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Even Bentley’s Cargo Jets Are Going Green Now

Bentley has never been shy about excess. Twelve cylinders, mirror-finish walnut, enough cowhide to upholster a gentlemen’s club. But in 2026, excess comes with an asterisk—and a carbon calculation. So while the brand from Bentley Motors is still perfectly happy to airfreight your six-figure grand tourer across continents at a moment’s notice, it now plans to do so on something a little less Jurassic than conventional jet fuel.

The company announced it will use Sustainable Aviation Fuel (SAF) for all customer car airfreight movements worldwide, effective immediately. It’s a headline that sounds bureaucratic until you remember what’s actually happening: when a customer in, say, Dubai or Los Angeles needs their Continental or Bentayga delivered yesterday, that car often boards a cargo jet. And cargo jets, as physics relentlessly reminds us, burn a lot of fuel.

Bentley insists airfreight remains the exception, not the rule. Sea freight is still the default, because container ships sip fuel compared with aircraft guzzling it at 35,000 feet. But in the rare cases when time zones and client expectations collide, the brand says those flights will now run on ISCC-certified SAF—an alternative fuel derived from renewable or waste-based sources that can be pumped into existing aircraft without modification. No new engines. No sci-fi hardware. Just a different cocktail in the tank.

The important bit isn’t that it works—it does—but that it meaningfully cuts lifecycle emissions. Depending on feedstock and production method, SAF can reduce lifecycle CO₂e emissions by up to 70 to 95 percent compared with conventional jet fuel. That’s not greenwashing math; it’s independently verified well-to-wheel accounting, the kind sustainability departments love and engineers respect.

According to Aimee Kelly, Bentley’s Head of Sustainability, the shift reflects “measurable, evidence-based steps” to reduce emissions where flying remains unavoidable. Translation: if you must ship a two-and-a-half-ton luxury coupe by air, at least make the jet fuel count for something.

Bentley says it has already transported customer cars using SAF, recording substantial CO₂e reductions compared with traditional aviation fuel. At present, the coverage applies to all customer car airfreight movements, and the company is exploring whether SAF can be expanded across additional logistics routes that require air transport.

This isn’t an isolated PR flourish. It slots into Bentley’s broader Beyond100+ strategy—its long-term roadmap to transform the company into a leader in sustainable luxury mobility. Beyond100+ aims to decarbonize operations and the value chain while preserving what Bentley considers non-negotiable: craftsmanship, performance, and the sort of quiet authority that comes from building cars in Crewe for over a century.

If this sounds like a strange juxtaposition—private jets and planet-saving ambitions—you’re not wrong. Luxury and sustainability have historically been uneasy roommates. But the modern ultra-luxury customer expects both: speed and conscience, indulgence and accountability.

There’s also a pragmatic undertone here. Airfreight produces significantly higher emissions than sea transport. That’s a hard truth. So rather than pretending urgency doesn’t exist in global markets, Bentley is targeting the emissions intensity of the flight itself. It’s a surgical move: decarbonize the outliers while continuing to lean on lower-impact shipping where possible.

For a brand built on W-12 engines and two-tone paintwork, this is a different kind of engineering challenge. Not horsepower per liter, but carbon per kilometer. Not 0–60 times, but well-to-wheel emissions curves.

Will Sustainable Aviation Fuel single-handedly absolve the environmental footprint of shipping a 5000-pound luxury car by air? Of course not. But in a world where logistics is often the invisible giant in a product’s carbon story, it’s a meaningful lever.

And if Bentley is serious about redefining sustainable luxury, the real work isn’t just in electrifying the lineup—it’s in rethinking everything that happens before the key fob ever lands in a customer’s hand.

Source: Bentley

News

When Your Toyota Talks to Your Insurance Company

You know your car has cupholders, a reversing camera, enough driver-assist chimes to soundtrack a low-budget sci-fi flick, and at least one fossilized French fry wedged permanently between the seat and center console. What you might not realize is that it also has a second job—one that doesn’t show up on the Monroney sticker. Your car may be moonlighting as a data broker.

