It’s, uh, zippy. The naturally-aspirated V10 makes a compelling argument that high-revving, cylinder-packed internal combustion lacking turbos and superchargers deserve to live forever;hybridize them if need be, sure, but the experience they deliver is worth preserving even as every other type of car goes over to batteries and electric motors. (While such engines do, admittedly, rack up terrible fuel economy figures, the pittance of supercars sold every year and the handful of miles most such cars are driven means their total impact on the climate is miniscule.)
Punch the throttle from a roll, and instead of the immediate punch of thrust you get from high-performance turbocharged engines, there’s an ever-growing rush of go that builds in proportion to the engine’s scream, making it all the more involving. Accelerating in an R8 is like skydiving; accelerating in, say, an M8 Competition is like getting rear-ended.
The streets of New York City are no place to explore the handling limits of a mid-engined supercar (or, really, anything sportier than a Mitsubishi Mirage), and I didn’t have a chance during my dalliance with the R8 to dash up to the back roads I usually use to put fun cars through their paces. I can tell you, however, that the on-ramps, off-ramps and highway curves all proved as easily attacked as a mountain lion would take on a cyclist, with nary a hint of roll nor hesitation. Point it, and it goes — and I mean goes.
But remember: it may be a more livable supercar than most, mind you, but it is still a supercar — which means care must be taken when a) tackling high curbs, b) mounting steep ramps, c) opening its long doors near obstacles, and d) parking.(I have a story about a certain well-known actor and an R8 parking incident that decency requires I keep to myself.)
