That 6.7 L engine agrees, spitting and snarling, almost stalling as the automated seven-speed transmission lurches through traffic. I switch the recalcitrant gearbox over to M, hoping the temper tantrum will smooth out higher in the rev range as I purposefully pop through gears using the column-mounted paddle shifters (which also make the Aventador’s turn signal stalks nearly impossible to use). And those turn signals come in handy—as the crowd of Italian drivers inching along all around me might be surprised to learn—since I have absolutely zero visibility to either side, nor out of the louvered rear window.
dear author, this is ars technica, not the french dispatch
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As well-intended as this article might have ascribed, it felt like it was all over the place.
dear author, this is ars technica, not the french dispatch