I have absolutely no good reason to love the Rolls-Royce Ghost.
I mean, even setting aside the absurd cost of the car — which I can only do for a moment, don't worry, I'll come back to it — it's not even my type of car. I lust after cars that want to play, cars you wear like a second skin and empower you like an Iron Man suit. Yes, many of the ones that fit that billing are sports cars, but there are plenty of more utilitarian vehicles — grand tourers, sedans, wagons, even the occasional SUV — that fit that bill. Fire a Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT or a Cadillac CT5-V Blackwing down a fast, empty back road for a few miles, and you'll be completely immersed in the experience.
In contrast, no one has likely ever called a Rolls-Royce involving to drive. Rollers like the Ghost are about doing much the opposite; they're about isolating you from the road, cocooning you away from all the sound and fury and feeling that make driving fun.
Why, then, can't I stop thinking about the weekend I recently spent with the Ghost? Well because the Ghost — like all modern Rolls-Royces — is just so damn good at what it does.
Let's start with the outside, since, well, that's what most people will see first. Rolls-Royce may have advanced and adjusted their design language over the years, but there's still no disputing what this is — and believe me, people take notice. Unlike the Cullinan, which is every bit as elegant but largely flies under the radar, people pay attention to the Ghost. Boxy SUVs are a dime a dozen, but massive, imperious sedans like this one are rare. Normally, I'm not one for especially attention-grabbing cars — I prefer my 911 GT3s sans spoiler, thank you very much — but even I was a bit won over by the way the Ghost seemed to spur wide eyes and impressed smiles from those around. (Except for that one guy in the Camry on the Long Island Expressway who I'm pretty sure tried to crash into me on purpose. He can go to hell.)
Long gone are the days when Rolls-Royces were relegated to blacks, silvers and whites. My test car boasted a baby blue paint job that looked wet and deep enough to dive into, accented by a shimmering silver hood that flowed seamlessly into the Parthenon grille — which, here, is ever-so-curved backwards to impart the impression the Ghost is going fast standing still. (It's also very delicately illuminated at night to give the seamless impression it's being backlit, like a teeny Lincoln Memorial.)
And if the outside was alluring, the interior blew it away. I've been testing cars for almost 15 years now, and I can count on one hand the number of times I let out a wolf whistle when I sat down inside; this Ghost deserved it perhaps more than any of the previous ones. The white trim that's a welcome change from wood feels like ivory (I'm sure it's not, though ... right?), while the baby blue leather with its black accents is so supple you'll have trouble believing it's Scotch-guarded.
Unexpectedly, even perhaps shockingly, the back seat isn't the expansive space you'd expect from a sedan wearing the Spirit of Ecstacy; thanks to the forward rake of the C-pillar and the curve of the roof, climbing in back behind a tall driver feels like entry-level spelunking. Still, there's no arguing with the luxury back there once you're settled, especially if you pop out one of the seatback trays.
The stereo is remarkably clear and nuanced from every seat, front or rear; it doesn't call attention to itself through branding, but simply serves up your tunes on a silver platter. And the Starlight Headlining — a marquee attraction for Rolls for years now — remains as whimsical as ever, even if as the driver you can't spend much time looking for shooting stars amongst its pinpricks of light.
But it's the drive itself that seals the deal with this car. It's not sporty — a regular S-Class seems like a gymnast next to the Ghost — but it's well-composed in turns, the steering light but never over-boosted and always precise. You can tell that the engineers work for the same company that makes the M models, even if there's minimal DNA shared between those Bimmers and the Ghost's Architecture of Luxury platform.
And, of course, there's the engine — all 6.6 liters, 12 cylinders and two turbochargers of it. It's the sort of spec sheet you might associate with an Aston Martin or AMG, yet tuned as it is, it offers of a completely different character. Flooring the accelerator feels uncouth, even rude; best instead to slowly dip your foot into it, as though testing the waters, and the mighty beast of a car surges forward with a feeling like nothing so much as body surfing.
All that power is aided by all-wheel-drive, both a boon to anyone who drives their Rolls in a snow storm and a feature that lets the car make the most of its nigh-on bottomless well of power and torque without spinning the tires (how uncouth) or triggering the traction control. Likewise, the eight-speed automatic gearbox shuffles between cogs with the smoothness and skill of a Bellagio dealer. (There's no manual override, but if you're feeling spirited, you can drop the spindle of a shift lever down the pattern from "D" into "L" to create a demi-sport mode.
It's so smooth, so peaceful, the act of driving about feels like a spa treatment. My blood pressure dropped every time I slipped behind the wheel — even in Manhattan traffic. And perhaps that's why I love the Ghost: because in an ever-more-hectic, ever-more-chaotic and ever-more-stressful world that seems to be careening towards the edge of Apocalypse Chasm with severed brake lines and bald tires, it provides an oasis of serenity.
Now, I can't in all decency say it's worth half a million bucks. Not just because, objectively, that is a ridiculous amount for a motor vehicle with four wheels that doesn't fly; it's a lot even subjectively, when cars like the Bentley Flying Spur and Mercedes-Maybach S-Class accomplish so much for far less. But here's the thing: the very fact that it can make me consider that it might be is worthy of note ... and, apparently, my obsession.
