There are iconic cars… and then there’s the Lamborghini Countach.
This wasn’t just a supercar – it was the poster child of excess, the wedge-shaped fantasy that defined a generation’s idea of speed, power, and outrageousness. Forget subtlety – this is Italian flair turned up to 11.
The Miura may have written the first chapter in the Lamborghini supercar story – with its long lashes and luscious curves – but it was the Countach that threw away the playbook, locked the doors, and set fire to it.
When it broke cover at the Geneva motor show in 1973, the world collectively gasped. It looked alien. Sharp. Dangerous. Like it had crash-landed in Switzerland from some Martian race planet, wearing Gandini’s visionary design like armour.
This was no car. This was a revolution on wheels.
So when the chance came to drive the ultimate expression of that icon – the 25th Anniversary Countach, the last and most refined of the breed – and to do it in Italy of all places, I didn’t hesitate. I packed my driving shoes before saying yes.
Lamborghini’s revered Polo Storico division – the custodian of the brand’s most precious metal – had lined up a selection of historic bulls for us to sample. The Countach, naturally, was the crown jewel.
But I’ll be honest: there was a flicker of apprehension. Left-hand drive, dog-leg gearbox, no driver aids, and a clutch that laughs in the face of your gym routine. This isn’t a car you simply jump into. It’s a machine you commit to.
Doors up, ego in.
Just getting into the Countach is an exercise in performance. With its legendary scissor doors and mile-wide sills, climbing in is half Cirque du Soleil, half yoga class.
You don’t so much sit in the Countach as fall into it – knees pointing to the sky, feet shoved deep into the pedal box.
Visibility? Practically zero. Rearward vision is a joke – hence the need for the classic “sit on the sill and reverse out like a stunt driver” move. I was mercifully spared the embarrassment, thanks to some divine intervention (and perhaps a quick visit to the Vatican earlier in the trip).
Settle in and you realise everything about this car was designed to prioritise presence over practicality. The seating position is flat-out bizarre. You’re nearly lying down, trying to reach a steering wheel the size of a small pizza and a clutch pedal that could double as a leg press.
There’s no steering wheel rake or reach adjustment – your body has to adapt to the car, not the other way around. But that’s the price of entry for Countach greatness.
And then comes the starting procedure. If you think this is just a twist-and-go affair, think again.
This is a carb-fed Italian brute with six twin-choke Webers – and they need fuel. So you prime it. And I mean properly. Pump the throttle like it owes you money. I wasn’t aggressive enough the first time and got an earful from Pietro, our instructor.
“Pump it! Pump it!” he yelled, flapping his arms like a man trying to take flight. The crowd – a mix of leathered-up bikers and wide-eyed car spotters at Passo della Futa – watched on in amusement.
Eventually, it fires. And when it does… mamma mia.
The V12 explodes to life with a bark that could wake gods. This isn’t a polite burble – it’s a mechanical snarl, a metallic roar that cuts through the mountain air like a war cry.
The 5.2-litre Quattrovalvole engine is pure old-school theatre – 335kW of power and 500Nm of torque delivered with no filter, no insulation, and no regard for your eardrums. Even at idle, it sounds like it’s on the edge of violence.
Selecting first gear takes effort. You need to know exactly what you’re doing. The dog-leg gate, protected by a curious little spring-loaded finger of metal, demands attention and muscle memory. But slot it home, give it some revs, and you’re off.
The steering? Heavy as hell. There’s no power assist, so at low speeds it’s like wrestling an ox. But once you’re moving, it’s beautifully direct. Sharp. Fluid.
You can feel every ripple of the road through that thick leather wheel. And thanks to the fastidious attention of Polo Storico’s restoration technicians, it tracks straight and true – more precise than I ever expected from a 35-year-old supercar.
And it’s fast. Shockingly fast.
Even compared to today’s neck-snapping EVs and hybrid hypercars, the Countach still pins you back and demands respect. There’s no turbo surge – just linear, razor-sharp delivery that responds instantly to your right foot.
Keep it between 3000 and 6000rpm and it sings. Push beyond that, and it screams.
That soundtrack – part angry chainsaw, part operatic aria – pours from those four glorious exhaust outlets at the back. I’m obsessed with them. Not just for the look, but for the sound they conjure. It’s intoxicating.
Every shift is a deliberate act. The throw is long, mechanical, and utterly rewarding. You don’t flick through gears. You slam them home.
The clutch is a workout, but when you nail a downshift with a perfectly timed heel-and-toe – it’s automotive nirvana. Nothing artificial. No filters. Just raw mechanical brilliance.
And yet, despite its reputation for being a brute, the Countach surprises. It turns in with poise, holds a line with tenacity, and feels planted even when pushed.
It loves fast, sweeping roads – the kind we found in abundance on this Italian test loop. It communicates constantly, encouraging you to lean on it, to trust it. It rewards commitment.
At one point, a modern 911 in front was trying to film us, but they were holding us up. I wanted to unleash the Bull, and when they finally moved over, the Countach was relentless. No hesitation. No drama. Just grip, grunt, and glory.
Driving the Countach isn’t easy, but it’s actually comfortable, forgiving even.
But none of that matters, because once you’re in sync with it – once you’ve bonded with this snarling wedge of Italian fury – it becomes addictive. It’s visceral. Unfiltered. Real.
In a world of synthesised engine notes and computer-managed perfection, the Countach reminds you what it means to drive.
And not just any drive – a drive that leaves your palms sweaty, your heart racing, and your soul utterly hooked.
So what’s it like driving a 1990 Lamborghini Countach?
It’s brutal. It’s brilliant. And it’s every childhood dream brought to life – louder, faster, and more glorious than you ever dared imagine.