imperial folly was quietly put to rest.
10/10: 2002-2011 Volkswagen Phaeton W12.
Ferdinand Piëch’s monument to his ego (not the Veyron, the other one) conjured with ten commandments of absurdity. Torsional rigidity at 37,000 newton-meters per degree, designed to cruise at 186 miles per hour in 122 degrees Fahrenheit heat while the interior stayed at a perfect 72 degrees. The wild double-VR6 mashup W12 engine, 4Motion all-wheel drive, eighteen-way heated, cooled, and massaging seats, an air-conditioned glovebox, HVAC servos by the dozen, and motorized wood panels that concealed the vents when you turned off the car. Built in a glass factory that later built Bentleys, it looked like a Passat to everyone except Ferdinand Piëch. Buyers were rare. Reliability was a minefield. Volkswagen dealers proved they lacked the polish or the know-how to deal with either the customers or the mechanics of a $100,000 car, and the price ensured that almost none ever left Dresden. VW lost big money on every car but kept making them out of pride. Bentley got corporate hand-me-downs, where it became the Continental GT’s skeleton and a cautionary tale in brand dilution. Too nice for VW, not nice enough for Bentley, and the perfect example of corporate hubris dressed as restraint.