Welcome to the era of the rolling server rack.

Industry estimates suggest that roughly 90 percent of new vehicles vacuum up detailed driving data: speed, throttle inputs, braking force, cornering loads. In other words, all the fun stuff. Automakers say this telemetry helps improve safety systems, diagnose mechanical issues, and refine performance. And to be fair, modern cars are astonishingly capable computers on wheels. Over-the-air updates fix bugs. Crash-avoidance systems get smarter. Engines squeeze more efficiency from every drop of fuel.

But somewhere between your spirited on-ramp merge and your panic stop at a stale yellow, that same data may be heading somewhere else—like your insurance company.

One driver discovered this the hard way. After braking hard the day before shopping for a new policy, he was stunned when an insurer referenced that exact event during the quote process. The source, he was told, was his own car’s built-in telemetry system.

Philip Siefke told CNN that the insurer in question was Progressive. When he pressed for answers, he says he was told the data came from his Toyota’s connected services. His reaction was less “wow, cutting-edge tech!” and more “how exactly did you get that?” According to his account, he hadn’t knowingly enrolled in any monitoring program. The explanation he received: most customers effectively consent through the paperwork signed at purchase.

And there’s the rub.

Modern car-buying already feels like signing a mortgage in a wind tunnel. Between financing documents, extended warranty pitches, and the standard stack of contracts, buried clauses about data sharing are easy to miss. Technically, the permission may be there. Practically, few buyers are parsing legal language about third-party data partners while negotiating APR.

Some manufacturers share or sell anonymized—or not-so-anonymized—driving data to third parties, including insurers. The pitch is that usage-based insurance can reward safe driving. In theory, smoother inputs mean lower premiums. In reality, one heavy-footed afternoon can follow you around like a permanent demerit badge.

Regulators have started paying attention. In 2024, the Federal Trade Commission warned consumers that connected cars can collect sensitive personal data and that its use and disclosure could threaten privacy and financial well-being. Not long after, the FTC resolved a case involving General Motors and its OnStar connected services, barring the company from selling driving data to third parties for five years without clear notice and affirmative consent. There was no fine attached, but the message was unmistakable: clean up the consent process.

GM said it had already stopped the practice earlier in response to customer feedback and maintained that the original goal was to encourage safer driving. Still, the action highlighted just how opaque these data ecosystems can be.

Meanwhile, the real-world consequences show up in the one place drivers always feel it—the wallet. The Toyota driver who discovered his braking event in an insurer’s database reportedly saw his premium jump sharply at renewal despite a long clean record. What began as a sub-$300 monthly policy climbed north of $400 six months later. His lawsuit against the automaker, insurer, and a data provider is now headed to arbitration—another clause tucked neatly into that original stack of purchase documents.

Toyota has said it only shares driving data with third parties when customers provide consent and direct the company to do so. Insurers, for their part, often promote usage-based models as voluntary and beneficial. Industry groups insist connected cars aren’t spying—they’re optimizing.

But from the driver’s seat, it can feel less like optimization and more like surveillance with a deductible.

We’ve spent decades obsessing over horsepower, lateral grip, and 0–60 times. Now there’s a new performance metric to consider: how smoothly you brake in front of an algorithm. Press the start button, and you’re not just firing up fuel injection and infotainment—you may be launching a quiet livestream of your right foot’s greatest hits.

The connected car revolution promised convenience, safety, and smarter machines. It delivered all of that. It also delivered a new reality: every apex clipped and every panic stop might be logged, scored, and priced.

So the next time you mash the brake pedal to avoid a shopping cart in the Costco lot, remember—your ABS isn’t the only thing paying attention.

Source: CNN

News

This Renault Twizy Now Makes Supercar Torque

The Renault Twizy was never meant to be quick. It was meant to be clever. Narrow. Urban. A rolling answer to the question, “What if a car was mostly door?” With its tandem seating, sci-fi plastic bodywork, and scissor doors that looked like they’d been borrowed from a rejected Tron sequel, the Twizy carved out a niche as the world’s most charming electric appliance.

