The handsome dude in the photo is my pal Bill. He's what I call a populist enthusiast car guy. Knowledgeable, but doesn't have to breathe it 24/7. Had some nice cars over the years. Goes to the races and the swap meet once in a while. Reads MT. But has a life and many interests beyond cars.




Bill is an Audi guy in particular. One of the first Audis I drove was his new 5000 sedan, more than 20 years ago. His wife had one of the first Audi 4000s, so that tells you how long he's been faithful to those four chromed interlocking circles. They've owned five Audis so far, and there are more to come, I suspect. It makes sense that Bill has a more than passing interest in Audi's new R8. So, when I was able to snake one home for a night, who else would I call?


He showed up at my house, and after we ogled the thing over for a while, we headed North through my not-so-secret test track and photo locale, the Angeles Crest Highway. I live right at the base of it, and it's darn handy having 30 miles of great road about two miles past my driveway. Needless to say, he was excited to take this thing for a rip. And so was I. Having driven every one of its competitors (Lambo Gallardo, Ferrari F430, Porsche Turbo, etc.) an impromptu, mental comparo was already brewing between my ears.


What shocked me the most is how much the R8 reminded me of my beloved DeTomaso Panteras. Throbbing V-8 just over my right shoulder. Gated manual shifter. The two main gauges straight ahead. A little wheelhouse intrusion into the footwells. Riding close to the ground. Make no mistake, the Audi is 35 years ahead of my old Italian Stallions in terms of design, engineering, technology, quality, gizmos, and all the rest. But the basic formula is remarkably familiar. And just as relevent.


With familiarity comes speed, and pretty soon, we were cutting up the Crest's corners pretty well. This car has high limits, and I didn't dare test them on a public road during commuter hour, but even at 8/10ths, this thing eats ground like a paparazzi's Nikon goes after Paris or Lindsay. A stock Pantera's 351 Ford "Cleveland" V-8 revs to 5800 rpm; the R8's direct injection four-cam 4.2-liter V-8 sings to 8000. You can talk autoclutch manual gearboxes all you want, but there's nothing like nailing a perfect toe/heel downshift to second at eight grand.


In the early 70s, things like a nav system, carbon ceramic brakes, all-wheel drive, and electronic stability management wouldn't have been available on a road car at any price, but the R8 has them all, and they work beautifully. The R8 proved a more emotional, vivid machine than I expected, yet one you could drive anywhere, anytime, because it is so polished, behaved, and well screwed together. Bill was a good passenger, or at least pretended to be, and I believe he enjoyed the car, even from the passenger side (note the smile in the photo. Mine was similarly enthusiastic).


This morning, I was telling another friend about our late afternoon salvo in Audi's fabulous R8. He asked "C'mon, you drive hot stuff all the time. Don't you get a little bored with all of it?"

Bored? You gotta be kidding