It feels like I just bought a date with a Hollywood superstar. It’s cold, he’s old and she really doesn’t want to be there. But through clenched teeth she smiles as I approach. It’s one of those things she just has to do. Part of the process. A contractual obligation.
Be polite, keep flashing those sparklers and if he tries to take liberties, remind him they’re there for function as well as form. They bite. It won’t take long, and soon she’ll be back where she belongs, among her kind, amid all those other exotic A-listers mingling in the warmth inside.
Honestly, that’s how approaching a Lamborghini Countach makes me feel. And in that regard, it might be unique. It didn’t happen when I first drove a Ferrari F40 or a McLaren F1. But then I didn’t have their pictures plastered all over my bedroom walls when I was 10 years old. The first and last thing I saw when I woke up in the morning was a Lamborghini Countach. Actually Countachs. There were dozens of them up there. While my chums had posters of a tennis player with a pruritic backside, I had Countachs. Sad, but true.
