The means to purchase a $350,00 vehicle are far in the future for me at least, but that’s not the point. The point is: When someone offers you the chance to drive one, you take it, but you’ll never get the chance if you aren’t in the game in the first place.
As many of you know, I’ve been a car guy since birth. While many of my peers were busy celebrating our eighth grade graduation and planning for high school, I was on a used car lot the day after the celebratory dance, manning the hot dog stand on Saturday and assisting the sales people anyway I could. I sold my first car before I could even drive, and worked full time throughout most of college. I’ve sold Toyotas, Nissans, Mazdas, Hyandais, Subarus, Chevys, Chryslers, Isuzus, Fords, GMC trucks, and Pontiacs. Even before I started in the car business, I was fantasizing about cars, one would assume since I knew what they were or perhaps earlier. In sixth grade, I chose to anthropomorphize Porsche’s legendary 959, writing a short story from the car’s point of view as it is designed, built, and yet never driven because it was too valuable. My mother still claims this was the first thing I ever wrote that was worth a shit, though not in the same language. My nephew, years later obviously, used to complain that when I got together with my two older brothers, all we ever talked about was cars, cars, and more cars. I guess you could say that we were the sort of people Bruce Springsteen sang about in “Brothers Under the Bridges, “Me and Tommy, we was just fourteen, didn’t have our licenses yet, Our walls were covered with pictures of the cars we’d get.” Of course, as a child of the 1980s, a Lamborghini Countach was definitely one of those cars on the wall, perhaps the only car on the wall. More than any mere automobile, the Countach represented the wild, in-your-face, defiant decadence that defined the era. When other cars were sleek and curvy, even offerings from rivals like Ferrari and Porsche, the Countach looked like something closer to a spaceship out of a period sci-fi film. There were huge vents behind and above the doors and what passed for the C-pillar, sticking out like thrusters or missile silos. A large, prominent spoiler and fender flares. Rakes and other cut-outs in the doors themselves, on the lower moldings, and front spoiler. From the side, it sat like it was leaning forward on its haunches, ready to attack whatever got in its way, charging like the bull on the Lamborghini emblem. Overall, the design language was angular, downright angry even, and if that wasn’t enough, the doors opened like scissors, making a statement that this was no ordinary car simply when one got into and out of it.
Mechanically, the Countach wasn’t nearly so stunning as were most exotics back then, leaving much to be desired, especially compared to modern cars, but the fire breathing V12 engine, mounted behind the seats, made a statement all its own. By the late 80s, it produced almost 450 horsepower at a time when 200 was considered a benchmark in performance, propelling the vehicle to 60 miles per hour in 4.5 seconds. For comparison’s sake, a 1989 Chevrolet Corvette, which was considered a powerful car at time, produced a mere 240 horsepower and required almost 7 seconds to hit 60. Though my personal brand preference has always been Porsche, believing there is no substitute since at least the release of Risky Business in 1984, what I would’ve given to get behind the wheel of one simply to start it up and hear the engine roar. Needless to say, then as now, Lamborghinis also represented some rather rarified air, far, far beyond the means of the average person. It’s rare enough to see one in person unless you live in Beverly Hills or some equally ritzy area, forget driving one, much less purchasing one for yourself. As Humphrey Bogart’s Sam Spade put it at the end of The Maltese Falcon, it’s the stuff that dreams are made on, but personally, I’ve always been a dreamer, perhaps too much of one for my own good. While most of my classmates in high school were picking careers with the highest possible pay off after they graduated from college, I decided to abandon in-demand professions with real skills to pursue a fine arts degree in film and television, not exactly the trajectory for fine automobile ownership unless you’re Steven Spielberg. As such, I began my career as a graphic designer for a healthcare publishing company. My first assignment was Podiatry Today, where my grand contribution was an early 3D rendering of an insole for a special cover, followed by a publication devoted to OBGYNs, which I would design largely with my eyes closed, hoping I didn’t see anything that might scar me for life. This proved impossible, however, when I was charged with broadcasting a medically device assisted hysterectomy from a hospital in DC to a Congress happening at a nearby hotel. The camera was literally hanging over you-know-what, and I think the best I can say about the entire incident was that there happened to be a mixologist at the bar we went to afterwards training the staff how to make craft cocktails before they were really a thing and they needed someone to drink them afterwards. Fortunately, that someone was me and I don’t even particularly like craft cocktails.
