SHARE
Next Generation Living Homes

Even parked in the driveway of an eight-figure ocean-view mansion in Pebble Beach, in Northern California, the Lamborghini Aventador S Roadster is an event. This is not just because of its ostentatious Peacock Blue paint, which acts as the opposite of camouflage for the wedgy bodywork, making the broad, angular car resemble a toxic warning: Do Not Consume. It is not just because of the traditionally untraditional scissor doors through which you contort yourself into the jet fighter-inspired cabin. And it is not just because, on startup, the minatory bark of the massive twelve-cylinder engine, wedged amidships right behind your ears, is savage enough to startle even the region’s most imperturbable residents, a clutch of piebald Belching Sea Lions, who roll laconically to their side.

It is an event because of the delight, or dismay, or disdain it brings to the faces of literally everyone you pass as you zoom past the eighteenth green of the Links at Pebble Beach, up the Seventeen Mile Drive, and onto the ochre lichen bloom covering the rocks and trees alongside the Pacific Ocean. Seeing one is like spotting an apex predator returning from the kill with its evil prey still in its mouth. You don’t know whether to cheer or cower, or both.

An image of the car with its suicide doors open.

The Aventador S Roadster is brutal. Driving it nags at your senses, especially with the top removed. It is a merciless riot: the assailing wail of the motor as it delivers 740 horsepower at the screaming summit of its crazed rev range; the slap of wind raging around the shovel-nosed prow only to be devoured by the abundant strakes and intakes behind your hip and skull; the slight rattle of the carbon fiber roof panels stacked in the small front-mounted trunk; the sanguine taste of pride, or shame.

The interiors have the feel of an actual racing car, including such details as the ignition button.

It also beats you up, physically. The acceleration is barbaric—zero to 60 m.p.h. takes just three seconds, top speed is nearly 220 m.p.h. The automated-manual transmission performs ferocious head-banging slam shifts even when puttering around. The steering wheel and the brake pedal require a lugubrious intentionality in their operation, befitting a car that costs as much as a five-bedroom poolside house in most major American cities. The ride quality on the Saran Wrap-thin sidewalls of the giant extra-low-profile tires is osteopathic.

A look at the back of the car, which has geometric features.

Somehow, it is all worth it. We blast through the refined golf greenbelt and onto the four-lane highway, then up into some mountain twisties, the harrowing doom of the new Sleep album detonating through the stereo’s myriad hexagonal speakers, the flora and fauna and other, slower motorists blurring in our wake. The experience is singular and memorable. Though anyone who would own one is likely a seeker of attention, driving a Lamborghini Aventador S Roadster is not just an adventure in ego-tripping. It is a shared phenomenon. Whether you approve or not of its flagrant conspicuousness, its intemperate consumption (the EPA rates its urban efficiency at 10 miles-per-gallon,) or its obstreperous worship at the altar of more, its presence is searing and undeniable.

Next Generation Living Homes