Darkness descends and the Lamborghini dons it like a cloak over a dust-smeared, insect-spattered suit of Grigio Telesto. After a day of dodging crazed rubberneckers and attempting to (nearly literally) fly beneath law enforcement radar, you're grateful for some cover.
At day's end, the obscenely wide, profusely angular profile recedes anonymously into more plebian southbound traffic on California Interstate 15-sort of. From a distance, the best clues as to its identity might be triangular LED arrays embedded in the head- and taillamps. Possibly the elusive silhouette of a massive carbon wing sprouting behind the hexagonally faceted decklid like some endoskeletal extrusion. Were someone to come close enough, you know, in the dark.
For your part, you keep your distance. Over the last seven or eight hours you've developed a distinct driving ethos, one that keeps as much distance as possible between yourself and any and all surrounding traffic. This helps prevent any unthinkable sorts of incidents like blown semi tires pealing off and raking across expensive carbon panels, or the odd gawker careening into your lane as he snaps pics with a cell phone while unwittingly steering with his eyes. (Turns out that happens more often than you may have expected.)
Under cover of night, some might feel inclined to spear the far left lanes and unleash 12-cylinder hell. You know better. You cruise the number-two in sixth gear, tach needle barely cresting 3000 rpm, a hypnotic thrum from the rear-mid-mount V12 coursing through the cockpit in overlaying pulses like waves lapping across a sonic beach.
Fixed-back carbon bucket seats, trimmed in copious velvet Alcantara, cradle your posterior. Lateral support for even your fashionably spindly frame is quite good, but after a full day of driving, your backside is sore. And your right heel has become uncomfortably tenderized from acting as a fulcrum against that godawful-stiff gas pedal-prodding, modulating, and flat-out stomping to induce the occasional fit of laughter).
Had you doubts, the Murciélago LP 670-4 SuperVeloce is no luxury car in the traditional sense, no cosseting sissy-boy GT. What it is is simply the most pissed-off, aurally outlandish, wet-your-pants-fast super sports car to come carted off the Sant'Agata Bolognese assembly line. Ever. That should say a lot.
Yeah, when the standard Murci just isn't outrageous enough-or maybe just a tad too posh-the SV strategically puts the hard in the hardcore. Its 6.5-liter engine makes 670 cavallo vapore, translating to an equal 670 metric horsepower-up from 640 hp. The EPA speculates it'll net about 11 mpg combined fuel economy. It costs $450,000 to start-before you add any options, destination charges, or a $5,400 gas-guzzler tax.
For many, initial reaction to these figures might be horror or disdain. Possibly even horrified disdain. But the SV really doesn't care for mortal financial insecurities. And it really doesn't care what people think. It only wants to be fed-on petrol and pavement, miles upon miles upon miles, any and all indigenous flying insect life, sand and gravel, puppies. (OK, I made that last one up.)
There persists a stereotype for Lamborghini buyers. Historically it's the low-buttoned silk shirt, the obligatory tuft of chest hair, the gold chain, silk pants. For the well-moneyed, the car might be considered more fashion accessory than mode of transport-it's even been marketed as such by S.Agata itself. The world's greatest automotive injustice could potentially be that 95 percent of these cars will end up serving time doing a 45-mph V-max on some neon-lit downtown social strip like Ocean Drive in South Beach or Sunset in Hollywood.
It's like putting a thoroughbred to pasture on a putting green. Wrong, abusive even.