Raging Bull

MANILA, Philippines - This was supposed to be all about the experience. And the folks of Lamborghini know how to pour it on thick. The foreplay begins with an email that clearly states that we will only be given fifteen minutes with the car. One-Five. That’s it. We will be flown over (most from as far as Australia and the U.S.) put up for two nights, taken to the track and back, then flown home, all for fifteen minutes.

This may not sound like much, but then again, ask Ricky Hatton about the five minutes he spent with Pacquiao. It’s all relative. And believe me, with 700 horsepower, you can cover a hell of a lot of ground in 15 minutes. Besides, apart from the precious metal that they were trying to preserve for the next batch of journalists, the exclusivity is all part of the snobbery that adds to the appeal of a Lambo.

You see, the Aventador is not just a bull, but a bully. It’s designed to intimidate. You could almost see people cowering in its presence as they walked up for their turn. And as polite and professional as they all are, I know that Lamborghini likes it this way; it gives itself a head start – much in the same way that Tyson used to win his fights even before the bell had rung. Sheer fear.

But I had just come from driving the 458 Italia, so if the Aventador planned on relying solely on star power alone, I’m afraid I lost the giggling school girl routine back in Maranello. Sorry. This was going to have to win my heart the old school way, which is why I planned to spend each minute wisely.

The day starts off with a briefing in the plush hospitality center of the Sepang International F1 circuit. Each unique feature is combed through carefully, while the irrelevant stuff like pedestrian safety, choice of cabin materials and emission controls are stuffed in a carbon fiber USB key. Lamborghini is pretty clear about what they want to communicate and will leave the rest to speak for itself once we get our fifteen minutes of fame out on the track.

In no particular order: it’s Italian. We built it – not Audi. It is the most powerful car we’ve ever built, it has the best power to weight ratio in its class, it’s the most successful V12 car ever sold, and its carbon fiber everything. Well, almost. Rumor has it that they tried the tires, but couldn’t get the grip.

But enough about the facts and figures – you could learn all that on Wikipedia. What’s more important is how it all translates to the road, or in our case, the track. This was, after all, one of the world’s first drives, and The STAR was among the very few hand-picked outfits flown in for the incredibly exclusive event, so it would be pointless to waste all this print space on the car’s resume.

Lining up behind my personal pace car, a Gallardo, driven by a Macau Grand Prix winner, I ease on the gas just to get a feel of what I’m dealing with. It covers ground so damn quickly that your eyes barely have enough time to process distance. All I can see is the back end of a Gallardo getting bigger and bigger with every brush against the loud pedal.

My instructor senses that I am getting choked up behind him and ups the pace. Still no sweat. I’m barely reaching redline and there’s still a couple of gears left. His voice crackles over the radio, “Seems like you’ve a done-a this a kind of a thing-a before, eh?” I flash my lights twice. He guns it. Now we’re dancing.

Dropping the hammer after the hairpin, even with a lift off to avoid catching up, we manage to just kiss 270 km/h before coming down hard on those massive six piston chompers that bite into the 400mm carbon ceramic discs. There’s so much confidence on the left pedal that the temptation to not dive down the inside and out-break my instructor into turn 1 is only slightly less than the thought of getting stricken off the press list of Lamborghini.

The power is rude, crude and downright vulgar. Just how we like it. We’re told to leave the gearbox setting on either Strada or Sport, and NOT try Corsa. Being the law-abiding journalist that I am, needless to say, I did just that. So the following is what the other journalists told me happens in Corsa mode.

Instead of a sharp, positive snap to the next gear, you get this massive thud that feels like an unprotected liver shot forcing you to wince with every time and develop a deep fear of the red line. It is relentless, and brutal. I’ve driven all sorts of transmissions, including those crude jobs in the lower Formula cars, and next to the Pagani Zonda Cinque, this is the most violent. Or so I’ve been told.

The Ferrari DSG may weigh in 40kg heavier, but all of that is made up of manners. They should re-name the modes: Strada, Sport, Defcon1.

At the start of the cool down lap, the familiar voice comes cracking over the radio. “This is the fastest we’ve a been today. Bravo!” I wish I could take all the credit, but the truth is that there was quite obviously so much left in the bag, and with all respect to my instructor and his Gallardo, its like he entered a sword fight with a spoon.

There’s no denying that this is perhaps the fastest production car on earth, but there’s room to argue about whether it’s the most drivable. This shouldn’t put off any of its prospective buyers, but this is not the kind of thing that you could take to the shops, like say, a GT2, 458 or LFA. But if it is brute strength you’re after, especially in terms of power/weight/price you can finally stop googling and start dreaming – especially now that the official Lamborghini dealership is due to open at the Fort later this year.