Temptation lurks during those early miles in France, because, more than any other highway network in the world, the autoroute is perfectly adapted for speed. The country's toll-road policy was roundly criticized when it was first introduced, but it has proved to be a visionary move. As the rest of Europe's road network crumbles through underfunding, France's highways are as beautifully manicured as a putting green. No jagged repairs, no bumps--just open radii and fine drainage. It's also relatively quiet, so when you enter the roadway in your Murcilago, the speedometer needle seems to acquire a magnetic attraction to the far right-hand side of the dial. Before acquiescing to its needs, though, it is wise to know one small factoid: France is currently in the middle of an antispeeding purge that's being enforced with a zeal not seen since the Spanish Inquisition. Bust the limit a touch and they slap down a fine; get caught rolling at a rate this puppy could hit in twelve seconds from a standing start and they'll confiscate your wheels. No, sir, you don't mess around in France these days. We trundle along at 90 mph--and in this toy, anything below 110 mph is trundling.
We reach Brussels at 11:00 p.m. and then head to Lige on a nasty, pitted, concrete surface. The road is deserted, so a brief joust of speed seems entirely necessary. Belgium has never before figured on anyone's international atlas of speed, but the moment feels right. At 100 mph, two clicks down on the left shift paddle--barrrrumph, baaaaaaarumph--put the V-12 right in the juicy section of its power curve. Then the theater begins.
Induction noise and physical acceleration are the instant ramifications of a punted throttle pedal. The nose rises slightly even from three-figure speeds, but the driver needn't worry, because above all other supercars, the LP640 is supremely stable at high speeds. It needs to be--within ten seconds we're beyond 150 mph. We ease off and take stock. The most remarkable aspect of this car's performance isn't the way it'll spit epic statistics at will, it's more how little time and space is required to register something decidedly naughty. This ability will dominate the coming days.
Power is addictive, so it doesn't take long to relapse and push for even bigger numbers. Fourth gear again, then fifth, and then sixth. The speedometer registers a mind-blowing 216 mph. There we were, thinking it would take a German autobahn at dusk to discover what lay on the other side of 200 mph, yet less than two hours into the journey, the Murci's maximum-speed indicator has registered a number that leaves us speechless. Not that we can hear each other anyway. As we park for the night and shut down the engine, there is a sudden evacuation of noise, the deafening silence that only recently extinguished V-12s are capable of creating.
"So we did two-sixteen, hey Barry."
"Yep."
"Fastest you've been?"
"Yep."
"You enjoy it--the speed, the feeling?"
"It's okay."
Cool as iced cucumber, this boy. Two-sixteen and he was adjusting the flash.
Germany follows. Wretched northern Germany. It's only when you drive into the Bundes-republik's industrial heartland that you realize how much Germans love to build stuff. The roads are jammed with trucks. In all honesty, if the dream of extended high-speed running does exist somewhere on this planet, it probably isn't in northern Germany. The moment an "unrestricted" sign appears, a gaggle of turbo-diesel sedans heads directly for the passing lane and commences battle with each other. Often this results in some high speeds, but we're in command of something so punchy that the most frustrating exercise imaginable is following a BMW 5-series as it strains its every sinew to accelerate from 100 mph to 155 mph. When our green monster eventually explodes past these dawdlers, other road users are staggered at the way it pulls clear. These are conditions for 170-mph work, and as we've already found out, you don't need much space or imagination to achieve such levels in the LP640. ...next page >>