The Ferrari 458 - a seductress with flawless curves, bright red lipstick and a tan leather interior. Photo / Supplied
The Ferrari 458 - a seductress with flawless curves, bright red lipstick and a tan leather interior. Photo / Supplied
Faced with gunning either a Ferrari or a Lamborghini, Dylan Cleaver opts for both.
It was one of those awkward days, I'm sure you'll sympathise, when I just couldn't chose between the Lambo and the Ferrari.
There sat the Lamborghini Gallardo, all sleek and black, with jaunty angles and a 5.2l V10 engine that is begging to be opened out. It reeks of testosterone and footy and cigars.
Sitting beside him is the Ferrari 458 Italia, a seductress with flawless curves, bright-red lipstick and a tan leather interior. Class.
In the end I did what anybody in that situation would do ... and drove both.
The roads of the Yarra Valley, about an hour east of Melbourne, could have been built for this purpose: uncluttered, with nice cambered bends and gentle elevations. The cars stick to the roads like they're on rails and you can choose your own settings, from fully automatic to "sport" mode, where you shift through the gears with paddles behind the steering wheel.
It's an intoxicating way to drive. You don't have to find every Jeremy Clarkson verbal belch hilarious or enjoy the smell of leaded petrol to appreciate beautifully constructed engineering. In fact, it probably helps because there's something thrilling and utterly visceral about taking control of a car which has performance capabilities that outstrip your driving ability.
All measures are taken to ensure your safety on these driving tours. There's a lead driver, the tour guide if you like, who is in contact via two-way radio. "Large truck approaching" and "kangaroo on the side of the road" are two of several mild warnings.
As we wind up the Maroondah Highway, we can see signs of the devastation caused by the Black Saturday bushfires of February, 2009.
As chance would have it, I was in Melbourne the day the fires started and being outside was like being in a blast furnace. Several people and thousands of animals died in those fires and hundreds of buildings were destroyed. The smoke was so dense that when our plane took off that evening for New Zealand, the crew had to assure passengers on more than one occasion that the acrid smell in the cabin was from the fires below, not any engine faults.
My reminiscing is cut short by the crackle of the radio.
We're stopping in Healesville for lunch, at a place called the Innocent Bystander, a one-stop, industrial-chic stop for all things gastro. There's an artisan bakery on site, a cheesemaker, charcuterie and a giant wood-fired pizza oven. They make their own wine too but, hey, I'm driving.
