Celebrity is available to anyone with the desire and the means, as I discovered while making a maiden test pilot journey through Times Square in the bellowing, belching Gallardo. I was showered with an explosion of tourist attention, shouts and cell phones whipped out, the flashes bouncing off my windshield like gnats.
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And why not? If you follow the world of fine automobiles, you know this is one of the most exclusive rides on the planet, the chariot of choice for rock stars, princes, basketball legends and oil barons.
Even if you don’t pay attention to supercars, it’s hard not to be impressed with the Gallardo’s sculpted flanks, transparent rear engine bonnet and overall flavor of stark, raw speed and style. You might as well saddle up a Burmese tiger and ride it through Manhattan. One doesn’t so much drive this supercar as much as wear it like a bespoke, angry suit.
The test didn’t start out with much glitz, though. Lamborghini’s delivery guy had parallel parked the Gallardo in a line of dented, drab Nissans, Toyotas and Chevys on my northernmost Manhattan block on a gray, gloomy Friday, and there the jewel provided a twinkling of faux-sunlight.
After a brief walkaround, half-listening (ok, not listening at all) to the driver’s explanation of the car’s various components, accessories and charms, I got in, belted up and tried to quickly familiarize myself with the essentials. Essentials meaning ignition, paddle shift, gas pedal, check, check, check.
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I started ‘er up, tapped the steering wheel-mounted shift paddle into first gear and drove off, slowly, into the increasing darkness, the local dudes in my hood-ish nabe gasping and pointing and going “day-umm!” like cooing pigeons.
It was immediately apparent that headlights would be needed, what with the sun going down, and I instinctively grabbed the stalk left of my steering wheel and succeeded in getting my bright lights to illuminate—-and that was all. Twist, turn, push, pull—couldn’t get the lights on.
I pulled over and re-inspected the plethora of cockpit switches and levers, whereupon a dented van of yahoos pulled up right next to me and let fly a series of demands familiar to anyone who’s ever been lucky enough to park themselves behind the wheel of a supercar in Manhattan.
“Lamborghini, right???”
“Yo, How much you pay?”
“How many horsepower?”
“Yo, how fast it go?”
From experience, I knew there was no use lowering a window and saying “I’m sorry, fellows, I am trying to find my headlights at this time and I cannot answer your questions.” I flashed the peace sign and sped away from the van, right hand on the steering wheel, left hand on the stalk holding the lights on so I wouldn’t whack or smash my $255,690 ride in the first 5 minutes.
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I found a secluded spot underneath a pillar off the Henry Hudson Parkway, popped the overhead light, examined my cockpit, put off that burning, primal desire to go fast, now, and had a cursory look at the many, many buttons and switches in and around me.
One which stood out immediately was that switch that lifts the front end 6 inches off the ground if you need. Good job, Lambo—that meant I wouldn’t have to back the car onto the inclined entrance to my garage to avoid scraping the bumper when I parked the car later that night.
I found my window buttons—check—-then—-Eureka! The lights. On they went, and off I sped to midtown, to pick up a friend. Here is where the test really began.
The Lambo honchos made a variety of improvements to their baby for ’09, such as 40 extra ponies for a grand total of a blistering 552, direct fuel injection, a 45-pound weight loss and faster shift times via the optional sequential-shift automated manual tranny. The rear fascia and taillights have been softened, an already-tight chassis has been further stiffened, and the rear suspension’s been adjusted to help with cornering.
And speaking of cornering, you can do 0-60 in a mere 3 seconds on a track, though in the city, you’ll want to take it a little easier. The brakes are stiff and will jerk you to pieces at slow speeds, but they stop you in a split second and that’s what counts.
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You’ve got three modes of transmission which you can select via pushbutton on the center console - A for automatic, S for sport and Corsa for when you want to smoke the tires and deliver a rush of Red Bull to your machine. The outside is more drop-dead stylewise than the inside, but this car, if driven on public streets, is all about announcing your presence, so that’s a good thing.
The engine’s visible through the rear hatch glass, upping the OMG factor, and there is no trunk to speak of except for a small box accessible through the front boot, where a quart of milk and a toothbrush will just about fill it to capacity. The audio system is stock, meaning the sound was just ok, but best to forget music and concentrate on the Gallardo’s purrs, roars and rumbles.
The weekend found us blasting to Rhinebeck, New York, where the pleasure of this lightweight freight train was immediately apparent on the northbound Taconic State Parkway. No, we didn’t max the needle at 200 MPH, but merely enjoyed the mechanics, feel, groan and roar of the machine, and that was enough.
After we’d shot, videoed, driven and gotten just about everything out of the car possible, I told myself after I parked it in the garage Sunday night that I would get back to work Monday, allowing it to be picked up at noon without a fight. But not so. 9 AM found me blasting out over the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey and back for mere groceries, before the deadline.
Because the best time to drive a Gallardo isn’t when you’ve cleared your schedule for a day of fun—-the best time is when you’re supposed to be in the office.
