Rolls-Royce Silver Spur
Filed in archive by Gunnar Heinrich on December 11, 2007
By Gunnar Heinrich
Digging back through the archives of Automobiles de Luxe, your 4DriversOnly publisher uncovered a review of the Rolls-Royce Silver Spur. The particular Rolls reviewed was a mark one Silver Spur from 1988. It's the same car as to be found in the recent video I posted on the Silver Spur.
Read on after the jump.
- Reposted from Automobiles de Luxe -
Grace has automotive form. And that form is the two and one half ton Rolls-Royce Silver Spur.
Picture the evening: a moonlit sky that casts an illuminating blue minuit glow upon the fair, rolling, hedged landscape of Devonshire.
Pan in on a winding, narrow strip of roadway that can't help but bend and twist with every undulation of crest and hollow. On that road, we find a man and his banker's grey on evening black Rolls-Royce- at peace with the world. A soft concert of winds and violins plays as the landscape and the car meld.
Peace with the world.
Flash.
Twist the key again and pray that she starts. This Yankee 1988 Rolls-Royce Silver Spur has yet to see natural sunlight since the previous year. The trunk mounted battery is quite dead; the owner elected not to use the handy battery cut-off switch, but, has a charger at the ready for these occasions.
AC/Delco meets plugs.
I wait, crossed with feelings of delight and frustration. As the battery meter's needle rises precipitously, I study the scene.
It's a beautiful summer's day and as much as I'd like to be out cruising in this mammoth paragon of prestige and luxury, I'm forced, by fate, to pause and reflect.
The saloon is very angular. In fact, the Silver Spur is mostly box. It's only at the very end of what would-be 90 degree angles that we find last minute rounding measures that smooth the two dimensional into the polygonal.
The famed Spirit of Ecstasy stands as tall as a sterling candelabra above the tall Hellenic grille. It's all so solid to the touch. The fender, too.
That long hood.
There's a black everflex roof that stands in perfect (if staunchly conservative) juxtaposition to the deep gloss of the banker's grey body. Every bit of chrome - handles, window/door trim, tailpipe - shines at the hint of light.
It's all so impressive. The car stands on a 124.5 inch long wheelbase - wouldn't that swallow a Mini? The overall length is a grandiose 214 inches.
Open the door with the thumb depress and a tug at the chrome handle. Step inside into a haven of classic opulence.
Ah, yes, black Connolly leather. The finest. And it's everywhere - doors, dash, seats, seatbacks, and parts of the headliner. The rest of the headliner is suede.
The burled walnut veneer - there's so much of that, too. But it feels right. There are examples of bespoke Rolls-Royces with entire doors of wood, which is too much.
Not so here. Classic restraint. The interior has the distinct feel of an antique. Besides the 80s digital clock and radio, there are few indicators that suggest that this car isn't from the 1950s. Peering out across the yards long hood, one almost feels as though one were at the helm of a Rolls from the 1930s.
Let's try to start her again. Insert the key into the dash mounted ignition to the left of the thinly rimmed, two-spoke steering wheel.
Turn the first stop. A flat whine sounds the warning that the ignition is on. Now twist 'n pray.
The engine fires! Now there really isn't anything that differentiates this car from the 50s. The same iron-clad, V-8 with "sufficient power" that launched the Silver Clouds of yore is still present in the Silver Spur.
Remove the charger. Close the trunk; its well carpeted and plush looking like the rest of the car, but the long lid affords only a modest 60% opening. Mind your head.
Back to the driver's seat. Close the door. There's a metal spring that acts as part of the hinge. The door closes with the bank vault feel of a 1970s Mercedes-Benz. Total reassurance.
Take the thin, plastic, column mounted (3-Speed) auto-shifter in hand, and there's less reassurance to be had. It's flimsy and very light to control. One could easily by pass reverse and head straight for the low gear in simple, carefree movement.
Frankly, there's too much car here to be so glib.
Wait, there's more waiting to be done. A light on the instrument display cautions that the brakes are not yet ready. Further study reveals that the hydraulic braking system needs to develop pressure before take off - otherwise no brakes.
