Chris Harris relives the Lamborghini convoy dream by bringing five fresh-off-the-line Lamborghini Gallardos 1000 miles back to London
Some of you may remember reading about Mel Nichols' epic journey across Europe in three new Lamborghinis. This time we fast forward 27 years to 2003 where Chris Harris gets to relive the dream by driving in a convoy of fresh-off-the-line Lamborghini Gallardos over 1000 miles back to London from the Sant'Agata Bolognese factory.
CONVOY! by Chris Harris, with photography by Mark Bramley
Contents:
Part 1 LIVING THE DREAM
Part 2 THE RENDEZVOUS
Part 3 WIPE AWAY THE RAIN
Part 4 TUNNEL VISION
Part 5 RUN-IN WITH THE LAW
Part 6 SEPARATION ANXIETY
LIVING THE DREAM
"It had the unreal quality of a dream. That strange hyper-cleanliness, that dazzling intensity of colour; that haunting feeling of being suspended in time, and even in motion; sitting there with the speedo reading in excess of 160mph and two more gold Lamborghinis drifting along ahead."Mel Nichols, Car Magazine, 1977.
Fat chance. Here, finally; was an opportunity to live the dream, to follow in those footsteps ... but for a renegade Amazonian rain cloud hanging over northern Italy, distributing its contents to maximum disruptive effect.
There was no dazzling intensity, save for the intermittent flicker of a rear foglight as the A4's schizophrenic surfaces occasionally left a puddle for the lead Gallardo's rear Pirellis to kick into a 15-foot rooster tail. And a cool one-sixty?
Not a hope, although once or twice in the opening four-hour trudge towards Brescia, the needle flicked past 160 as a gap in the traffic allowed the 5.0-litre VI0 sitting inches behind my left ear to be treated to a lower gear and full throttle. Frustration would have been the abiding memory, but hey, did we look good; no five-car convoy has ever made a sodden autostrada seem so perfect.
Delivery driver for the weekend was the take-it-or-leave-it offer. The first five right-hand-drive Gallardos would be ready for collection from the Sant'Agata factory on 7 November.
Dominic Lancaster, general manager of Lamborghini London, had lined up a drive event for customers anxious for a taste of what their money was going to buy them, and so it only seemed logical to put a thousand miles under each car before the event. Would I like to drive one of the five? Er, okay.
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THE RENDEZVOUS
The Gallardos looked sensational lined up outside the factory. Darkness prevailed, while equatorial rain flared like mercury in the floodlighting as it crashed and splattered on the glistening paintwork. A glass of something fizzy, then a choice: manual or paddles, sir? The black or the yellow? If it hadn't been black with a stick, my friendship with the editor would now be over. And it just wouldn't have been Italy without some madness in those sodden, opening moments, would it?
It was too late to travel that night, so we booked into what purported to be a humble guest house, but which turned out to be two-third's of a stately pile just down the road from Sant'Agata. All we had to do was follow Wendy in her Audi A4 - which proved no mean feat, as she belonged to the scalded cat school of driving. I like to acquaint myself with a car slowly and allow my limbs to learn how to work with its controls: suss the lengths, weights, the travels, the subtleties.
I don't like finding out that the Gallardo's clutch bite-point is at first ponderously high or that dipped beam is frankly feeble, while trying to keep a rapidly disappearing set of Lambo taillights in view. How we laughed about it all later that night, as the risotto swelled inside us.
And how, I wondered, had some supernatural force deflected that Lambrusco-fuelled Punto, and certain write-off, during that four-minute drive. I was acutely aware that this was not a press exercise, but a chance for four other rev-heads to hack the sportscar of the moment across Europe. The last thing they wanted was to have to stop every hour in the name of Canon. But we struck a deal there and then: they would be happy to pose for our camera lens, within reason.
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WIPE AWAY THE RAIN
For the first four hours of the next day it was lights on and wipers operating flat out. In many ways such conditions were a fitting way to highlight the Gallardo's incredible drivability: we may have only cruised at between 80 and 90mph, but a 360 Modena under the same circumstances would have left a much tenser pair of buttocks at 15mph less. The baby Lambo treats inclement weather with the same disdain a 911 Turbo does. Praise comes no higher.
Double espresso, cheeky fag and more gas, even though the 90-litre tank was giving a healthy 300-mile range at these speeds, and on towards the border in frustration.
Positions swapped, there was the occasional open-taps rumble followed by an exploding shape (somehow, despite the wedge profile, the Gallardo seems to butt its way through the air), but mostly we pootled at 3300rpm in sixth.
It was frustrating, and not just for the obvious reason - in response to the inevitable running-in enquiry, the factory simply shrugged and said give it 50km.
To take the slip-agent out of the tyres? No, I just wanted to see four stumpy Lambo rumps through the Gallardo's screen and a rasher of two-Ianer stretching ahead. I had waited many years to see it, and in the wet the effect wasn't quite there.
Traffic and precipitation eased as we neared the border. The tunnels arrived, the noise grew and suddenly the collective view became captivating: less spray, real definition to the car's origami creases and the realisation that someone at Lamborghini had spent hours ensuring that all you could see in the wheelarch of a Gallardo travelling at 90rnph was a yellow brake calliper. There was no car-to-car signaling, the leader just swapped a lazy sixth for top of third and nailed it, closely followed by the four of us.
I don't remember the VIO sounding this good the first time I drove it. Two uncorked Audi Quattro fives spliced at the crank, spitting through three-inch diameter pipes is the closest I can bring you.
