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THE COUNTACH IS STRANGE
I live in an area outside of Philly that is, in essence, a 10-by-30-mile Ralph Lauren advertisement. The only piece of litter you'll find at the train station is a golf tee.
Due to the eccentric and nature of the region, I actually see two of these unusual Lambos regularly. One lives at the Ferrari dealership down the street from my house, and the other at a storage facility where my dad stores his classic car.
They're both black, they both have "the wing," and I will never be able to afford either one of them. That said, I did get to sit in the one at the storage place today, and I have to say I see both the car and their owners in a new light. Here's what I noticed.
First Off: The Car
It's a late production model, black on black, with the wing, US bumper delete, and the silver wheels. It's so black and low that it almost registers as negative space; it's just about the least shouty Countach you could configure.
It almost passes for sophisticated. The car also has a few thousand miles on it. The owner obviously takes care of it, despite keeping it locked up in storage for 11 months out of the year. Most importantly, it's exactly the car that you picture in your mind when you think of a supercar.
Second: The Owners
Now I don't know the owner, but sitting in this car gave me a unique insight into the psyche of someone who would actually buy one of these things. I had one major takeaway. Countach owners love pain.
Scratch that; they don't just love pain. They get off on it.
Getting into that damned car is a contortion act. Your legs actually go up to the same height as your nipples when you climb in over the football field of a door sill. If Cirque du Soleil performers can't get into a Countach gracefully, neither can you.
Once inside, the first sensation was one of sheer and utter discomfort; due to the seat being just about the right size for a horse jockey. The main job of a Countach seat isn't to keep you in place and comfortable; it's to reduce the width of your skeleton.
The pedals are both tiny and very close together; they're also much closer to your feet than the wheel, which means you're essentially leaning forward as your legs press into your pelvis.
You can't see out of it. You can't reach any of the switches. You can't even get your phone out of your pocket to call your chiropractor.
AUTOMASOCHISM
If you own one of these cars and actually drive it, you are a person that relishes in pain. Extreme discomfort, both physical and even psychological, are your weapons; and the mean streets of suburban Philadelphia are the playground you rule over with sickening malevolence.
The Lamborghini Countach is not a car for people who snort coke off dainty little mirrors. The Countach is a car for people who drip hot wax on themselves on the way to Dunkin' because they have an insatiable need to escape the numbness of life.
This is a car for people who pay to be whipped.
CONCLUSION
If you are a meth addict, a UFC fighter one concussion away from becoming a turnip, a mom who goes to hockey practice to get into fights with the other parents, if you've snorted a hole in your septum, if your idea of a fun Tuesday night is a game of Russian roulette; I have a message of hope for you.
You can live a healthy and productive life. Put the meth down, sell the Miata, and blow that candle out. Go down to the bank, take out a mortgage, and buy yourself a Countach. If your urges aren't satisfied, just wait 'till you crash it.
