It was the Lamborghini’s screaming yellow paint that grabbed my attention. Driving down a busy road, I saw it out of the corner of my eye in a busy mall parking lot. My first reaction was the one I went with – slam on the brakes, turn into the Exit of a bank parking lot, bolt across an intersection with only the briefest of glances, and stop a few spaces away from the Lambo, hoping no one noticed I just broke about six traffic laws to get to this car.
It was worth it. Don’t believe me? Umm, just look at it. This is probably the rarest and the most expensive Car in the Wild to date – the Lamborghini Aventador LP 720-4 50th Anniversary Edition. Only 100 of these were made for the entire world, and here we have one in Bedford, New Hampshire of all places. As the numbers in the name might suggest, the Aventador in 50th-anny guise makes 720 horsepower (20 more than the standard car) from its 6.5-liter V12, and routes power through all four wheels. And, all that bat-shit crazy body work isn’t just there for show – it improves the car’s downforce by around 50 percent. Top speed checks in at 217 mph, and 0-60 mph is dispatched with in about three seconds. So, it’s a Lamborghini that’s stupid fast and looks nuts. Expect anything less?
I struggle to think of another car more perfectly designed for a bedroom wall poster or desktop background than the Aventador. Heck, one has been on my computer for the last month. And clearly, that sentiment is shared by more than a few people. In my 15 or so minutes taking pictures of (i.e. – restraining my carnal desires toward) the Aventador, at least a dozen people made like me and went out of their way to oggle the yellow Lambo. Most had no clue what it was, only that it looked like the furtive love child of the Batmobile and a Star Destroyer and that they adored it. One woman practically ran up to me and started asking rapid-fire, wild-eyed questions. Lady, I don’t wear near enough Gucci or gold to own this. Relax.
And, right on cue, the owner walked over. I had spotted him all the way across the mall parking lot – a brown suit with V-neck tee shirt, big dark Ray-Bans, slicked down hair, and a gold necklace. I couldn’t have drawn a more perfect image of a Lamborghini owner if I tried. I noticed the Aventador wore Florida plates, so I casually asked him if he had driven up here, thinking that surely he hadn’t. It would cost, like, a BMWs worth of gas for that trip, this thing is a pig. He gave me a dismissive look. “Yeah, actually. It wasn’t too bad. It’s a little rough on the highway, but I did it.” I got a brief nod, and he shut the door.
The Aventador started with a wicked bark and a metallic whir, and its idle was angry and aggressive. Classic rock blared from the speakers as he pulled away, leaving me grinning like an idiot in the wash of the howling Italian V12. Seeing the Aventador sparked a feeling that I’ve missed, the one that first inspired my love of cars. It’s the same one that made me drive like a maniac to be around it, if only for a few minutes: it made me feel like a kid again.