Forget a Porsche or a Lamborghini, I could barely afford a Dodge Neon in these early years of my career. I could handle the payments well enough, but maintain and fix it? I replaced the tires only after they disintegrated. I never fixed the leak in the engine, just added a quart of oil per month up to around 135,000 miles. Otherwise, I hoped nothing else went wrong, but perhaps needless to say, a mini-disaster struck followed by an unexpectedly pleasant surprise. Back when we actually commuted into the office every day, circa 2002, I started my hour plus ride from Hazlet to Montvale, NJ, exit 117 to 172 on the Garden State Parkway if you’re familiar, one fine day in August, only to discover the air conditioner had gone kaput as soon as I started the car, blowing out hot air instead of cold. This presented me with a huge problem for about ten minutes. I certainly wasn’t going to pay to fix it, but neither could I afford much more than another Neon at that point and as I was putting around 30,000 miles per year on a car, a short term replacement wasn’t an option. In the meantime, what I desperately wanted, but what seemed beyond my reach was a roadster, either a Mazda Miata or a Toyota MR2, both were the equivalent of the car of my dreams at 26 years old and yet neither appeared to be within my reach, floating a little beyond my grasp. What to do? A Volkswagen Golf? As serendipity would have it, this crisis lasted less than ten minutes before my hopes were answered. I hadn’t gotten on the Parkway itself yet, still cruising over the ramp leading to the toll just a few minutes from my house, fearing it might turn out to be a scorcher, when a near miraculous advertisement came on the old FM radio. Mazda was running a zero percent interest rate special, and it applied to the Miata, putting the 60 month payment within my budget if I stretched a little. Less than a week I had my first real driver’s car.
This also happened to coincide with an interesting period in my career. I’d made the transition from fine art to technology two years earlier, designing and developing early websites back before you could sign up for Shopify and launch a billion dollar store in ten minutes, and film had gone digital, making my background from school more relevant than I would’ve imagined. Though I hadn’t planned it quite that way, certainly not in my early 20s, as I turned the corner towards 30, it appeared I had the makings of a reasonably successful career on my hands or at least I was in the game. I still wasn’t making much money. I was also still living at home and commuting 55 miles each way, but I could see a path forming ahead, dimly, hazy in the distance, so much so one might have to squint to see it, yet there nonetheless. You might say I was on the field and at the very least, I finally had a car I truly loved – even if it wasn’t a Porsche. At the same time, having a car and knowing how to drive it are two completely different things. The idea that I could take that car to the track, much less race a purpose built car wheel to wheel, wasn’t yet a possibility, even as my first Miata became another Miata (five years, over a hundred thousand miles, and one cut out convertible top after I locked my keys in the car on St. Patty’s Day later), a Nissan 370 Roadster, and finally a Porsche Boxster. Even so, I still had no idea how to drive any of them for real. What to do? Fortunately for me, my oldest brother followed a different path. He was a lawyer practically from birth, had a far more clear career ahead of him, one with nicer cars much earlier in life. He also loved them, one might say even more than I did and was desperate to get one of his toys on the track. He did the research, found the local race course and driving school, Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey, and signed up before I did.
