Black Cab

At $182,000, with a 552 hp engine and burled-walnut detailing, the Bentley Continental Flying Spur makes for a damn fine gypsy cab. Care for a lift?

BOSTON CABBIES HAVE A REPUTATION for being assholes. I've been taken on scenic fare-doubling detours, yelled at for going only three blocks (after a blizzard buried the sidewalks), and left a mile from my destination after my cab crashed into a Honda. A few months ago a cabbie even locked his doors and drove away just as I was trying to get in. Apparently he didn't want to go to Fenway.

But I can't blame the cabbies entirely. The CARS themselves are part of the problem. The majority are clapped-out ex-police Crown Victorias with two hundred thousand miles on the clock and SpaghettiO shocks. Fifteen Vanillaroma air fresheners hanging from the rearview or not, most reek of despair. And that's on a good night.

I think the city's taxi-hailing populace deserves better. Instead of a cramped, grimy bench seat, how about acres of legroom and a leather-swathed chair whose headrest automatically motors up behind your noggin? Instead of a scarred plastic divider, how about gazing at a console slathered in individually mirrored, unbleached burled-walnut veneer? And instead of $2.40 per mile, how about free-fiddy? That is the proposition I put forth in launching my own underground luxury taxi service. My chariot? A beluga-black 2006 Bentley Continental Flying Spur. Power to the people!

The four-door version of the Continental GT, the Spur is a big boy--six inches longer, in fact, than a Cadillac Escalade. Under the hood is a 552 hp twin-turbo W-12, which makes the Spur the fastest four-door sedan on earth. Bentley positions it as its driver's sedan (as opposed to the ultraposh Arnage), but to the man on the street, the Spur's backseat looks damn limo like. You can stretch your legs without coming close to the front seats. Behind your head is a power sunshade. There's no need to slam the doors; they gently pull themselves closed. And with air suspension, all is smooth, quiet, and serene, even over roads so battered, they make the Big Dig look safe.

New to this whole livery-cab business, I decide to warm up by poaching someone at a bus stop. I'm immediately rebuffed by an Irish guy wearing a soccer jersey. "No thanks, I'm all set," he quickly replies when I ask if he could use a lift. Seems he's sized me up for someone with a tiger trap and dungeon in his basement. I'd understand if I were driving a windowless Ford Econoline. But a $181,885 Bentley?

I want to ask passengers what they think of the twenty-inch chrome rims ($5,840), deep-pile-carpet mats with hide trimming ($490), and sporting gear lever finished in knurled chrome and hide ($590). But I may never know if they don't dare ride with me.

So, changing tactics, I decide to go after people actually looking to hail cabs. Pulling up to a smartly dressed fellow near Copley Square, I hit pay dirt. "I'm only going two blocks," the gentleman says. "Is that all right?" Of course that's all right. You're the customer! The ride is short indeed, so I don't get much feedback. But I pick up my second fare just minutes later.

This time it's a younger guy headed over to the World Trade Center for a conference of some sort. "I went out last night," he says, "and if I were a little less hungover today, I might've thought twice about getting into a strange Bentley." Lucky for him he didn't, because he saved himself ten bucks in cash and the hangover-intensifying experience of a Crown Vic pogo-stick ride. Not that I didn't toss him around a fair bit on the way there.

"This thing's . . . pretty fast," he gasps as I dust a real cab away from a red light, the twelve-cylinder's two turbos faintly whining like jet engines. The Flying Spur can cruise sedately all day, but when you awaken the beast under the hood, zero to sixty happens in a scant 4.9 seconds. It's accompanied by a whoosh from the turbos and an exhaust roar that sounds like a pack of Harleys. Like a real cabbie, I get him to his destination with utmost haste and questionable safety--cutting people off, flooring the throttle, slamming on the brakes, and weaving through traffic like LaDainian Tomlinson hitting a hole in the line.

A bit tuckered out, I pull into a cabstand at South Station to take a break and talk to some of my fellow cabbies. The Jamaican guy in front of me steps out to inspect the Bentley. "No TVs in the headrests for $180,000?" he asks incredulously. "Do the backseats have massage? Is there remote start? Radar cruise control?" No, no, and no. "I'd buy an S-Class," he concludes.

Back on the road, my next fare, wearing a linen suit and big shades, reminds me of Jack Nicholson. "One of my friends just bought one of these," he says, "but I've never ridden in a Bentley." He glances around the cavernous interior. "This is amazing. Very smooth and quiet. How much does this thing cost?" I tell him. He says his friend's car was more than $200,000. I inform him that his friend must have an Arnage, not a Flying Spur. And that his friend must be silly rich. But that he already knows.

After getting dissed by an old lady, I spot a pair of girls wearing Red Sox gear and strike: "Are you going to the game? Need a ride?" One says yes. The other says no. Like everyone else, they're dubious of my proposition, but eventually they consent to a lift. They don't have much to say about the car--they're content just to escape the heat--so I begin pointing out some of the luxury features. "That's a Breitling clock in the dash," I proudly offer. "Is that good?" one asks. Well, yes, I suppose.

I inch through the thick traffic around Fenway and drop them off among a crowd of confused and curious onlookers. Even the traffic cops stationed at the top of the street pause their constant refrain of "Move it along!" and stare perplexedly as the girls climb out. Who the hell gets dropped off at Fenway in a black Bentley? People brave enough to climb in with a maverick cabbie, that's who.

This seems like a good time to call it a day. I've done my small part for riders' rights, and besides that I'm almost out of gas: Over about four hours of taxi duty, the Bentley averaged a not-stellar 5.5 miles per gallon. Worse than that, the process of constantly looking for fares sapped much of the joy out of driving one of the best CARS in the world. At one point about three hours in, I realized that I'd become so engrossed in scanning the sidewalks that I'd actually forgotten I was driving the equivalent of four years' tuition at Harvard.

So maybe I should cut cabbies a little slack. If the driving life can stress you out behind the wheel of a Flying Spur, imagine how it affects you in a car that doesn't have an air-conditioned massage seat. I'd be ornery, too. Luckily, I've hit upon a solution that'll please taxi riders and drivers alike. Now I just need to convince Bentley to sell Flying Spurs at a bit of a loss.


Beat-up Crown Victorias that smell like pee are pretty bad. But U. S. cab riders could have it far worse.



Pro: You can rent one for about twenty-five dollars per day--driver included.

Con: Odds are, you'll need to help push it at some point.



Pro: Multiculturalism--it's a Chinese Volkswagen named for a Mexican guitarist.

Con: Now you've got "Oye Como Va" stuck in your head, don't you?



Pro: Open air, so you can enjoy the sights.

Con: Open air, so it leaves you smelling like a chain saw.



Pro: 20 percent faster than walking.

Con: Carjackers and kidnappers are 21 percent faster.

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