Speed? Not its department.

Which is precisely why the lunatics at DM Performance decided it needed 80 horsepower and enough torque to bend reality.

The Mild-Mannered EV Goes Full Supervillain

The build begins the only way these stories ever do: with violence. Out came the Twizy’s factory 17-hp (13-kW) motor, a unit that treated acceleration as a polite suggestion. In its place went the powertrain from a Stark Varg—currently the electric equivalent of a 450cc motocross bike, and about as subtle as a brick through a greenhouse.

The numbers are absurd. Power jumps to 80 hp (60 kW), a 396-percent increase that turns the Twizy’s résumé from “reliable intern” to “HR liability.” But horsepower is only half the story. The Stark Varg motor is rated at 692 lb-ft (938 Nm) of torque.

Yes. Six hundred and ninety-two.

For perspective, a Lamborghini Aventador makes 509 lb-ft. A Ram 1500 TRX—a two-and-a-half-ton monument to supercharged excess—delivers 680 lb-ft. The Twizy now produces more twist than both, in something that looks like it should be parked next to rental e-scooters.

Torque is what you feel. And in a vehicle this small, this light, and this fundamentally unprepared for such nonsense, torque is everything.

Surgery, Not a Swap

Fitting motocross-bike fury into a French quadricycle required more than optimistic zip ties. DM Performance removed the original rear cradle entirely and fabricated a custom mounting solution. The Twizy’s direct-drive transaxle gave way to a bespoke chain-drive setup—because nothing says “this will end well” like industrial chain noise behind your seat.

To stop the differential from instantly converting itself into glitter, the team engineered a custom stainless-steel casing and packed it with high-pressure grease to approximate limited-slip behavior. It’s less “OEM refinement” and more “mechanical deterrence.”

Then came suspension. A set of Maxpeedingrods coilovers was bolted in to reduce body roll—and, presumably, reduce the likelihood of the Twizy attempting to reenact a gymnast’s floor routine mid-corner.

Lighter. Meaner. Slightly Unhinged.

The original 100-kg (220-lb) battery was replaced by the Stark Varg’s 32-kg (70-lb) pack. It’s lighter, slightly higher in capacity, and capable of discharging energy at a rate that suggests it holds grudges.

The result is a machine that weighs a fraction of conventional performance cars while delivering torque figures that belong in a pickup truck brochure. Power-to-weight here isn’t impressive. It’s irresponsible.

Drag Strips and Donuts

The resulting “Stark Twizy” didn’t stay in the workshop. It lined up against an Audi S1 Quattro in a 100-mph drag race—and won. Let that settle in. A vehicle originally designed for European city centers just outran a rally-bred hot hatch to triple-digit speeds.

Then the builders took it drifting. And because subtlety is clearly not in the business plan, they performed donuts around a Lamborghini Aventador—a scene that feels less like a comparison test and more like performance art.

Not Their First Bad Idea

This isn’t DM Performance’s first experiment in miniature mayhem. They previously built a Stark-powered Citroën Ami, though they admitted the Twizy’s rear-wheel-drive layout makes it a better canvas for hooliganism.

And if electric chaos doesn’t satisfy your appetite, they’ve also created a turbocharged, Hayabusa-swapped tuk-tuk trike producing 305 hp in a 460-kg package. That’s less a vehicle and more a physics demonstration.

The Point of It All

The Twizy was once a symbol of urban efficiency. Now it’s proof that the electric age doesn’t have to be sterile. It can be loud (mechanically), sideways, and deeply, profoundly silly.

Car enthusiasts often ask whether EVs can be fun. The answer, apparently, is yes—provided you’re willing to install motocross-bike torque into something the size of a vending machine.

Somewhere in France, an engineer who worked on the original Twizy is staring at the ceiling, sensing a disturbance in the force.

And in a small UK workshop, someone is probably looking at a lawnmower and thinking, “Eighty horsepower should do it.”

Source: DM Performance

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