Big induction shout, then a crescendo that provides the ideal complement to a seemingly never-ending power curve whose any-rev shove is backed by such torque it can run gearing that would have any other car in its class (if there is such a thing) whimpering.
Specifically for these purposes, and for UK use, third is a monumental cog. If, by chance, the alloy gearlever sheared, leaving it stuck in third, the Gallardo would be entirely useable and still one of the fastest cars on the road. Tricky to reverse, though.
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TUNNEL VISION
Procedure for the Mont Blanc tunnel is rightly very strict these days. Signs indicate 50kph max and a 100-metre gap between you and the car in front. We entered in a line of five, found the correct spacing and waited for the 15km to pass. Something wasn't right though; we were car four and the distinctive blue-white halogen bulbs of the last Gallardo were gaining on me. Speed up to increase the gap and I'd only end up too close to the car in front, earning a ticket from the distance control radar. I held my speed but Anthony behind me was looking a few euros lighter. And sure enough, we all got pulled in by the gendarme.
Never having had a straightforward chat with a French rozzer before, I told photographer Mark to wait in the car, and under no circumstances to take any photographs.
Luckily my reputation preceded me, so while the others gamely chatted to a couple of plods who had no interest other than gawping at five supercars on a Saturday morning, Mark calmly ignored me, strolled over and snapped away.
Pleased at my own efficiency, I wandered over to the gathering with documentation wallet and sense of pricey foreboding only to have them cordially disband with some friendly Franglais. Cool Chris, really cool
They wanted to hear the cars, so we treated the north end of the Mont Blanc tunnel to a 50-litre, 50-cylinder explosion. I was so busy chuckling at the sight of Monsieur Gendarme donning his cap and yelling 'Allez! Vite!' like some spectator on the Tour de Corse that I hadn't noticed the dramatic change in the weather - blue sky, succulent Simpsons clouds and sunlight glinting off the bodywork. The next hour, past Chamonix towards our overnight stop at Annecy, was sensational.
Other road users just couldn't believe their eyes: first a yellow Gallardo would drill past in the outside lane, then another, followed by the slight gap that always builds in the middies of a high-velocity convoy. Mum, dad and sprogs are just debating the probability of seeing not one, but two, new Lambos haring north, when number three, four and five join the fray. Flashing lights, beeping horns, crazy waving: we saw it all. Exhibitionism has never been so enjoyable.
On Sunday we needed to make time. The first couple of hours took care of photography, then a course was plotted for the autoroute of least resistance to Calais. Inevitably speeds rose, and so 115mph became the speed. It's no coin coincidence that this is also the speed at which the car feels most comfortable.
It's not quiet, but the driving position is spot-on for a shout-arse like me and wind noise is harmonically counteracted by the constant hum of the V10. Important difference that: a hum is an ever-present mechanical noise that never gets inside your head, never becomes a distraction, whereas a drone is the opposite. Not once in 1000 miles did the Gallardo drone.
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RUN-IN WITH THE LAW
Blue 306 estate hidden in the trees. Someone in the back seat. Speed camera… Flish-flash! ***. Split -second reaction saw the registered speed knocked back from 115mph to 98, while I fumbled for documentation ready for the next peage and reduced the collective cruise to below three figures just in case any more swines were lurking in the undergrowth.
I dealt out grave warnings of career-crippling fines to Mark, but the peage never came and we didn't stop for gas or espresso until the tanks had run almost dry - which was an impressive 270 or so miles, even averaging a ton. It must have been a mobile Gatso, and when he gets the film developed, he'll have five crisp Gallardo front-end shots. None of which will have a front number plate. IJ the name of art, you understand.
At night the Gallardo's cabin felt wonderful. Some think the Audi derived stuff is too ordinary, but compared to the usual Bakelite tat Italian supercars serve up, it’s in a different league.
But while it might look a touch ordinary in daylight, the red logos and subtle red lighting from the underside of the rear-view mirror bring welcome cosiness. You hunker down in the seat and remind yourself how special it all is. And fast, too.
I didn’t have the nerve to attach the VBOX aerial in front of Dominic and his crew, but the baby Lambo feels just as accelerative as big-brother Murcielago and I saw a clear 190mph on one stretch, at which speed stability and confidence factor were never in any doubt (there is a road test coming soon).
Just how valuable is that hour Eurotunnel saves you when you’ve been at the wheel for 10 hours? Well worth the extra money, that’s for sure. All five cars shared the same compartment: had we manned each end and charged for viewing, we would have turned a decent profit.
But supercar display is a public duty when they look this chic, so we watched lads and a gratifying number of ladesses pore over the convoy.
Of course, it was miserable on the M20; of course, it rained all the way to London; and you know that the temptation to press the long-travel throttle pedal into the carpet one more time was almost too much to bear; but resist it we did and slid into west London under 400-feet cloud cover as the Sunday evening fist-fights began on the A4.
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SEPARATION ANXIETY
Separation from something as desirable as a Gallardo is difficult after three-days’ bonding. I wanted to stamp my foot, strop and maybe feign a few crocodile tears to keep it for those crucial few hours longer, but it had to go. There will be other opportunities, plenty of them, when my own car arrives in the next month or so, and I now know I’ve made the best possible choice.
And as for lasting thoughts on a journey I know I will never replicate? I’ll leave them to Mr Nichols: ‘One just switches these cars off and gets out. And begins to relive it all. I’m still reliving this particular trip. I always will.’ And now I know what he means.
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