Audi R8 driven on the Nurburgring
The Audi R8 isn’t old enough to be a legend. It isn’t old enough even for a generation change. It is the antithesis of everything that is romantic, everything that is analogue, everything that is earthy in this world. The R8 is the MP3 player among vinyl records. It’s the digital camera among film rolls. It’s the serviced penthouse among creaking castles. It’s the digital screen among blackboards.
You can accuse the R8 of a lot of things. One of them being that it has taken away the sense of adventure that once came with owning a mid-engine supercar. You get into the R8, shut the door, turn on the ignition and drive. It won’t throw cold morning tantrums. It won’t toast your knee because it was resting against the centre console. If won’t soft boil your luggage in the boot in front. And you don’t need a rubber spine to get in or out of the car, or to look around corners or when you approach a junction.