The last days of a dinosaur

I love that fabulous contrast of a tiny treble noise igniting such a massive basso profundo sound. Like a shrew shouting ‘boo!’ and raising a roar from a lion.

Then a familiar shadow fell across the experience. As I ambled down the road for the first time, the Ultimae’s gearbox attempted a change from first to second gear. It was in auto and the least aggressive, Strada, mode, so in most modern vehicles such a shift would have been seamless. Utterly unremarkable. But in the Aventador it was amazingly awkward. The abrupt and lengthy torque interruption felt like a learner driver having a first lesson while being instructed via Zoom over a dodgy 4G connection.

The shift quality is so shocking that you’re still recovering from the massive head nod and wondering if something’s broken when the ECU has another stab at a change and there’s a further annoying adjournment to proceedings. After that, you switch to manual mode and finesse the shifts with a lift. But the thought of those lazy, lumpy changes lingers like mental whiplash.

Then came the moment, some time later, up on the North York Moors when I pulled the angular right hand paddle for a full-bore Corsa upshift. Bang! Nothing wrong with the speed of this change, but the brutality of it is enough to make you emit a groan of discomfort. It’s the same audible wince you make when you hit a large pothole and wonder if you’ve punctured a tyre. Or bent a rim. Or both.

So you settle for shifts that are a little sub-optimal and very much massaged by your own anticipatory actions. You drive around it and maybe you think of it as characterful. I’m sure plenty of owners do. But really the single clutch, Independent Shifting Rod gearbox is just a bit rubbish and always has been. The first time I drove an Aventador was way back in 2010 and the Corsa shifts felt even more like a chiropractor scam back then. ISR might be lighter than DCT, but I’m afraid the trade-off has never seemed worth it to me.

You might be surprised to know that the mighty V12 also felt faintly flat in that first Aventador I tried all those years ago. You could sense that the 769bhp version we now have was in there in the early 690bhp iteration, just electronically choked by a product plan that dictated it had to wait another 12 years. There is certainly nothing flat about the V12 now, though. The response and the way it keeps heaping on the power all the way to its monumental peak is as shocking as those shifts, but in an entirely wonderful way.

The Ultimae is said to be the last Lamborghini to be propelled by V12 alone, so it’s fitting that this final flourish is also the most powerful naturally aspirated Lamborghini road car to date. True, that’s only by an indistinguishable 10bhp over the SVJ (and there is no extra torque above the SVJ’s 531lb ft), yet there is still satisfaction in the number.

But back to the Cretaceous stuff. Like the ancient Audi graphics on the infotainment screen. And the fact it feels wildly wide and unwieldy. We’ve got used to supercars being supermarket usable and B-road blastable, but the Aventador still makes you plan ahead with parking and plot routes like you’re an HGV driver. It doesn’t have driving modes that make you feel like a hero. It is never less than serious and in some ways it’s rather dynamically restrictive in its demeanour. It is a bit of a dinosaur.

Yet the 350 coupé and 250 roadster variants of the Ultimae are already all sold out. That’s not just people going wild for a final edition either, but a reflection of Aventador sales in general. And I can understand why. Because for all that cold water I can ladle on in objective road testing terms, there is no denying that the Aventador experience is pure subjective supercar seduction. That intimidation you imagined as a child was inherent in all old supercars, but has now been suppressed somewhat in modern manifestations of the breed, is still present in the Aventador.

The Aventador could even be viewed as something of a bargain, because at £345,000 this Ultimae undercuts its rivals. And for all that I can pick holes in this and that, I feel like it is a car in which you make memories. I can clearly recall all my interactions with Aventadors over the last decade.

The second time was one of the best, although it started unpromisingly because the car was on winter tyres. There wasn’t a hint of snow, but the early time of year in Italy had dictated rubber with sipes, just in case. The menacing matt black car (with orange calipers – such a cool spec) squirmed and slid and was absolutely hilarious. Although some of the laughter was at least partially nervous. You were always aware of the large lump of momentous metal behind you but, with adhesive limits reduced, the Sottozero-shod Aventador revealed a chassis that really wanted to play. It was a rampaging bull that actually just fancied a game of fetch.

But the very best encounter was with an SV at sunset on the Isle of Man. One run over Snaefell, unshackled. You could argue that anything would have been memorable given the setting, but the drama of the Aventador undoubtedly elevated it to another level. The widescreen view out over the landscape, the symphonic soundtrack and the knowledge that it looked spectacular from outside all added up to something very, very special.

I particularly remember the last stretch from Kate’s Cottage down to Creg-ny-Baa as you come off the mountain. I squeezed the throttle out of the left-hander as the long, empty straight opened up and just settled down to enjoy one final bout of unhindered acceleration. Through third gear, a suggestion of a lift to smooth the shift to fourth then full throttle again, V12 wailing viciously.

What I hadn’t expected was that the slight drop in the road about a third of the way down would be more than slight when taken at the top end of fourth. The fierce flare of revs as the wheels left the ground momentarily will live with me for the rest of my days.

As the meteor of legislation looms and the Aventador nears extinction, in years to come I think we will look back with awe and wonder on the time when Ultimaes and SVJs roamed the roads. They might not be perfect, but even T-Rex had those silly little arms we all laugh at.