

Auto journalist Cindy-Lou Dale tackles some of Italy’s most perilous roads behind the wheel of the Lamborghini Huracan Evo Spyder
I slide into the high-tech cockpit and flip the cover of the Top Gun ignition, which triggers what sounds like a seismic event. The twin exhausts burst into a fire-breathing T-Rex roar, announcing the presence of a formidable beast.
I’m at the wheel of a Lamborghini Huracan Evo Spyder – a supercar God, named after a famous Spanish fighting bull and the closest thing I’ve driven to a street-legal racing car. Immediately after turning off the forecourt and onto the road, the Carabinieri (Italian police) spot me, and I’m tailed for some distance; and where one leaves, another takes its place.
On the autostrada (motorway) blue lights flash behind me. The cop car accelerates and drives alongside. The passenger window is lowered, and the cop indicates that I should keep pace with his vehicle into the long tunnel ahead. This provides an opportunity to demonstrate the Huracan’s acoustic abilities, which is what I assumed he was wanting. Riding shotgun, his partner records the event on a mobile device. I feel certain this would later be used as evidence for the prosecution, but thankfully he waves me on with a broad grin and a little salute.
I’m driving towards the Le Marche region, the engine humming calmly in the background — as if it could hardly be bothered. Using nothing more than telepathy, the drive is delicate through the storied countryside. On a mountain pass, I drop from ‘strada’ (street mode), into ‘corsa’ (race mode). I wasn’t ready for what was about to happen. The 640hp naturally aspirated V10 Huracan changes from a terrific car into a snarling attack dog. The chassis immediately drops into the tyres, embedding itself into the tarmac. This is when the g-force surge hurls my head back into the Lamborghini embossed headrest.
The perfectly streamlined body slices through the air, while atomic power courses through the steering wheel, up my arms, into my neck, recalibrating my brain, delivering bottom-clenching terror. As the horizon begins to warp, every fibre in my being screams that I lift my foot off the accelerator.
The Huracan has a lot to shout about, and it does so with a nonstop mind-blowing soundtrack. An amplified, extreme driving experience, a death metal roar with limitless pops and bangs (7-speed dual clutch gearbox) – think Barry White eating a wasp. Many of the safety features are activated when in Sport mode but, I later discovered, in Corsa, they’re all deactivated.
And the speed? It’s no slouch. Doing 0-100 takes 3.5 seconds (and about 14 gallons of fuel). It hits the supercar holy grail of 325 km/h around 9.3 seconds, which is when the jack-hammer choir really kicks in. It corners at sensational speeds, and the grip is astonishing. It’s undefeatable – and pure rock ‘n roll.
The ultra-light carbon fibre and aluminium used in its construction further boosts its speed. The driver’s seat weighs less than some puddings I’ve eaten. The Huracan is not a practical travelling companion due to its limited interior and luggage space. The passenger compartment has all the bells and whistles you’d expect from the brand and all the hallmarks of supercar stardom—including a six-figure price tag. This is a car for the monied few.
Despites its many unique qualities Lamborghini does share one thing with other highend cars – the ability to empty your bank account. Lamborghini have learnt the art from Porsche – to charge more for less. This soft top RWD Huracan, with all the extras you could throw at it, comes in at €223,000 (US$242,000).
Proceeding down another motorway at a stately lack of haste (because of the relentless observation of the Carabinieri), vehicles would tailgate for a minute or two, often with mobile phones lighting up. Then they’d pass slowly, filming the car for later Instagram likes. In the passenger seat is Roberto, my co-driver, who is asleep (he must be the first person in the world to do so in a Lambo!). So out there somewhere is a video of a canary yellow Huracan with a dozing, open mouthed passenger, mired on a cobweb of drool from his chin to the seat belt across his chest.
When he eventually wakes, he begins to fiddle with the radio, threatening to replace the Huracan’s audible roar with an Italian chat radio station. When I dissuade him from doing so, for the next hour he instead plays with his seat adjustment buttons. Clearly it was time for him to drive.
I pull in at a service station to introduce a shot of coffee to my lips. While the engine is ticking itself cool, Roberto tops up the fuel. I thread my way through the crowd that has gathered around the car and ceremoniously hand the fob to Roberto.
Now I can survey the countryside and continue my observations of the pathologically aggressive driving habits of the Italians, who pay no attention to anything happening on the road around them — until they see a supercar. One such driver, travelling at 130km/ph, takes both his hands off his steering wheel to film the Huracan. This is Italy, the heart of Western civilisation. Home to opera, the Vatican, the Renaissance, da Vinci, Armani, and the supercar.
The roads through the mountain regions in Le Marche uncurl before me. They are perilous beyond words, with impossible bends and sheer drops from unimaginable heights. Yet with each turn of the steering wheel, I felt certain I’m drawing a line through physics. This is truly a driver’s car — the soft-top only adds to the theatre.
I soon become blasé about the attention the Huracan’s curvaceous and exotic beauty attracts. This is hard-core automotive pornography, drawing lustful looks from everyone who gazes upon it. Parked up in a village, I stand off to one side studying the dramatics of Italians in the presence of their iconic automotive dream: their hands caress the Y-slanted headlights, the flared air-intakes and wheel arches.
If I had to nit-pick, and obviously I do, my only criticism is… Nope. I have none. Driving this car saddens me as thanks to the economy, the environment, the war on speed, and oil prices, cars like this will soon be confined to the history books. I just have a horrible feeling that what I am driving here is an ending.