To anyone from Generation X, the Action Park generation, this presents something of a problem all its own. Once I had a Porsche of my own a couple of years later, it was impossible to imagine a world where he would go to the track without me. If he could do it, I could do it. I had no choice. It was only a matter of time before I signed up myself, and from there open track sessions in a regular car turned into a racing team in something that wasn’t street legal, prompting another moment that is impossible to forget. I was already engaged to my wife when I was first asked to join a racing team in 2015. If you aren’t aware, racing is both expensive and some would say dangerous, not exactly the kind of thing most significant others encourage. For that matter, most people who do it start it long before they’re married, bringing their girlfriends and wives (or vice versa as many women race these days) into an already existing circle. I didn’t have that chance and I wasn’t likely to miss this one. My future wife, however, just had to ask: Are you really going to spend all this money to go out in a 1986 BMW with a bunch of other psychos and potentially kill yourself? I’m paraphrasing her part here, but not my own reply: I’m a red blooded American man. How can I possibly turn down the chance to join a racing team whatever it costs? Nine years later, this is the first time that I haven’t participated in a real race following an unexpected cancellation of a race in Ohio. My lovely wife remains a good sport, helping out on the pit crew. At this point, you’re probably wondering, what the hell does this have to do with an 800 horsepower Lamborghini in Manhattan? I can only answer, everything and nothing. Nothing in the sense that my brother, the lawyer, might well have been a potential Lamborghini buyer whether or not we started racing together. Everything in the sense that he was introduced to this particular salesman from Manhattan Motor Cars by our racing mentor. Nothing in the sense that none of this means I can personally afford a Lamborghini right now, even if I was willing to skip getting my Porsche 911 first (hopefully, a belated 50th birthday present to myself in a couple of years). Everything if you consider the salesman, likely used to dealing with rich assholes more into the status symbol than the performance, probably only invited me because I was a bonafide car guy in the first place, who raced on a team with one of his long term customers and would undoubtedly treasure the moment. To whatever we attribute the development, like everything else in life there were a near random sequence of events – including a pre-party for a Duran Duran Halloween Concert at MSG at the Lamborghini Lounge in Chelsea a couple of weeks earlier if you can believe that – that led to me being behind the wheel of a Lamborghini that wasn’t even on sale yet on the streets of Manhattan no less.
What about the car itself? No, it wasn’t a Countach. It wasn’t even a sports car. It was Lamborghini’s new performance hybrid SUV, the Urus SE. If you’ve never sat in a modern Lamborghini, it’s a different experience than older models or almost any other car for that matter. Instead of a driver’s console, you are essentially sitting in a cockpit swathed in fine leather, aluminum, carbon fiber, and other very expensive trim, cradled in buckets much, much deeper than your average vehicle. There are controls, buttons, screens, nobs, dials, and more, enough that even I needed the salesman for guidance at first which is rather difficult to admit. What there isn’t: A shift lever. You put the thing into drive after selecting the mode with the switch, and then using the paddle. By default, the Urus SE starts up in electric-only mode, meaning the engine isn’t even on yet. You can turn it on yourself by choosing a more aggressive driving setting, or by pressing the accelerator past the 60% mark. Theoretically, you can go about 40 miles on all electric, but what’s the fun in that when you have 800 horsepower on tap whether or not you’re in New York City? In that regard, my wife asked me afterwards how many other people would get in a $350,000 car for the first time that wasn’t their own, and start tearing ass around a city without a care in the world or rather, she phrased it as, what the hell did the salesman think riding around with me and my brother back to back? They’re racers and know what they’re doing, or why did I invite these psychos to anything? To be fair, this isn’t a vehicle to be experienced without throttling it at least a bit. While the engine may be sourced from corporate cousins Porsche and Audi, a twin turbo 4 liter V8, I’ve driven other models with the same pedigree and the Lamborghini is fittingly more of a bull than anything else. It’s smooth, but mean, rumbling, possessed of the strength and muscle the brand is known for even before you gun it. The exhaust fires the equivalent of cannons out the back. I can only imagine what some poor slob walking across the street behind us thought. There could’ve been a gun going off. It’s also ridiculously quick. The hybrid technology in performance mode isn’t there for gas mileage. It’s there to pump in power while the turbos spool up or the engine is at low revs, but it does this so seamlessly, it seems like Lamborghini has achieved the impossible and developed an 800 horsepower engine that you can pull by a string, yanking it like a fishing line. The car is large, clocking in at over 5,500 pounds, but between the hybrid and the wonders of a modern suspension, it certainly doesn’t feel that way. Even on the narrow, potholed, bumpy streets of Manhattan, it just slots in and goes where you put it. I’m loath to say it’s a sports car given that the laws of physics will not be denied, but it would smoke an 80’s Countach – and carry the kids to soccer practice. It’s the kind of vehicle that would’ve been impossible to build twenty years ago at any price, bringing me back to why I love cars in the first place. What more could you possibly want? As Ferris Bueller so brilliantly put it, “It is so choice. If you have the means, I definitely recommend picking one up.” The means for me at least are far in the future, if ever, assuming I would spend that kind of money on an SUV rather than a real sports car if I had it. That’s not the point. The point is: Whatever your dreams maybe, you’ll never get the chance to live them if you aren’t in the game. You might not know when, where, or how, but banging out sick isn’t an option.
Confessions of a Conservative Atheist 