Growing up, I had a poster of a Lamborghini Countach taped to my bedroom wall. I spent hours staring at that exotic, one-of-a-kind design — the wide, low profile, the trapezoidal angles, the aircraft-grade aluminum. It was like nothing I had ever seen on an American roadway. I fantasized endlessly about getting behind the wheel and flooring it through my subdivision, my latest high-school crush riding shotgun and squealing in delight as I ripped around a cul-de-sac. “Wow,” I would think as I gazed at the auto’s sexed-up silhouette, which is exactly the reaction that Feruccio Lamborghini had when he first laid eyes on the blueprints for his eponymous sports coupe. Countach is an Italian colloquialism for amazement, and Feruccio’s spontaneous utterance — “Wow” — instantly became the name for the cult car.

The Countach has been out of production since 1990, but for me, the wow factor of Lamborghini’s extraordinary bespoke creations has never ceased — which makes me a prime candidate for an intriguing travel proposition initiated by the company in recent years. For hard-core prospective buyers (and the occasional hard-working journalist), local dealers in the United States (lamborghini.com) can coordinate guided tours of Lamborghini’s museum and factory in the hamlet of Sant’Agata Bolognese, just outside Bologna — and arrange for a once-in-a-lifetime test drive of the latest models through the serpentine, cliff-hugging hills of northern Italy. Not exactly typical customer outreach for a car manufacturer, but then Lamborghini, which sold just 2,406 autos in 2007, a record sales year, isn’t exactly Honda or Toyota. Automobili Lamborghini S.p.A., as the legendary Italian automaker is officially known, has unveiled just 13 production cars in its 45-year history, each more spectacular, aerodynamic and obsession-inducing than the last. My tester would be the Gallardo LP560-4, a flamboyant, $198,000 ride that Lamborghini and new parent company Audi have positioned as everyday-drivable (it even has a cup holder) and which has quickly become the company’s runaway best seller. I’d have exactly 36 hours to drive it as fast as I dared and see if it lived up to my expectations.

Bologna is Italy’s equivalent to Detroit. Within 100 miles of the history-steeped, 2,500-year-old city are the headquarters of Ferrari, Maserati, Pagani and de Tomaso, along with famed motorcycle manufacturer Ducati. Bordered on the north by the 405-mile-long Po River and to the south by the Tuscan-Emilian Appennines, this Valley of the Supercars boasts hairpin mountain turns, pit stops in Medieval-era villages, restaurants with Michelin-rated chefs and backyard prosciutto factories. The route recommended by the honchos at Lamborghini had me tackling the adrenaline-surging mountain passes featured in the upcoming James Bond flick, Quantum of Solace, and bunking at a 116-year-old castle on Lake Gardo. Before I depart overseas, confirmation comes through that, yes, to test the acceleration and handling I’ll also get full use of a runway at Carpi airport, so I can punch it from zero-to-? on the straightaway. As I review my itinerary, I actually feel light-headed. Giddy. The ’ghini is finally out of the bottle, and I’m getting way more than three wishes.

By Davin Coburn

Photographs by Jimmy Nicol

Private Air; October/November 2008

Download a .pdf version here.

Lamborghini’s museum at the factory in Sant’Agata Bolognese attracts nearly 14,000 visitors a year, so when photographer Jimmy Nicol and I arrive in late July, the place is bustling. It’s two days before the country’s traditional summer holiday, and there’s a late rush of production and tourism before the complex shuts down for August. The museum is full of infatuated dads with bored-looking daughters and star-struck sons (who remind me of my younger self), ogling the wall-mounted cars and early engine prototypes. As we’re escorted onto the factory floor, we walk beneath shells of Murciélagos suspended from the ceiling like quarter-million-dollar piñatas and past workers handcrafting V10 engines and stitching leather upholstery. We arrive at the front of the museum, where a matte-white Gallardo, in all its thermoplastic-paneled glory, is attracting a crowd.

The first thing I notice? Everyone is staring. It’s as though the 6,500 inhabitants of Sant’Agata Bolognese have decided to witness my attempt at pulling away and, perhaps, crashing spectacularly. Seniors out for a stroll, students on scooters and busloads of screaming kids all stop, wait and watch. The crowd is snapping photos and scanning my face to identify what movie I’ve been in — and that’s before I even shift out of park. Nicol and I wedge a week’s worth of clothes and camera gear into the tiny trunk under the hood. I get behind the wheel, settle into the plush leather seat and turn the key.

