At the risk of sounding boring and worthy: Lamborghini's real achievement with this car is the way that it has sanitized something with almost twice the power of a base Porsche 911 into a machine capable of covering great distances with no hint of histrionics. Just because it doesn't break, don't assume this is Eric the half-a-supercar. Scoring one for this exercise was hard enough, because, of the twelve cars used to introduce it to the automotive press last year, only five have survived. That nearly became four. The LP640 bites like no Lambo since the LP500S on shoddy Pirellis.
Grenoble's teenagers aren't prepared for a Lamborghini being perched half on the sidewalk that night, so they stand around it and whoop for hours. When we leave the following morning, the town virtually stops. As long as people respond to cars such as this in that way, life will be worth living.
As unassuming road names go, the N85 is the prince of understatement. It connects Grenoble with the town of Grasse and is known to everyone as the Route Napolon, so named after France's favorite military son who once traced the same path.
What a road. It's only when I drive this car over such fabulous asphalt that it dawns on me what a disservice I paid the LP640 in reducing its currency to simple V-max terms. If its stability and straightline speed render the standard Murcilago redundant--and believe me, this car is a whole chunk faster--then the way it conducts itself here is mesmerizing. Heaven isn't a half-pipe: it's the N85 south of Gap, traces of espresso and Gitanes on the lips from a long lunch, and a tank of high-octane juice to burn. The damping is fluid, the steering is accurate, the noise is addictive--and the traction control should ideally be left on. This is the difference between the LP640 and lesser Lambos. Cranking the output beyond 600 hp has left it feeling more like a rear-driven car than one with four-wheel drive. It's a simple case of torque overload: any excess now heads to the rear axle. And that means slithering. We--me, Barry, and the Lambo's 335-section-width rear tires--slithered a lot on the N85. But afterward, we kept the traction control switched on.
Spanish road signs arrive too slowly. It takes an age to make our way south, but the rewards are worthwhile. You see, Spain moves fast (so much is expected of the land that produced Carlos Sainz and Fernando Alonso). Expansive, three-lane sections climb and fall, and even at 120 mph, you're never the fastest mover. Soon, Spain will go the way of France and begin to persecute fast-moving vehicles, but for now, we're lucky. We head for a place called Burgos, where the E5 cuts through a canyon toward Madrid: epic scenery and space to play. Ask someone where a Lambo can really do what a Lambo should, and they'll say Germany. They'll be wrong. The Route Napolon and the E5 sixty miles south of Burgos serve the car better.
There's one extra stop to make on the route home--the Millau Viaduct, which, at 1125 feet, is the world's tallest bridge. You've got to admire the French: under the specter of a poor economy, they decided to spend $509 million bridging a valley, and now they neglect to use the thing. As we cruised over its 1.5-mile span, there was only a light scattering of traffic. If ever you are in Europe and have the means, experience this road. We can bestow upon it no higher honor than this: even in an LP640, you go slowly and absorb the magnificence.
Then we headed home. And that was it. Five days, 4000 miles, 216 mph. Oh, and in case you're wondering, Lamborghini still builds the best supercar on planet Earth.