Lamborghini Countach Replica on 2040-cars

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Are supercars becoming less special?

There's little doubt that we are currently enjoying the golden age of automotive performance. Dozens of different models on sale today make over 500 horsepower, and seven boast output in excess of 700 hp. Not long ago, that kind of capability was exclusive to supercars – vehicles whose rarity, performance focus, and requisite expense made them aspirational objects of desire to us mortals. But more than that, supercars have historically offered a unique driving experience, one which was bespoke to a particular model and could not be replicated elsewhere. But in recent years, even the low-volume players have been forced to find the efficiencies and economies of scale that formerly hadn't been a concern for them, and in turn the concept of the supercar as a unique entity unto itself is fading fast. The blame doesn't fall on one particular manufacturer nor a specific production technique. Instead, it's a confluence of different factors that are chipping away at the distinction of these vehicles. It's not all bad news – Lamborghini's platform sharing with Audi for the Gallardo and the R8 yielded a raging bull that was more reliable and easier to live with on a day-to-day basis, and as a result it went on to become the best-selling Lambo in the company's history. But it also came at the cost of some of the Italian's exclusivity when eerily familiar sights and sounds suddenly became available wearing an Audi badge. Even low-volume players have been forced to find economies of scale. Much of this comes out of necessity, of course. Aston Martin's recent deal with Mercedes-AMG points toward German hardware going under the hood and into the cabin of the upcoming DB11, and it's safe to assume that this was not a decision made lightly by the Brits, as the brand has built a reputation for the bespoke craftsmanship of its vehicles. There's little doubt that the DB11 will be a fine automobile, but the move does jeopardize some of the characteristic "specialness" that Astons are known for. Yet the world is certainly better off with new Aston Martins spliced with DNA from Mercedes-AMG rather than no new Astons at all, and the costs of developing cutting-edge drivetrains and user interfaces is a burden that's becoming increasingly difficult for smaller manufacturers to bear. Even Ferrari is poised to make some dramatic changes in the way it designs cars.

Our date with the Lamborghini Veneno in the desert

Shooting The World's Most Expensive Production Car
One can only consider the Veneno an extremely fascinating machine.
Twelve humans have walked on the moon, yet only three humans will own a Lamborghini Veneno coupe.

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.