The second thing I notice as I peel away, trying to stay below the speed limit, is the car’s power. Although Lamborghini has no factory track — before being shipped out, most production models simply find their legs on the roads around Sant’Agata — the winding blacktop provides surprising insight into this model’s range. At speed, the Gallardo dives into a turn, plants at the apex and fires out the other side like a whip cracking. In lower gear, its movements are so effortless that rolling the wheel seems less to turn the car than to rotate the world. Fifteen minutes outside of town, I see the sign for Carpi and follow Lambo’s test driver emeritus Moreno Conti, in his own Gallardo Spyder, into the airport. In addition to being just about the only wide, flat spaces at the Lamborghini team’s disposal, the runways of northern Italy occupy a special place in their hearts. One of the Gallardo’s direct descendents, the Reventon, was famously inspired when head designer Manfred Fitzgerald visited a nearby NATO base. “We wanted to do something more extreme than our current models,” he said. “When we saw an F22 Raptor, that really kicked off the design.”

As part of the Gallardo’s makeover for 2009, it shares some styling cues with that earlier $1.4 million super-supercar. The cooling intakes are larger and more angled than in another predecessor, the Gallardo Coupe, and the front end comes to more of a Reventonian point. The “LP” stands for Longitudinale Posteriore, meaning the 5.2-liter V10 sits in back, like on a single-engine jet, and is mounted vertically underneath a clear hatch that catches the drool from gas-station attendants. On the tarmac I turn to Conti and point at a Cessna. “You fly?” I ask. “Only along the ground,” he says.

We taxi the LP560-4 under the wings of the parked planes (this car sits so low, it has a hydraulic mechanism to raise the nose to clear speed bumps without autographing the road) and onto runway 2-20. I set the engine to “Corsa” mode, the quickest — and most violent — shift setting, and shut off the electronic stability control. I shift into first gear and plant the brake and throttle until the tachometer hits 5,000 rpm. I release the brake. The 3,307-pound car takes a deep breath, then all four wheels explode off the runway numbers and the G forces mold my spine into the racing seat. According to Lamborghini, the car will do zero to 62 mph (100 kph) in 3.7 seconds, though Road and Track accomplished the feat in 3.3. (R and T also said it tops out at 203 mph.) I’m not watching a clock; I’m looking for a yoke to pull back on. And then I wonder where the 2,800-foot-long runway went.

I’m tempted to go back and find out, but it’s getting late, and we need to get on the road and up to Lake Gardo to our castle. Conti helps program the navigation system, and with the directions locked in, we head for the fastest way north, the Autostrada — Italy’s Autobahn. Speeding along A22, the Gallardo doesn’t even wake up until I crack 100 mph (160 kph), and then I remember there’s a sixth gear. I top 120 mph more than once, and as much as I really want to see what this car can do, I’m forced to back off because the blasted road keeps bending. I’ve been warned that the polizia have been guarding the Autostrada more closely these days — but are they kidding? I’m driving a Lamborghini on the Autobahn. I’ll pay the ticket, and then frame it. I stomp the throttle and fly past a speed-limit sign that translates to CONTROL YOUR VELOCITY; RESPECT THE LIMIT: 130 KPH. I think. It went by so fast I couldn’t read it.

At the factory outside Bologna, a Lambo gets its wings.

We arrive at the Grand Hotel a Villa Feltrinelli (+39 0365 798000; villafel-

trinelli.com), on the western rim of the lake, shortly before sunset. It’s a breathtakingly secluded spot. The castle itself — a crenulated, salmon-colored manor set amid emerald grounds bursting with geraniums — sits at the foot of the 4,785-foot-long sheer granite face of Mount Denervo. Some decades after Italian lumber titan Angelo Feltrinelli claimed the site for his private residence and built the castle in 1892, the Nazis placed Mussolini under house arrest here in 1943. Hotelier Robert Burns purchased the estate in 1997, then spent five years and $35 million restoring every last fresco, sconce and hand-carved ceiling panel to transform the place into a hotel. A number of guests, I’m told, have flown in by private jet to nearby Aeroporto Montichiari in Brescia, then took the Feltrinelli’s helicopter directly onto the nearby park. There is little indication my mode of transport has left any less of an impression.

After freshening up, I join the other guests out on the portico for cocktails to watch a last pair of windsurfers chase the light, and enjoy dinner along the water’s edge. It starts with “120-herb” salad (hand-snipped daily by head chef Stephano Baiocco from the hotel’s gardens). After salad, there’s a primi plat of tuna tar-tare, served with string beans and wild herbs and a glass of prosecco, followed by tender braised lamb filet wrapped in red pepper. By the time the fruit and crêpes arrive, I’m so stuffed and satisfied, it’s all I can do to set down my fork, retire to my turret and request a wake-up call.

