It’s 
been more than a month since the CAR team gathered some of the most remarkable performance metal for this year’s Performance Shootout, but there was one car that managed to leave an indelible impression on me – and it wasn’t even the one I picked as my first choice…
I could rattle off all sorts of purple prose to set the scene for this experience, but I’m rather going to tell it as it happened. We’d been rotating cars en-route to our final destination in Port Elizabeth when I was struck down by some sort of mystery malaise as we approached Oudtshoorn. Up until this point I’d sampled some remarkable machines (Audi R8 V10, BMW M3 and Nissan GT-R among them), but sitting at Steers in a near-catatonic state and attempting to slug down an Energade that looked like some sort of petroleum by-product, I decided that I’d ride shotgun with Deputy Editor Hannes Oosthuizen, thereby passing up my scheduled turn.
With the performance car fare on offer you’d imagine that this would be galling enough, but it was as I trudged towards Hannes’ ride (the M3) that I caught a glimpse at what I was passing up on. Sitting in the harsh afternoon sun was the silver Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4; its sublime lines, jewel-like lights and wondrous V10 engine beneath a glass panel calling to me, even in the zombie-like state I was in. I’d heard a mixture of things regarding this car – from those claiming in almost reverential tones that it was the most exhilarating thing they’d driven to date, to others explaining the respect this car demands of its pilot… Right now, this car was beyond me, but even as I retired to my room for an early night of recuperation, the Lambo was still calling out to me.
Now, I’m usually not one to fall for the charms of an out-and-out supercar, and there are two reasons for this… Firstly, I make no claims to be an especially talented driver and don’t recoil at the prospect of being the CAR team’s self-proclaimed James May. Secondly, over the years, I’ve unfortunately managed to cultivate some rather unsavoury connotations of such cars with the tattoo-sporting likes of Premier League footballers and their entourage of WAGs and hangers-on…
Not a fair association by any means, but one that has wormed its way into my psyche nonetheless. Even so, when the Lambo finally took to Scribante towards the end of the second day something was stirring inside me. The sheer noise emanating from this diminutive wedge of silver as it blatted through the gears and the way it hugged the corners while appearing to defy the laws of physics were eroding my long-held perceptions and making me want to experience the car all the more.
My chance came at the tail-end of the final day. Having driven the M3 from Albertinia to our rendezvous point just outside Swellendam, I’d become used to the easily-accessible performance and relative comfort of the BMW. So, there was some understandable trepidation as I approached the Lambo and peered inside to take in what looked like a very snug cockpit whilst trying to take in the previous driver’s advice regarding the nuances of the car’s e-gear transmission. Before I knew it, I was wedged in the driver’s seat and pointed in the direction of the sweeping road to Ashton. Having built up this moment for the last two days, I was almost certain of what I’d expect to feel but the nervous caution I expected simply wasn’t there…
Sitting just a few inches from the ground in a body-hugging seat and peering through a rakishly-angled swathe of windshield, the initial impression was that this was about as close to sitting in the cockpit of a fighter jet as one could get. There was so much to take in that the guttural bark of the V10 firing into life scarcely registered – it was only as the momentum picked up that the Lambo’s uncanny ability to reel in the road began to dawn on me.
The driving experience served up by the Gallardo was both visceral and addictive, but far from frightening. There seemed to be no end to the power on offer – I planted my foot and the V10 over my shoulder emitted a spine-chilling howl as it propelled the car forth in an unrelenting fashion. Just as I thought there couldn’t be any more power on tap, the engine note rose by an octave and another surge of power emerged to catapult me ever faster towards the horizon.
The steering reacted precisely to input and although the pedal placement is seriously offset and can catch you out if you’re unaccustomed or have stompers like Os du Rand, the brake pedal itself felt as though I was treading on a solid block of aluminium – the stopping power on offer is phenomenal. Left in auto, the gearbox lurched and slipped in its attempts to rein in the power and an educated toe was required when changing manually, but the shifts were lightning-fast.
Perhaps the most awe-inspiring aspect of the Gallardo was the sheer grip; allowing you to carry immense speed into sweeping bends with virtually no body roll. My observations at the race track were again proven correct as the car proved itself capable of changing direction in a way that defied belief. Lots of superlatives, I know, but this car was generating a mixture of awe, respect, and sheer usability that flattered my ability and eroded my guarded attitude to performance machinery.
The car’s ability to affect me in such a way that it altered my long-held perceptions was impressive enough, but I simply wasn’t prepared for its effect on other people. The expected sneers and suggestive hand signals simply didn’t materialize… Truck drivers beamed a smile and flashed their lights in appreciation. When approaching a bakkie loaded with otherwise nonchalant school kids, their little faces were instantly pressed to the canopy glass with mouths agape in wonder.
But it was in Ashton that the most enduring reaction to the Lambo occurred. As I was driving past a township on the edge of Ashton, a boy of about 10 suddenly ran into the road grinning from ear to ear. He tried, with all his might to run alongside the Lambo – as if he wanted to stay in the presence of this seemingly other-worldly visitor to his quiet town. As I left the 60 km/h zone, I planted the accelerator and disturbed the quiet evening with a howling roar from the engine – not something I’d usually indulge in, mind you – and watched the young lad leap and punch the air. In my rear view mirror I saw him stumble to a standstill before dropping to his knees, and then flat on his back, arms still raised.
When I think about it now, it reminds me of a young Christian Bale’s character in the Steven Spielberg film, Empire of the Sun, and his ecstatic reaction to the thunderous arrival of a flight of P-51 Mustangs buzzing the quiet internment camp where he is held. A corny association, but for the car to go from making you feel awkward, to liked… and then “heroic”, really does say something.
It even overshadowed my opportunity to drop the windows and prod the sport button as I entered the Hugenot tunnel on the final stretch to hear that remarkable engine’s sound reverberating off the walls… but only just!
Even as I sit here in the office a month down the line, I still feel short of breath recalling this experience and wondering if the piece I’ve just put together will really do justice to it.
Before you post your comment, just bear in mind that this was one driver’s experience of just one of the stars of our Performance Shootout, which will give you some idea of just what’s in store when you read the full article in the January 2010 issue of CAR when it hits the shelves from December 14.
