2013 Lamborghini Aventador on 2040-cars

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Aventador gets a split personality in Brooklyn

If you're going to drive a Lamborghini like it's meant to be driven, you'd better make sure there's nothing else around. New York City most definitely does not qualify, as the driver of this white Aventador discovered the hard way.
Caught in motion by two closed-circuit cameras in Mill Basin, this supercar may have been speeding down the road a bit too fast for the driver of a black sedan to see it. The sedan hangs a left right into the Lambo's path, clipping the nose on the sedan and sending the Aventador into the wall. Our take? Both drivers appear to be at fault.
As you can see from the video below and this image on Reddit, the Lambo split in two on impact, but the carbon-fiber monocoque passenger cell stayed intact. The result may look shocking, but no one was reported to be seriously hurt.

Valentino Balboni thinks the Miura greatest Lambo ever

Valentino Balboni spent 40 years at Lamborghini, a few years as a mechanic's apprentice at the beginning, then as a test driver at the request of old man Ferrucio himself. He is embedded in the brand, said to have driven 80 percent of the company's entire production until he retired in 2009. He has ridden and tamed so many bulls that they named one after him, the 2010 Lamborghini Gallardo LP550-2 Valentino Balboni, and even made it rear-wheel drive because that's how he likes it. Balboni spoke to Road & Track in advance of an auction in New York on November 19 that will see a 1969 Miura P400S go on the block. A fixture from the days when mad men weren't merely characters on a television show, Balboni discusses taking customers for test drives, being sent on warranty calls, his favorite car, and why there will never be another one like it. Head over to RT to read the full interview from the man who helped make the original Countach, and therefore Lamborghini, what it is today. And in case you want in on the action, the pre-sale estimate for the centerpiece Miura is $800,000 to $1.6 million. Related Video:

2015 Lamborghini Aventador LP 700-4 Roadster Review

"Lamborghini Murcielago." That's what I would tell anyone who asked what my favorite car was. Yes, there were easier cars to drive than the wailing wraith from Sant'Agata Bolgnese, and that was partly why I liked it so. It was impossible to see out the back – reversing was easiest done with the door open, sitting on the sill. My head banged the door frame when I checked traffic on the left. The seat made my butt hurt. The cabin ergonomics were based on a design language that humans haven't yet translated. It boiled over in stop-and-go traffic. It was big. Yet it drove like nothing else, with the instant zig-zag reflexes of a mako designed in The Matrix. The Murcielago's thrills weren't laid out on the ground, you had to dig for them with your bare hands. And that's what made it outstanding. When I first drove the Aventador at its launch in Rome, I spent the day blasting around the circuit at Vallelunga. It was so easy to drive – "too easy by half," as Jeremy Clarkson would later say of it – viciously quick, unholy fun, and very good. But it was a little too easy to drive. Which is why the Murcielago remained my favorite car, ever. Until two weeks ago. The Aventador came when the rough-diamond Gallardo was Lamborghini's in-house reference for ease-of-use. But now we have the fire-and-forget Huracan. Having driven one after the other, and on the context of LA streets instead of the smooth and open landscape of Vallelunga or Laguna Seca, I now see the Aventador for what it truly is: the representation of the bull that's on the Lamborghini badge – head-down, horns-out anger. Like the Murcielago, the Aventador is big. It's more than ten inches longer than a Chevrolet Corvette, five inches wider than a Dodge Charger SRT Hellcat, and 3.5 inches wider than a Dodge Viper. It is also low, an inch lower than the already ground-floor Huracan. I won't pretend to be rational about it: the Aventador says everything I want a car to say. It's the certain, antidotal statement to brief and befuddled everyday lives. The cabin is a cockpit in every sense: close-fitted, button-filled, lit up. I'm five-foot-eleven, and I wear it like a tailored suit. I gave a ride to a guy who's six-foot-three and perhaps 260 pounds, so it can fit much larger frames but I still don't know how he got in or out through that scissor-door opening. The trunk in the Murcielago was big enough to hold a single dream.