It was a moment of sheer jubilation: I put the key into the brand-spankin’ new Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4, the starter motor whirred, but failed to produce engine life. It was a lovely sound: the sound of a sputtering Lamborghini. An almost nostalgic sound, the sound of Lamborghinis past, the sound of Italian crapicity. This is Lamborghini as I remembered it. I almost teared on account of this surge of nostalgic happiness.
Suddenly, all that joyous love I suddenly had for the poor little Lambo left as the V10 suddenly sprang into healthy life. The engine was just cold and fresh; there was no problem at all. One thousand frown lines melted over the top of my sunglasses like batter overflowing out of a waffle maker. Damn Audi quality control. The trip to the grocery store would not be as fun as it seemed a couple minutes ago.
As if a non-broken Lamborghini wasn’t enough, another problem presented itself on the way to the local Wal-Mart, where yours truly is forced to buy bargain goods because he is a journalist. When I drove into the Wal-Mart parking lot, I was greeted with the usual crowd of old American sedans, minivans, and the myriad of Japanese compacts. These were my people. I felt at home here. However, the Gallardo looked as comfortable among these plebeians as a Baptist in St. Peter’s Basilica. It’s a car made for people who are paid more than money is worth, so I rethought my choice of shopping center and decided to throw down for once, and shop where all the jet-setters shop the short time they’re on the ground.
Whole Foods Market is the chic place to shop if you don’t mind paying pounds and pence for food that normally costs pence. Also, Whole Foods unfortunately makes a big deal out of being an environmentally friendly company, so driving into their parking lot with a Lamborghini sort of felt like driving a Hummer into the Coachella Music Festival with bullhorns on the roof playing “Hail to the Chief.” It felt dangerous. I was responsible for this extremely rare car, and could not afford to have celery and pink paint thrown at it. This called for stratēgery.
I parked next to an island so one side of the car would be facing a tree, which I hoped would not suddenly become a hostile environmentalist and set fire to the car. The other parking space was empty, so I positioned a couple empty grocery carts in it to discourage people from parking next to the holy Lambo. I nervously walked backwards into Whole Foods, not wanting to turn my back on the brand-new, first-in-the-US test car that Franz had entrusted me with.
A few minutes later, I exited Whole Foods, and almost dropped all my expensive victuals in horror. Some ponce had moved the carts and spitefully parked a filthy, greasy, rusted Volvo 240 station wagon in Fungus Green Metallic right next to my shimmering Lamborghini. Thankfully, after close inspection, not a spot of Volvo stink had blemished the Italian beauty’s skin. I then examined the Volvo, and discovered that its finish had a substantial outer layer of bumper stickers advertising for Greenpeace, PETA, Humane Society, the Earth Liberation Front and few other vegetabalist and ecotage organizations. Not surprisingly, I also received a friendly brochure under the Lambo’s windscreen wiper condemning me forever to Hades for symbolically clubbing baby whales to death by driving an earth-warming beast-car that ran on The Man’s oilish excrement, also known as gasoline. I would have kept interestedly reading, but the whiff of cannabis wafting from the shit-Volvo’s open window started to irritate my nose, so I neatly crumbled up the brochure, and left the parking lot in a billow of CO2 emissions.
Life in the Lamborghini had been a pleasant dawdle so far, and I decided that a celebration was in order. The local ice cream shop was open, and around this time of day, it would most certainly be crowded. It was another opportunity to brighten peoples’ days with the Gallardo’s crazy looks. As I pulled in as discreetly as possible, heads turned like motion-sensing CCTV cameras toward the razor-sharp profile of the Gallardo. I got out, answered a good volley of questions, signed autographs and made dates with several beautiful women. I made those last two up. What I really did was spend the time revving the engine and opening the doors to let curious eyes poke around the interior
I truly enjoy making these impromptu car shows. It feels like I’m bringing supercars to the masses, to people who can truly appreciate them for what they are: amazing machines that inspire, excite, and enthrall. Personally, I have never believed supercars belonged only to those who can afford them. Rather, supercars belong to the little 5 year old with the big grin on his face. They belong to the impish, sophomoric teenage skater blokes who think they are “totally rad.” They belong to the amateur auto enthusiasts who pine and geek out when they see an exotic car that actually works, unlike their Jag E-type project car which is in need of a new clutch which they can’t afford to replace. These are the true car connoisseurs. They are like the difference between those who drink posh wines because their posh friends are watching to those who sample posh wines in a appreciative manner, in order to grasp the emotional sensations that fine wine has to offer. God, that’s a rubbish analogy, but you know what I mean.
I had to get all this living-with-a-Lambo stuff out of the way, because tomorrow, I will have to get into harsh critic mode and take it out to a test track to do some serious driving. Stay tuned for my next report if I’m still alive by then.
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