Five hours later (with only 12 hours left with the car, I don’t want to waste time sleeping), I’m back in the same spot watching the sunrise with an espresso strong enough to fuel the Lambo. I join Nicol in the car and we start our prowl of the lake, rousing one villa after another as we search the cliff walls for the entrance to the SP38. When the navigation system beeps to life at a gouge in the rock, we begin our descent.

Left, sunrise at the Villa Feltrinelli; right, chef Stephano Baiocco clips herbs in the hotel’s limonia.

Outside Sant’Agata, we pump 17 gallons of gas (at about $10 a gallon) into the car and hand the keys back to Lamborghini. I suffer a sudden, palpable letdown, a disorienting feeling I can liken only to stepping off a moving sidewalk at an airport. My one consolation is that my car-conferred celebrity status seems to linger. In fact, it somehow has landed me a slot guest-starring in a cooking show on Italian national TV.

The opportunity arises through our base in Bologna, the I Portici Hotel (+39 051 42185; iporticihotel.com). It’s another remarkable lodging —  a recently renovated palazzo on the park with chic minimalist décor, floors of traditional Bolognese marble and ceilings covered in 200-year-old frescoes — which during the summer hosts culinary events on its centuries-old terrace. Tonight’s is an Italian version of Smackdown with Bobby Flay, pitting gourmet chef Igles Corelli against local 77-year-old housewife Sandra Medici. Corelli runs the restaurant Locanda della Tamerice (+39 0533 680795; locandadellatamerice.com) in nearby Ostellato, while Medici is semifamous in her own right, having opened the dining room of her home to a string of campaigning politicians over the years. When the hotel manager finds out about the American in town with the Lamborghini and the huge appetite for Italian food, it strikes everyone as a perfect stroke of fortune — and I’m appointed a judge.

Left, one of the many churches along the road to Tremosine; right, movie night in Bologna’s Piazza Maggiore.

One of the most storied roadways in Europe, SP38 is probably more familiar to you as the anonymous asphalt often depicted in car commercials featuring luxury sports sedans zipping out of tunnels onto jagged lakeside cliffs. Completed in 1913 after nearly a decade of blasting through the remnants of the last Ice Age — Winston Churchill once described the road as “the eighth wonder of the world” — SP38 has chewed up hundreds of performance vehicles over the years. Three were totaled during the filming of Quantum of Solace: One stunt driver missed a turn and whipped his Aston Martin off the side (he wound up in the lake and miraculously walked away with only minor injuries); four days later, another two wrecked during filming of the bat-out-of-hell opening chase (one driver had to be airlifted to nearby Verona).

Climbing into the blue sky, the windsurfers disappear from view. I enter a tunnel and everything fades to black except for patches of roadway illuminated by windows carved out of the walls. The Gallardo seems thrilled to run up a mountain, but this car doesn’t only eat up distance on the road; at a wide 74 inches across, it also hogs space— space that century-old Italian switch-backs don’t have. The higher we ascend, the more the road narrows, and the more the blind hairpins expose how much empty air lurks on the other side of those tiny stone barriers.

We weave along the vermicelli-thin roads, into Tremosine, a district comprising 18 separate villages spread along the cliffs overlooking the water. We pause near the San Giovanni Battista Church, with its eleventh-century bell tower, and chat with the local teenage boys who run down the street to snap our pictures with their cellphones. From there, we zip across the top of the lake and back to the Autostrada. And when traffic clears off A22 just south of Verona, an empty stretch of pristine pavement beckons. Nicol and I look at each other — “We have to find out, right?” — and I floor it. The guardrails blur at first, then whiz by so fast they became virtually invisible. We crack 155 mph before letting off the throttle.

The ferry ride across Lake Garda.

The contest draws a raucous crowd of more than 120, including Marco Columbro, an actor known as the Italian Richard Gere, and is emceed by a popular local comedian. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a Saturday Night Live sketch with talk-show host Vinnie Vedecci interviewing American guests who have no idea what he’s saying. A man next to me offers partial translations between drags off a steady stream of Lucky Strikes.

The hotel plies everyone with favorites off its usual menu, such as earthy artisanal cheese, skewers of honeydew wrapped in mouthwatering prosciutto, fluffy risotto with asparagus and shrimp and glazed veal in an herb sauce. Meanwhile, as a judge I also work a glass of Tizzano cabernet sauvignon and am asked to grade Corelli’s spinosini fritti tutto pomodoro, his specialty spaghetti with multiple kinds of tomatoes, and Medici’s soup with pasta and beans. I push back from the table and take a deep breath. Ultimately, I vote for Corelli, who wins the competition — though that hardly matters. After exploring Italy in a Lamborghini and feasting at every stop, I find myself at a loss for words. What more is there to say but countach?

Left, the refurbished exterior of the I Portici Hotel; right, Sandra Medici and Igles Corelli cook to win.