Ezra Dyer: The Devil’s in the Details

From the July/August 2023 issue of Car and Driver.

It was late in the day when the Miura caught fire. Someone was sitting in it with the engine off and the key in the on position, assuming the car would be happy to keep the V-12’s fans running. It also kept the fuel pump running, so when the car was eventually started, the overfull carbs burped out fuel onto the hot exhaust manifolds. Much yelling in Italian ensued as nearby Lamborghini mechanics initiated a 20-yard sprint that might have qualified them for an Olympic event involving running with fire extinguishers.

They got the budding conflagration snuffed before damage was done, but after that, the car went into a trailer, not to be seen again. If you ever get to drive eight Lamborghinis in one day, try to snag the Miura first.

Miura, Countach, 400GT . . .

The 1973 Miura SV was the star attraction of a spectacular lineup mustered to celebrate Lamborghini’s 60th birthday. We were to start at the factory in Sant’Agata, drive up into the hills, and take turns behind the wheel of significant cars from the various epochs. An audacious plan, for sure. Just between the 400GT, the Miura, and the Countach, there were 36 carbureted cylinders to keep in fine fettle—all while dealing with traffic, rain, and roads that might be 1.1 Aventadors wide. Plus, the biggest liability of all, journalists.

Over the course of the day, some themes emerged. I learned that throughout much of Lamborghini’s history, primo console real estate was devoted to the ashtray. Dogleg first gears require that you constantly mutter “Reverse is where first should be,” lest you overcome whatever feeble detent defends the upper left slot of the shift pattern and find yourself hurtling backward when you meant to step away smartly from a stop sign. And the carbureted cars demand you vigorously pump the accelerator while firing the starter motor. Apparently, “You’re gonna flood it!” doesn’t translate into Italian.

Murciélago . . .

I began my day in a deliciously louche 2001 Murciélago, one of 20 cars built with a Versace interior. We set off in the rain, the Murci’s single gigantic wiper reminding me why most cars don’t have one single gigantic wiper. In my memory, the car is all howling violence, and, it turns out, memory serves me well. In its natural environment (South Beach), a Murciélago might never get out of first gear.

In the 400GT, I felt like a postwar industrialist en route to my country house in Siena. The Countach was like driving a Van Halen video. The Gallardo made me feel like an interloper who chanced onto a parade of Lamborghinis with my financed-for-84-months former Vegas rental car, although it might’ve sounded the best of all of them in the tunnels. And the Miura was divine, 380 V-12 horses against a claimed 2745 pounds, with skinny tires and no power steering. I drove it quick enough to taste the euphoria, but another number loomed over the affair: $2.5 million, the car’s estimated value. I believe the paperwork I signed said that if I hurt the Miura, subsequent generations of my family would hang exhausts on the Urus line until the debt was paid.

Desirable Diablo

Which brings me to the 2001 Diablo SE 6.0, the only car that immediately sent me to Bring a Trailer to see whether prices were in line with the experience (sadly, the answer is mostly yes). The Diablo is utterly awesome, especially since it was born of the era when Lamborghini lurched from one financial calamity to another. It’s so good—all the soul of a Countach combined with modern refinements like a front-axle lift system, adjustable dampers, and power windows. And aside from a handful of Murcis, this was your last chance to get a Lambo V-12 hooked to a manual transmission. For a car named after a bull that was named after Satan, it feels surprisingly friendly, like you want to get in and drive a thousand miles. I’m not sure I’d sell my soul for a Diablo, but I’d definitely take out a loan.