Let my brother drive the fastback yesterday morning. After appropriating petrol from out favorite fueling establishment ( 
), we were turning onto main road “Y” when I saw from the corner of my eye, an unfamiliar shape. “No shit,” I say, “that’s a classic Lamborghini.”
“No shit.”
“Hell yeah, he’s turning this way. Slow up.”
We dropped a gear into third and waited for the sleek Italian to catch up. A 1969 Espada S1, red, freshly restored and in immaculate condition. “That thing is fucking gorgeous.”
But the driver, you see, was a bit of a snob. He didn’t want to make eye contact at all. Mid-sixties, gray temples, tan sport coat, a gentleman out for a jaunt in his bull. We pace the S1 in fourth for a minute or two at his five o’clock, right lane. He accelerates to duck a slow moving F150 in his lane, then cusp an Elantra in the right. We stay with him.
I just wanted to throw the guy a thumbs up, “nice ride”, one classic owner to another, y’know.
He wasn’t having it.
He decides to punch it.
4.0L 60-degree V-12 fed by six-two barrel Webers suddenly tears the air. Sounded like a WWII fighter, heeling over in a dive. He effortlessly accelerates four lengths up, and lets off. “Damn, that sounds really good.” I say. I turn over to my brother. “Get next to him, I wanna look at that thing.”
He follows, dropping the Tremec back into third and opening the 4160’s secondaries. Compared to the harmonic sting of the Lamorghini’s twelve, the small-block Ford’s note is rough, blue-collar, breathing through the Tri-Y’s into the 2 1/2" collectors. We begin to catch up.
Right about the time we pull alongside, the Lambo pilot decides he’s not going to be harrassed by some working man’s ponycar. He too punches it again, and we’re in pursuit.
Now I know the Lambo’s good for at least 140 (155, as it turns out) and there’s no way in hell we’re gonna stay with him to 100, but the 'Stang is in it’s powerband and can pull pretty good up with the highway gears and the TKO500. Aerodynamics of a barndoor with a parachute be damned. We went anyway.
40-90 pull, he started walking a car, no more. Any faster than that and we’d be looking at his glassed-out tail from buslengths. Came up to an intersection with a popular coffee establishment, he pulled off and dove in without so much as looking at us!
Cliffs: Vintage Lamborghini > vintage Mustang. Not a real run as he didn’t line up but was fun as hell chasing a Lambo.
