Roomy? Barely. Practical? Hardly. Sensible? Not at all. Sexy? Oh, yes!

Its not all that brightly lit, but there is enough light to make out that gorgeous silhouette. That smooth flowing line, starting way down at shin level, travelling up, with a slight indent that hints at that scoop defining the headlamp, moving over those chunky front wheels, sweeping down slightly to a not-so-pinched waist, then one line diverting up to meet the roof in an arch, another sweeping over the hump that describes the rear wheels, ending on to a stubby tail with a slight upturn, the hint of a spoiler.
This yellow car wasn’t the only one: there are so many other fabulous cars, Bugattis, Ferraris, AC Cobras, others. But this yellow car is the one that has caught my attention, more than any other. Look at the door and there is no obvious handle. But I know where it is: those louvers along the pillar, the bottom louver, that's the handle. Pull it and the door opens, the louvered section opening out with it. The door opens very wide, and though the seat is less than a feet off the ground, getting in is not difficult. Just drop your butt onto the seat and pull your legs in after.
That three-spoke steering wheel is low, and you have to slide your legs in underneath, but that's easy and before you know you are ensconced in a low bucket seat that fits you perfectly, legs stretched out flat, hands out straight holding the near-vertical steering wheel. I had read about the Italianate ape driving position – suiting the short legged, long armed types – but it seemed to be fine for me. Okay, so I'm an Indian ape…
And I must have been grinning like one, caressing that leather-wrapped steering wheel, small and neat, through which I could see two big white-on-black dials, the speedo on the left, the tacho on the right. The speedo reads 320kph. There are six other minor dials on the centre console, and from where you are sitting, they are difficult to read. Look up and into the headlining, along the centre you see a gaggle of toggle switches aircraft-style, apparently for the lights, fans, and else, but they are unmarked. As are the switches along the gearshift gate, which is a square aluminium piece with six fingers, five slots for the five forward speeds, one for reverse.
Despite the tight confines of the cabin, I have enough space to move my feet around. The pedals rise straight from the floor, and you have to tilt your foot backwards to feed in the clutch, which is, HEAVY. As is the gear-shift action. After a couple of attempts, I give up, and ease the wooden-topped lever into neutral. I have been told what to do, not once, but twice, and so I follow instructions carefully.
I turn the key and wait a moment. Then I stab the throttle a couple of times, and wait some more. Then I turn the key again. There is a WHUP, a WHUP again, then nothing. Outside people are gesticulating, asking me to turn the key again. I do. And the car erupts. Okay, not the car really, the engine.
There is this huge noise, just aft of the shoulder, a cacophony, a mix of shrieks, rumbles, whines, thunder, that settle into the meshing of machines, of chains working, valves popping, camshafts whirling. Frightening, yet fantastic. Stab the throttle and the noise becomes a crescendo, a shriek that turns into a banshee wail. 350 rampaging horses, all ready to gallop out.
But that won't be possible. The car is a part of a museum, and I am already privileged in having been allowed to sit in it and turn that engine on, hear that sound, but nothing more. The car cannot leave the premises. Maybe, some other time?
It's been seven long years since then, that museum – the Centre International de l'Automobile, near Paris – has shut down, and that yellow Lamborghini Miura has moved on, god knows where. And I have yet to drive a Miura. I have driven other Lambos, but the most coveted of the lot is still a dream. But it's the Miura's 40th anniversary, time is running out, I have not driven one, and neither have I met its designer, Marcello Gandini. And Anu, our art editor, has designed these gorgeous pages. So, one has to write 1855 words.
This is about, what I believe, is the most beautiful car in the world, the most gorgeous form that ever crouched between four wheels. A car that is an automotive orchid on the outside, a watch-like precision of intricate engineering inside, a car that is the perfect synthesis of beauty and beast, of silk and steel, of art and science. A car that epitomises how an infinite series of exquisite details, that together, can create an effect of total harmony. Of how details like the slightly bulging air intakes on the B-pillar, along with the wide, almost bumper-less front chin, merges perfectly with the horizontal slats on the rear window and the hexagonal grille of the rear.
"The Miura stands for a kind of beauty that lies in merging opposites," says Marcello Gandini (no, I haven't still met him, but that's an e-mail exchange through his daughter, Marzia). "It is a body with lots of muscles, but they are the muscles of a beautiful woman, not a male body builder. It is wicked, but with some gentle touches. It has lots of edges but all the curves in the right places. The stare is aggressive, but tempting, the car is intimidating, but attractive." And, may I add, impossible to resist.

