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Lamborghini Miura Retro Review: What it's like to drive the original supercar

“Glon, youÂ’re in the Miura.” Hang on, IÂ’m in what now? About a minute later, I have the keys to a 1973 Lamborghini Miura SV finished in Oro Metallizzato. Five minutes later, IÂ’m annoyed by the frosty winter air whooshing onto my face but too enthralled by the V12Â’s noise to close the window. The person who coined the phrase “never meet your heroes” clearly hasnÂ’t been let loose in the original supercar, a model of paramount importance in the pantheon of automotive history. Unveiled in 1966, and positioned above the 400 GT as LamborghiniÂ’s range-topping model, the Miura may as well have landed from a far, unexplored corner of the galaxy. It stretched about 172 inches long, 69 inches wide, and merely 41.5 inches tall, dimensions that gave it proportions more closely aligned with todayÂ’s definition of a supercar than with the crop of GTs whizzing by in the left lane of the Italian autostrada in the 1960s. I canÂ’t say that the Miura broke with tradition, Lamborghini didnÂ’t have much in the way of tradition three short years after its gutsy inception, but it looked nothing like the 400 GT. Highly respected Italian designer Marcello Gandini penned the Miura while working for Bertone. Its Fiat 850 Spider-sourced headlights were mounted nearly flat, its door handles were integrated into a column of fins, and its roof line peaked above the seats before flowing into a Kammback-like rear end. Mamma mia! It may look humble parked next to an Aventador, but its design was revolutionary in the 1960s. Equally revolutionary was the technical layout. While the 400 GT — and most high-end GTs sold during this era — were fitted with a front-mounted engine, the MiuraÂ’s 3.9-liter V12 was positioned directly behind the passenger compartment. Odder still, it was mounted transversally. Some historians claim that the inspiration for this arrangement was the original Mini, which stretched just 120 inches long thanks in part to a transverse-mounted engine. The MiniÂ’s role in shaping the Miura has never been proven, but whatÂ’s certain is moving the engine back and turning it 90 degrees changed LamborghiniÂ’s history. More than simply a new model for what was then a small, obscure company, the Miura became nearly a deity in the automotive stratosphere. It blazed the course that dozens of supercars have followed since. Rejigging the proportions required rearranging the interior.

Pope Francis gets a papal-themed Lamborghini Huracan

Lamborghini picked a special recipient for the newest and rarest version of its Huracan RWD, giving an ultra limited-edition version of the supercar to Pope Francis in a ceremony Wednesday at the Vatican attended by company executives. The new Popemobile, it's not. Fittingly, according to Catholic News Agency, it's the seventh version of the Huracan, the Italian company's entry-level model. It's set to be auctioned at RM Sotheby's on May 12, 2018, with orders from the Holy See to split the proceeds between three charitable causes: restoring villages on the Nineveh Plain in Iraq, helping victims of human trafficking and supporting missionary work in Africa. The papal Huracan RWD is done in Monocerus white with Tiberio yellow stripes running along the hood, roof and body, reflecting the colors of the flag of Vatican City. It was blessed and autographed by the pontiff in the presence of Lamborghini Chairman and CEO Stefano Domenicali, board members and two employees who helped build the car. The Huracan is the successor to the Gallardo, Lamborghini's best-selling model of all time, with a design inspired by the hexagonal form of the carbon atom. It's powered by a naturally aspirated, 5.2-liter V10 that makes 602 horsepower and 413 pound-feet of torque. Normally, the sports car starts $199,800. But a version blessed and autographed by the pope? Priceless...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.