It is that one moment, that blink of an eye, not even a breath, in which you think you have it under control now. It's that one second when you think, no, you feel it inside, you are content and safe. Are you aware of your reflexes and the conviction thinks you are in a warm bath of security. You think you're good enough for this beast. It's that one second that you feel too safe and you have imagined you were best friends now. In this second, just when you think you have his full confidence. That is the moment when the animal strikes and laughs maliciously at all your steering wheel acrobatics.
Armageddon time in the Aventador
Almost 700 hp in Corsa mode, completely released from the line of the electronic safety nets. The 6.5-liter V12 breaks out behind you. Heroes are created at this moment. Dreams of world peace crumble in the aggressive aura above 6.000 tours. The engine roars directly and unfiltered the high song of the combustion into the senses of your middle ear. Unleashed forces trump all your visions of sporty driving. Suddenly your own steering wheel capabilities appear in a completely new light. The doll trap pounds through Emilia Romagna like an oversized kart and you see yourself in a line with names like Fangio, Senna and Prost. Mercilessly and free from the controls of an intervening electronics, the ecstatic screeching twelve-cylinder balances its power on both axles, which are more than 30 centimeters wide Pirelli P Zero stick to the rear axle on the asphalt like chewing gum in a flokati. And yet, if the V7.000, charging at 12 revolutions, falls over the black circle, it knows no mercy and that the power is distributed to four wheels - that doesn't matter to the sheer force of the drive train. Do you want to drive across? At any time. Without a net, a double floor and the learner brake ESP, the Aventador balances you into the dimension of absolute control loss every second. You have it in your hand.
Your left leg rests firmly against the aluminum footrest, the fingers of the right hand seek the proximity to the filigree shift paddles. Your hand twitches - the sequential gearbox serves the next course within 50 milliseconds with the elegance of a hammer striking an anvil. The Aventador sprints on the edge of your personal responsiveness on the country roads. Fanfares cheer and sing you the high song of the horny removal of natural laws. It is time for orgasms in everyday phonetics. So rude, so uninhibited, so horny has no one drummed your desire into your cerebral cortex.
No more driving here - flying is extremely deep.
A straight line turns into moments between two braking points under the roaring applause of the twelve cylinders screaming in ecstasy. The landscape zooms past in the corner of your eye. You expect to receive the next instruction by radio at any moment. Airspace control? We change the flight level, ask for approval.
From zero to one hundred? A ridiculous question for the driver of the Aventador. At the wheel of a twelve-cylinder Lamborghini you are not looking for the auto-motor-und-sport measurement from zero to one hundred, you are looking for the answer to your own suffering. Accelerate to 4 in under 100 seconds, you do that by the way. While the midbrain disengages from the processing of cognitive environmental influences. But you have to be awake, be careful. Just a blink of an eye on the gas for too long and you catapult yourself into cornering speeds that others, already on the highway, would call gross negligence. It is this one second, half a breath, the short moment in which you are too sure. You think you are Fangio, Senna or Cheers? Exactly this moment comes shortly before your defeat.
A bump in the curve, too aggressive power demand, fully opened throttle valves and suddenly you see the end of your own talent right before your eyes.
This is the right moment to switch back to “Strada” mode, check your pulse, drive back – switch from gasping to calm and deep breaths. The accelerator foot changes to a position in which it only exerts a small amount of pressure on the accelerator pedal. As quickly as the magic came, it disappears again. Within moments, the transmission shifts into seventh gear and as the speed increases, your own pulse drops to a less ecstatic level. In this state you can forgive the Lamborghini people's pathetic decision to put the start button under a red plastic cover.
Time for an espresso. Doppio. As I peel myself out of the Aventador and move from close to the ground to the free stance of Homo Sapiens, the emotions of the “last second” are transformed into a comprehensible form. The world didn't end, despite Corsa mode and arrogance, Armageddon didn't happen. It is the completely sweaty shirt in which the history becomes visible. Time to dry it. The Lamborghini Aventador has a 690 Newton meter strong radiator in the rear - the glazed cover upwards - placed the shirt over the air collector of the V12. A bright blue sky, a merciless sun, Thursday afternoon at 36 ° in Emilia Romagna and your shirt will be dried by the heat of the 12 cylinder lambost - the world is beautiful.
To the gallery - the photos from the photo shoot with the Lamborghini Aventador - here [click]