Bullish on Evolution: Driving the Final Lamborghini Aventador

I'm trying to figure out just how many Aventadors I've driven since Lamborghini launched the Batmobile-looking freaksled back in 2012. It's a first-world problem of the first order, I'm aware. At the bare minimum, I've been behind the wheel of a dozen of them, and that's counting the crazy-pants $2-million-plus Centenario. I know I drove at least two of the original Aventador LP700-4s. Both were pretty bad to drive, complete with a transmission that liked to overheat in reverse. I drove the exact same 50th Anniversary Roadster around both Miami and Wildwood, New Jersey (don't ask). I goofed around with two examples of the everything's-been-fixed Aventador SVs, one of my all-time-favorite cars. I think I drove an SV Roadster, too. Some sort of Roadster in that vein, anyway. I got to play with two examples of the midcycle Aventador S, which, like the Centenario, came packing all-wheel steering. I've spent time with at least two (former) Nürburgring King SVJs, though perhaps there was a third? And I just put 400 miles on the last Aventador, the LP780 4Ultimae. Well, last until the Ultimae Roadster arrives. Anyhow, I think I'm at a baker's dozen, and perhaps 14 of them.

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Am I bragging? Obviously! But I'm also trying to establish that I'm something of a subject matter expert when it comes to Lambo's snarling V-12 range-topper. If I had to summarize the Aventador in just a few words, I'd say it was a charming old battle ax. The car is chock-full of automotive evolutionary dead ends, items the car world will never see again, like the car's preposterous seven-speed ISR transmission. ISR stands for "independent shifting rods," so instead of having two clutches like almost every other super/hypercar in existence, the ISR keeps odd gears on one shaft, even gears on the other, and then hot-swaps the rods back and forth every gear change. Advantage? When you have the Aventador in Corsa (track mode) and the engine is buzzing at around 8,500 rpm, the shifts—both up and down—are rapid-fire and fierce, like someone getting shivved on your favorite prison show. The downside? Most of the rest of the time the shifts are languid to the point the car feels drunk. Totally bizarre. Hateable a decade ago, oddly endearing these days.

I do find it funny how things soften over time. Perhaps I'm doing the most softening, but I remember being absolutely crestfallen when, during a photoshoot with the first Aventador I ever drove, the transmission overheated (as I mentioned) while backing up a slight incline. "Worst Lamborghini ever," I'm sure I thought to myself in my bestSimpsonsComic Book Guy inner voice. Coincidentally, formerMotorTrendphotographer Michael Shaffer (the one who had me reversing the thing in the first place) happened to be in town while I had possession of the Ultimae. I let him have a go, and within 100 feet he announced, "I'd forgotten how weird this transmission is! The car stops moving forward between gears!" You need to put it in at least Sport mode, I explained, clicking the right arrow once. Even so, that really doesn't help things much. Back in the day, other single-clutch automated manual transmission cars existed (Lexus LFA, Aston Martin V12 Vantage S, Smart ForTwo), and I despised them all. And yet … either Lamborghini drastically improved the ISR (it didn't) or time softened the blows.

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When you write for a living (hi, Mom!), you always strive to be original. Which is why it's so painful and annoying that my stupid friend/colleague Kyle Fortune so perfectly summarized the Ultimae driving experience: "All the things that made the Aventador a bit shit back when it was new make it interesting and enjoyable today." Nailed it. The bastard continues, calling it "a carbon-tubbed enigma that's bettered by many, but as it bows out reminds us what's brilliant if you actually enjoy driving." The truth of the above hit me when my friend Misha Mansoor (above) parked his McLaren 765LT Spider next to the matte gray raging bull. Both cars make too much power (755 hp for the 765LT, 769 for the Ultimae), and both are made up almost entirely of carbon fiber. "Same-same," as my kid used to say before he could fully speak. Yet somehow the Lamborghini manages to weigh 1,000 pounds more than the McLaren. All-wheel drive and four additional cylinders is part of it (but no turbos or intercoolers), but dang, that'sheavy. Remember when I called the thing a battle ax? Have you ever swung a big ax? Plenty of power, yes, but oh so hefty. Also, as it turns out, quite lovable.

Speaking of have-you-evers, have you ever seen the remake ofBattlestar Galactica? If you haven't, the evil Cylons successfully attack humanity largely because the modern warships are so networked together that a single, simple computer virus can disable the entire Earth fleet and its accompanying defenses. However, an old warhorse like the Galactica features computers that can't all talk to each other, so the virus doesn't work. The Cylons are forced to try to destroy it the old-fashioned way, with lasers and nukes. The show goes on like that for five seasons. My point is twofold. One, just because something's new doesn't automatically make it better. And two, sometimes cars that aren't seen as cutting-edge still serve a good, even great, purpose. Sometimes they are, in fact, totally fantastic. The Aventador Ultimate is one such car. I mean supercar. Or is that hypercar? The lines are blurred.

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What's the Aventador Ultimae like to drive? Fully friggin' awesome. There's a theater to a V-12 Lamborghini that's essentially absent from the rest of the automotive space. Yeah, Ferrari makes the 812 Superfast with its fantabulous V-12 and nearly perfect dual-clutch transmission. But the doors open like the doors on your Honda, said V-12 is not located behind your head, and the Ferrari doesn't look like it was pulled straight from the center of a 14-year-old's brain. Then there's the physicality of the car. It's about 80 inches wide, which makes it wider than a full-size American pickup truck. That's nuts! The Ultimae snarls, snaps, crackles, and pops as soon as you're above 3,000 rpm. Despiteeverything, and perhaps because it's an SVJ with the fancy aero parts plucked off, the final evolution of the Aventador is a brutal joy to drive. I felt like I'd been boxing a heavyweight all the way up the mountain after one particularly aggressive canyon blast. And I had, in the best possible sense of the metaphor. I'm sucking wind and smiling just thinking about it.

My rumor mill tells me the original name for the Ultimae was to be the Aventador SJ, and that one of the first things Stephan Winklemann did when he retook the whip at Lamborghini was to bin the SJ name in favor of Ultimae. That's Latin for "last." That Winklemann's a smart cookie. Several people I showed the Ultimae to during my five days of stewardship commented that it's essentially an, "SVJ Touring," in reference to the fact that like a GT3 Touring, the Ultimae is just an SVJ with the wing ripped off. I suppose that's true, though really, it's an oversimplification. There is something special about this last hurrah, something worth thinking about—worth relishing and worth remembering. The Ultimae is the last, and it is going out, not exactly on top, but certainly on a high note. Logically, sure, you can poke a lot of holes in the Lamborghini Aventador Ultimae. But emotionally? If you don't love this fantastic old monster, you might be dead inside. Check your pulse.