The Lamborghini Miura wasn't the product of a grand plan, a master strategy. It just kind of happened. Born a farmer, Ferruccio Lamborghini became a millionaire industrialist, who when insulted by Enzo Ferrari, decided to challenge the potentate of Maranello by making cars that would cock a snook at the best from the stable of the Prancing Horse. The Lamborghini 350 GT, from 1964, was the result of that. More modern than contemporary Ferraris and Maseratis, the 350GT was conventional in having its V12 in the front, driving the rear, through a five-speed gearbox. A nice car.
But then Lamborghini, at that time, had the sharpest young automotive talent in Europe. And harnessing them was difficult. The story goes that engineers Gianpaolo Dallara and Paolo Stanzani conspired with development test driver Bob Wallace (all averaging 25 years old) to create a revolutionary chassis that they hoped would convince Ferruccio to allow them to go racing. Emulating racing cars of the time, they took the Lambo V12 (which had been designed by ex-Ferrari engineer Giotto Bizzarini) and located it ahead of the rear wheels, but transversely, within a stunning perforated sheet metal monocoque chassis. This prototype chassis-engine combo was first shown at the Turin motor show of November 1965.
Coachbuilder Bertone saw immense potential in the concept and proposed to clothe the chassis. And he got his recent recruit Marcello Gandini – just 27 then – to carry out the project. In just four months, in time for the Geneva motor show of 1966, the fully clothed car made its sensational debut. Putting the engine behind the driver – race car style – was special enough. Putting a hugely powerful and exquisitely crafted V12 amidships was sensational. But that body, oh my god, that daring, spirited, lithe, sexy piece of automotive sculpture was the ultimate icing on the cake.
Ferruccio Lamborghini, born under the astrological sign of the Taurus, adopted the charging bull as the emblem of his marque, taking on the prancing horse of Ferrari, and adding a certain element of drama in the cars that he made, cars that have always been strong, wilful, prideful beasts only partly tamed. And the Miura was the first in a series that took the name of a famous breed of fighting bulls from Spain.
So here was a car that was everything: a car with a powerplant that was the ultimate at its time (the Miura developed 350bhp, whereas Ferrari's best at that time, the 275GTB managed only 315), an engine layout that was a revolution, a styling that was a generation or two ahead of the rest, a performance potential (max v of over 270kph) that was second to none, and an appropriately poetic name.
And so people – the rich and the beautiful – lined up. Lamborghini had thought that, at best, he would sell around 25 Miura P400s per year. But demand was so huge that some 475 cars were sold in less than three years. As the car went into production with very little development, there were a whole lot of teething problems, and so, an extensively improved model, the P400 S was launched in 1968. 140 of the S were made till 1971, when a more potent version, the P400 SV was unveiled. With decidedly chunkier rubbers – Pirelli Cinturatos specifically developed for the car – a wider track and a more tweaked engine that took max power to 385bhp, the SV is the ultimate Miura. Just 150 of these were made till 1972, when Lamborghini prematurely pulled the plug and the Miura was withdrawn from the market, apparently to make way for the Countach (which still took another two years to make into production…).
With one exception, all 765 Miuras were coupes. The exception was an open top version proposed by Bertone and unveiled in 1968 as the P400 Roadster. Though it did not have a top or side windows, the rest of the detailing was serious and fastidious: the rear slats, for instance, were replaced by a scooped out engine cover flanked by 'flying buttresses'. This particular car was eventually sold to the Lead Zinc Research Organization who got Bertone to turn the car into the Zn75, a rolling exhibit of possible automotive applications for zinc and other metals. Now a part of a private collection the metallic green Zn75 still turns heads, as evinced at the last Retromobile show in Paris (see April '06 issue).
As do any Miuras, even today. Exactly 40 years ago, the Miura was radically new, with innovative styling details, yet incorporating the culture and the history of Italian sports cars of the '50s and the early '60s. And it is still perfect today, having stood the test of time. And over the years, others have laid claim to the design: Nuccio Bertone claiming that he had more than just a proprietary eye on the design and Giorgetto Giugiaro claiming that Gandini finished what he had actually started…The last bit leaves a bit of a sour taste: somehow, the designer of the century cannot come to terms with the fact that the design of the century isn't his work. But c'est la vie. Yet he has insinuated several times that Gandini took what were his initial sketches and finished the car, taking undue credit. And unfortunately, some scribes who are fans of Giugiaro tend to buy that argument. I don't. The Miura is undoubtedly the exciting work (and one of several) of a very excited young genius.