2 and one half tons and no brakes?
It caught the owner by surprise one day, he assured me, costing him a new rear bumper. You see, the emergency brake also runs on the same hydraulics.
How bizarre.
The light's gone. No more waiting. Just roll.
The length of that hood is epic. Ride over bumps and the (again) hydraulic self-leveling suspension soaks everything up. But the hood bobs like the bow of a great ship.
The HMS Silver Spur and I'm the captain.
Once underway, there's a eerie disconnect that one's actually driving. As a passenger, this sensation is compounded as the interior is so voluminous, and the hood so vast, that the essence of speed and movement is muted.
Opening her up onto the freeway and traffic seems to part for this grand ship. Onlookers - curious, envious, or even nervous all seem to react to the car. The dynamic of what occurs seems akin to nature; the Silver Spur is like a whale that passes through a school of minnow.
The owner chides me that he feels that everyone should have one. I think him egalitarian for saying so.
Save the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, I struggle to think of another car that feels so calm and removed at 70 mph than this Rolls. The interior is indeed hushed and were the clock analog, I'm sure I'd hear it ticking.
And then a funny sensation takes hold. I feel at instant peace with the world. It's not just a dream. Rolls-Royces really do impart this wonderful sensation. It's such a blessing.
There's no urge for pedal mashing or hard cornering - that just defeats the purpose here. Though it should be noted that the Silver Spur does tilt and wallow through the corners and the steering is so removed and light that cornering hard is done through very carefully measured inputs.
Despite this, the whale does grip the road.
"Position" the Rolls to a stop - the brakes are what I refer to as luxury car mushy (rather than sportscar grabby) - and this conservative tank once again draws the full array of subtle public spectacle in an average parking lot.
There's such respect given to this car. The Rolls, I've decided, despite its crude and (even for the 80s) antiquated technology, is the most graceful car I've ever driven. It's utterly civilized and hugely competent at carrying driver and passengers from locale to locale in removed, peaceful opulence.
The Silver Spur ranks as one of my absolute favorites. It's a wonderfully special motorcar, full of paradoxes, British eccentricity, luxury, grandeur, and romance.
In summation, I quote the Brothers Gershwin:
S'wonderful,
S'marvelous,
S'awful nice,
S'paradise,
S'what I love
To see.
Grace has automotive form. And that form is the two and one half ton Rolls-Royce Silver Spur.
Picture the evening: a moonlit sky that casts an illuminating blue minuit glow upon the fair, rolling, hedged landscape of Devonshire.
Pan in on a winding, narrow strip of roadway that can't help but bend and twist with every undulation of crest and hollow. On that road, we find a man and his banker's grey on evening black Rolls-Royce- at peace with the world. A soft concert of winds and violins plays as the landscape and the car meld.
Peace with the world.
Flash.
Twist the key again and pray that she starts. This Yankee 1988 Rolls-Royce Silver Spur has yet to see natural sunlight since the previous year. The trunk mounted battery is quite dead; the owner elected not to use the handy battery cut-off switch, but, has a charger at the ready for these occasions.
AC/Delco meets plugs.
I wait, crossed with feelings of delight and frustration. As the battery meter's needle rises precipitously, I study the scene.
It's a beautiful summer's day and as much as I'd like to be out cruising in this mammoth paragon of prestige and luxury, I'm forced, by fate, to pause and reflect.
The saloon is very angular. In fact, the Silver Spur is mostly box. It's only at the very end of what would-be 90 degree angles that we find last minute rounding measures that smooth the two dimensional into the polygonal.
The famed Spirit of Ecstasy stands as tall as a sterling candelabra above the tall Hellenic grille. It's all so solid to the touch. The fender, too.
That long hood.
There's a black everflex roof that stands in perfect (if staunchly conservative) juxtaposition to the deep gloss of the banker's grey body. Every bit of chrome - handles, window/door trim, tailpipe - shines at the hint of light.
It's all so impressive. The car stands on a 124.5 inch long wheelbase - wouldn't that swallow a Mini? The overall length is a grandiose 214 inches.
