Simply Abu Dhabi Magazine XXV

Time to meet its granddaddy, the Miura SV. This was a moment I’d been savouring since I was five years old after watching the opening credits to the original The Italian Job and seeing Rossano Brazzi for the first time flick his Renauld Spectaculars onto his face with a fluid one-handedmovement, seemingly at the same time as downshifting the pristine Miura along the snow-capped Stelvio Pass in 1971 northern Italy. The opening credits rolled to the sound track of Matt Munro’s Days Like These, proving that stringback driving gloves were made for this scene alone. Firing up the Miura SV on the outer edges of the Miura family’s farm, it gave a small puff and a smell of unburnt fuel, perhaps too rich on the choke. Then it settled to an idle. Engaging first gear in its classic, polished alloy gated shift with a firm feel and a slip of the clutch, I cautiously got going and we were off in a priceless, exotic museum piece. First, let’s shatter a dream. The Miura, as gorgeous as she looks, is a horrible car to sit in, at least for me. Back then, Italian supercar giants Ferrari and Lamborghini felt it was a privilege to drive one of their cars and if it was uncomfortable, then you needed to adapt, not the other way around. As I slid inside, the steering wheel wedged itself firmly between my knees while my head brushed the roof. The seat was fixed, so without being able to move it back, my knees were bent at 45 degrees while my arms lay outstretched barely grabbing the wheel. For me, this could never be a long distance proposition, but it’s a Miura and despite its lack of ventilation making even this near zero degree day quite warm inside, who cares? Unlike the modern Aventador SV, the noise wasn’t (sadly) the sound of that 385bhp, 4-litre, V12 screaming with its six Webber carburettors behind my head, but the whine of the manual transmission on the hefty clutch plate and the occasional cough through the Weber carburettors as these were notorious for never being properly balanced, especially six of them. Times have changed indeed as I carefully and slowly slipped it into second, careful not to crunch the gears, and it was totally the opposite of the Aventador’s paddle shift which allowed flat-out upchanges at redline. Driving the Miura SV was akin to driving your dad’s car for the first time – with him beside you. Utmost respect was the order of the day. However, its heady aroma that defines 1960s/1970s motoring, a blend of vinyl and musty carpet mixed with petrol and gearbox oil is as emotive as any high- revving flat change from a computer-controlled paddle shift. The Miura needs to prove nothing, for she set the benchmark long before I was born and I was more than happy to bask in her glory at a sedate speed and soak it all in. For the record, I also recorded my thoughts when driving the Miura SV, but it’s hard to convey the genuine breathless moments in your life. Lamborghini has turned 50 and nothing caps five decades of supercars, marking the beginning and quite possibly their end, like the SV.