300!

One last run and we’re outta here, says Moreno as we slope in to the slip road and wait for traffic to clear out. A few articulated lorries pass us, drivers slowing down as their retinas detach at the sight of the menacingly orange intergalactic time-warp shuttle rumbling away, that scaffolding of a rear spoiler all primed and ready for a quick blast into hyperspace. Lamborghinis are worshipped in these parts, even by the Carabinieri who understandably are mighty pleased with their Gallardo cop cars, but even Italian cops have a finite tolerance to how often a raging bull can, well, rage across the countryside.
So, we have one more run. One last shot at 300 kmph. A last shot at glory in the final episode of the Murcielago chapter — one of the most epic supercars to have ever graced this planet. And if a few farmers get upset at such shattering of the peace, so be it. Gallardo cop car or not, we’ll be in the next continent before we know it.

Eventually the lorries slip over the horizon. But, wait, says Moreno.

Wait, wait, wait… I inch forward… wait! you’ll catch those truck before you know it. Okay go, now!

F****** HELL!

I want to use the word violent here but it seems so… tame. This Lamborghini ravishes the horizon; bites its head off, and drinks its blood. It howls like Katrina making for New Orleans. It fries my brain and simultaneously and instantaneously makes all my sweat glands erupt. The only bodily function is my brain screaming at my fingers to keep pace with the car, to hit the paddles. Quickly and rapidly. I might have stopped breathing.

It’s just f****** brutal. On another planet. And it’s not just the speed, though the speed has a huge part to play in the episode unfolding. I’ve done 300 kmph in a hypercar before — in the Veyron — and it was so civilised I could think; my brain made notes and filed it away in a cabinet marked to-be-recounted-to-grandchildren. I had time to laugh at the sheer lunacy of it. I can also claim, though I use the term very loosely, to have been in control of the car.

Here the bull has taken me by the ears, given me a right proper slapping, and then laughed in my face as we, and there’s no better way of saying this, nuke 200 kmph. If I’m ever on a reality TV show and asked, for one million rupees, if I knew what was happening, I’d have to say no. My brain is running a few car lengths behind, bamboozled by the rush of scenery and the velocity at which the lorry is closing in.

Keep going. At least I think that’s what Moreno’s saying. With the deafening explosions behind my ears he might as well be ordering extra cheese on his pizza. So I keep it in, and I think that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

250 kmph. 260. 270. You’re still reading this so I’m guessing you’ve got some petrol in your veins, that sometime, somewhere and on something, you too have made that lunatic lunge to max out the speedo.

Remember transcending into the zone, the zone at which you stop thinking about consequences? I’m there. I probably was there some time ago, but now I’m definitely there. Speed traps, people crossing the road, wet patches, cross winds, the lorry pulling out to overtake — neither is there time nor the bandwidth to process such thoughts. Keep it in. Yeah, keep it in. 290, 295, 300! Lift off? Should I lift off?

Will Moreno think I’m chicken to lift off at 300? In the time my brain takes to process this nonsense the needle climbs. 310 kmph. S**t! Okay just a fraction more. 311 kmph. I should lift off now. 316 kmph, 317, 318, 319, 320, the adrenaline coursing through me threatens to burn my insides, melt my internals. My brain needs oxygen. I need to breathe. My foot lifts off.

As we pull over, my eyes are bloodshot, my expression horrified. Moreno describes it as a matador who has just sunk his estoque between the bull’s eyes, pierced its heart, drawn blood. Yes, I nod, a matador, that’s me. A matador who perhaps, this time, was spared by his bull.

Sirish Chandran is Editor, Overdrive.  

The complete Lamborghini LP670-4 SV review is in Overdrive’s September issue