The perfect storm

A powerful storm just swept through Manila. But rather than battening down the hatches, we saw storm chasers lining up to catch even a fleeting glimpse of this one as it made landfall last Wednesday, November 26, in Bonifacio Global City.

They call it the Huracan. And it couldn’t be more appropriate. It is both beautiful and devastating; graceful and chaotic; feared and cheered, and is greeted equally by both terror and awe––all of which depends entirely on where you’re seated.

Thankfully, I was seated up front, to the left, just behind that flat-bottomed leather wheel that is positioned smack bang in the eye of this storm. It is the safest place to be, provided you know what you’re doing, and gives you Obama-like levels of control when tackling foreign ground.

Today we’re in Sepang. Home to F1, Moto GP, GP2 and a host of other epic championships. There’s 5.3 kilometers of nicely rubbered-in automotive Nirvana laying up ahead––thanks to the Super Trofeo cup World Finals––and I’m told I have just four laps to experience it to the fullest. I’ve been here before, in an Aventador, so the intimidation levels are dialed in somewhere between first-day-at-school-wedgy and you’re-lucky-you-know-my-brother.

Visual seduction and intimidation aside, it all begins with the starting sequence. It feels like unlocking some sort of nuclear attack (to start it you need to lift up a flap, then depress the start/stop button. Yes, sort of like a safety switch.) It’s all a bit rich, as is the caging of the switches that seem to be framed by brass knuckles, but none of it seem inappropriate. Super cars have never been all about 0-100 and lap times, but more about the drama. And the Huracan pours it on thick.

Perhaps it needs to make up for the insecurity of having normal doors––yes, I know, scissor doors are stupid and impractical and are no basis to judge a super car––but so is a cape. Now imagine playing Batman without one. I rest my case. So ignition safety switch forgiven. Same goes for slats on the engine cover that totally screw up rear visibility (there’s a glass version for the soccer moms) and those very Gotham air vents. It just sets the stage. So screw you, ergonomics.

I line up behind the pace car, which is an Aventador driven by an instructor with a very thick Lamborghini accent. I fire it up. The 5.2-liter, naturally-aspirated V10 engine coughs into life. I give it the obligatory stab of the throttle to complete some sort of a universally expected ritual––much like how boxers throw air combos after being introduced or Korean and Japanese girls show a peace sign when their pictures are being taken––and call up first gear. I’m not exactly sure how to describe the noise, but it’s a lot what you would expect climate change to sound like if it made one.

It’s hard to describe the first 400 meters of acceleration and cornering with anything but the “F” word, but as this is still a PG publication, let me just say that the Huracan is fery, fery fast. First hundred comes up in 3.2 seconds; the following hundred arrives 6.7 seconds later; your gall bladder catches up about a second after.

Having said that, the power comes on in a much smoother, in a more useable way that the Aventador. It has traces of the LFA, which has always been a benchmark for me, but has a better gearbox than the Lexus. But the most amazing improvement here is the steering, handling, and those suffocating Brembo brakes.

Acceleration, as luscious as it is, is just silly. It is far more than anyone not wearing fireproof overalls needs. Tell me someone that can tell between 2.9 and 3.2 seconds to a hundred and I’ll show you someone that that can tell you the difference between 100mpbs and 103mpbs. There’s nothing democratic about the steering; basically, wherever you point the bespoke Pirellis, the rest follows. Without question. Where there was once reluctance, there’s now complete submission. With a hybrid chassis made up of aluminum and carbon fiber, turn in is sharper, more decisive and accurate, making the Huracan feel like a natural-born dictator. And the weight transfer, especially on the fast corners, comes on so fluidly that with the rear tires all burned up, sends the Huracan into the most delicious 4th-gear power slide I’ve ever been in.

It is not an arms crossed power slide, but a very controlled drift that never feels like it will betray you. Part of it comes from the AWD system that is now controlled by the Anima (Italian for Soul) that can send more torque up the front as well as use the electronics to allow you some room to play before that slap on the wrist.

There’s still a stupendous amount of power, but it feels like Lamborghini has loosened the neck tie on this one. It is snappier. Happier. And being one of the last of the naturally aspirated big boys, there’s still that magical sound, that while not as loud and angry as an F-Type R, is about 1000 rpm short of a mechanical orgasm.

This is a new era for super cars, and indeed for Lamborghini. Gone are the days where you could get by on heritage alone. Today’s super car needs to be everything it promised to be on that poster on your bedroom wall, without the compromises. Basically, something invincible. Which, funnily enough, is exactly how it got its name.