Open the door with the thumb depress and a tug at the chrome handle. Step inside into a haven of classic opulence.
Ah, yes, black Connolly leather. The finest. And it's everywhere - doors, dash, seats, seatbacks, and parts of the headliner. The rest of the headliner is suede.
The burled walnut veneer - there's so much of that, too. But it feels right. There are examples of bespoke Rolls-Royces with entire doors of wood, which is too much.
Not so here. Classic restraint. The interior has the distinct feel of an antique. Besides the 80s digital clock and radio, there are few indicators that suggest that this car isn't from the 1950s. Peering out across the yards long hood, one almost feels as though one were at the helm of a Rolls from the 1930s.
Let's try to start her again. Insert the key into the dash mounted ignition to the left of the thinly rimmed, two-spoke steering wheel.
Turn the first stop. A flat whine sounds the warning that the ignition is on. Now twist 'n pray.
The engine fires! Now there really isn't anything that differentiates this car from the 50s. The same iron-clad, V-8 with "sufficient power" that launched the Silver Clouds of yore is still present in the Silver Spur.
Remove the charger. Close the trunk; its well carpeted and plush looking like the rest of the car, but the long lid affords only a modest 60% opening. Mind your head.
Back to the driver's seat. Close the door. There's a metal spring that acts as part of the hinge. The door closes with the bank vault feel of a 1970s Mercedes-Benz. Total reassurance.
Take the thin, plastic, column mounted (3-Speed) auto-shifter in hand, and there's less reassurance to be had. It's flimsy and very light to control. One could easily by pass reverse and head straight for the low gear in simple, carefree movement.
Frankly, there's too much car here to be so glib.
Wait, there's more waiting to be done. A light on the instrument display cautions that the brakes are not yet ready. Further study reveals that the hydraulic braking system needs to develop pressure before take off - otherwise no brakes.
2 and one half tons and no brakes?
It caught the owner by surprise one day, he assured me, costing him a new rear bumper. You see, the emergency brake also runs on the same hydraulics.
How bizarre.
The light's gone. No more waiting. Just roll.
The length of that hood is epic. Ride over bumps and the (again) hydraulic self-leveling suspension soaks everything up. But the hood bobs like the bow of a great ship.
The HMS Silver Spur and I'm the captain.
Once underway, there's a eerie disconnect that one's actually driving. As a passenger, this sensation is compounded as the interior is so voluminous, and the hood so vast, that the essence of speed and movement is muted.
Opening her up onto the freeway and traffic seems to part for this grand ship. Onlookers - curious, envious, or even nervous all seem to react to the car. The dynamic of what occurs seems akin to nature; the Silver Spur is like a whale that passes through a school of minnow.
The owner chides me that he feels that everyone should have one. I think him egalitarian for saying so.
Save the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, I struggle to think of another car that feels so calm and removed at 70 mph than this Rolls. The interior is indeed hushed and were the clock analog, I'm sure I'd hear it ticking.
And then a funny sensation takes hold. I feel at instant peace with the world. It's not just a dream. Rolls-Royces really do impart this wonderful sensation. It's such a blessing.
There's no urge for pedal mashing or hard cornering - that just defeats the purpose here. Though it should be noted that the Silver Spur does tilt and wallow through the corners and the steering is so removed and light that cornering hard is done through very carefully measured inputs.
Despite this, the whale does grip the road.
"Position" the Rolls to a stop - the brakes are what I refer to as luxury car mushy (rather than sportscar grabby) - and this conservative tank once again draws the full array of subtle public spectacle in an average parking lot.
There's such respect given to this car. The Rolls, I've decided, despite its crude and (even for the 80s) antiquated technology, is the most graceful car I've ever driven. It's utterly civilized and hugely competent at carrying driver and passengers from locale to locale in removed, peaceful opulence.
The Silver Spur ranks as one of my absolute favorites. It's a wonderfully special motorcar, full of paradoxes, British eccentricity, luxury, grandeur, and romance.
In summation, I quote the Brothers Gershwin:
S'wonderful,
S'marvelous,
S'awful nice,
S'paradise,
S'what I love
To see.
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