Never one to reason the need, JC
hails the gloriously superfluous LFA. And misses lunch…
The V10 engine in a Lexus LFA revs from
idle to the red line in just 0.6 of a second.
That’s so fast, the engineers had to FT a
digital rev-counter because a conventional needle couldn’t keep up.
Toyota says that, for perfect handling, 52
per cent of the weight should be over the rear axle. As a result, the LFA’s
radiators and battery are at the back. So, too, is the washer bottle.
Lexus
LFA
It has a single-plate flappy-paddle
gearbox. The changes are slow and savage. But each time it shifts cogs, it
feels like Mr. Muscle Man has walloped you in the back. With a sledgehammer, this
gives drivers a sense that they really are in a racing car.
The body may look conventional, but there’s
genuine aero here. As I discovered at Willow Springs in California recently,
the faster you go, the more grip you have.
There are sound tubes that feed the roar of
the engine’s induction directly into the cockpit. And there’s a woman in the
boot who can find you the nearest Japanese/Euro fusion restaurant. I love the
LFA a lot. So much that I recently described it as the best car I’ve ever
driven.
Naturally, this caused both Hammond and May
to scoff very loudly. Mainly because as they kept pointing out, it costs
$120,000. That’s nearly five times more than a Nissan GT-R which, if anything,
is even more technical. It’s way more, too, than a Ferrari 458 or a Merc SLS.
It is, they argued, a stupid price.
But they’re wrong. Arguing that the LFA is
too expensive is like arguing that, at $150 billion, the Mona Lisa is too
expensive. Or saying that there’s no point buying a $30 million Henry Moore
sculpture when, for just a fiver, you could buy a nice stone otter from an
Oxfam shop.
With a car like the LFA, price is not
relevant. Because it’s just a tech fest, a howling, thrusting, tire squealing
arrowhead of industrial grade showing of. It belongs in a collector’s
climate-controlled garage, as an example of the moment. It is emphatically not
a car you are actually going to buy and use. If you do, you may find that, from
time to time, it’s a bit annoying.
JC
sets sat-nav to ‘the hell outta here’
Because, in among all the glorious detail
and the sense it was designed by engineering psychopaths, there are some small
issues. All of which reared their heads on a short trip to the pub last month.
The increasingly earnest BBC news teams
were advising motorists to stay at home and not go out unless the journey was
“absolutely necessary”. But it was necessary. I wanted some lunch. And anyway,
it was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky, and, on the ground, a light
sprinkling of hardened snow.
So, I climbed into the LFA and, 10 minutes
later, with a cricked neck, a punctured lung and a twisted gut, I had managed
to fasten the desperately fiddly seatbelt. Ten minutes after that, I had
overcome the enormous turning circle by executing a 77-point turn, and was
finally pointing in the right direction. But I wasn’t going anywhere, because
the race-inspired tires were struggling quite badly with the icy gravel.
Select
any of these – you’ll still end up at the snow plough depot
I therefore undid the seatbelt, broke out
the shovels, and the blow torch and the bits of sacking. And 10 minutes later,
I was back in the cockpit, hungry from all the exertions and looking forward to
my lunch. Ten minutes after that, I had done up the seatbelt again. And I was
off.
To quench my thirst, I reached into the
door pocket for a refreshing can of fizzy pop and took a slug. And then noted
there was no cup holder. But that wasn’t the end of the world, because the
Lexus has a fuel tank exactly seven per cent smaller than the fuel tank on a
Zippo lighter.
I therefore grazed the nose going into the
petrol station, undid my seatbelt, deposited the mostly full can of zesty drink
in a bin, filled up with 0.3 liters of V-Power, got back in, and, after a
brief 10-minute gap during which I did up my seatbelt, I dragged the low nose
onto the road again. And set off.
Zigzagging furiously. Most odd, I’d driven
this exact car before, in the summer, in Yorkshire, and it tracked straight and
true. But since then, somebody in overalls has made a small change to the
undersides tires? camber? and as a result, it simply followed every small
groove in the road, irrespective of what I did with the wheel.
To take my mind of the problem, I turned on
the excellent Mark Levinson stereo and selected DAB. Which wasn’t working. And
then it was time for some more petrol.
Low
nose is the natural prey of sleeping policemen
After this and another punctured lung from
doing up the seatbelt, the road opened out and I put the hammer down. Soon, I
was doing 112kph, and my ears started to bleed. Because at this speed, the
engine is howling at 3,000rpm. You crave a seventh gear in an LFA, but there
isn’t one.
You also crave a bit more space in the
boot, because any suitcase has to be fitted in the space behind the seats.
Which means you can’t see anything out of the rear-view mirror which is why I
didn’t spot the approaching police car.
After a bit of finger-wagging, I set of
once more with the radio crackling and the engine howling and the tires
following the grooves left by snow ploughs. Until eventually, I ended up at the
snow plough depot. This is where all LFA drivers will end up, if a man in an
overall has been underneath with a spanner.
Eventually, though, I made it to the pub
where I had what had become supper, and I gave the LFA a bit of thought...
With the possible exceptions of a V8 Ariel
Atom or a Cater ham R500, I cannot think of any car that makes going to the pub
on a crisp winter’s day such a chore. For Willow Springs? Yes. For that road
that twists up into the hills outside Palm Springs? Yes again, but for going
from Chipping Norton to The Kingham Plough for some snails and mushrooms on
toast? No. You’d be better of jogging. However, I will not change my mind about
this car. I still believe it’s the best I’ve ever driven.
Because for just a few quid, you could buy
a picture to hang over your mantelpiece. It might even be quite nice. But that
doesn’t stop you dreaming about owning Turner’s priceless Rain, Steam and
Speed.
It’s old. It’s cracked. It’s fuzzy and the
insurance would be huge. But what would you rather have? That? Or The Crying
Boy? Hammond and May would go for The Crying Boy. But I have a soul,
which is why I wouldn’t.
