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From YourSITE.com Reviews & Road Tests Perspiration is beading down the forehead of the Audi executive standing in front of me. We’re chatting in front of his company’s hospitality building at Lime Rock Park in Connecticut, where Le Mans Series racecars rounding the circuit make for a cacophonous soundtrack in the background. He looks over his shoulder, scanning both directions, and leans in to whisper as best he can over the noise. “I stop at a mini market,” he mumbles, “and I wait for people to walk away from it before I return.” He looks at me in all seriousness.
He can see the look of confusion in my eye and, at the time, I believed he’d started backpedaling. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said with more energy. “I LOVE the car, I really do. It’s just the attention…” His voice trailed off. He saw that I didn’t get it. I was lost. I clearly was, and the person that helped me find my way was the last name I would have expected to ever help me understand anything. Paris Hilton. Yup, Paris Hilton. You see, there are few people who probably understand what it’s like to drive an Audi R8. I’m not talking about mastering throttle modulation around shifts of the car’s optional R-tronic sequential transmission, nor experimenting to see just how far you can hang it out on a track. I’ve fortunately tried both to some extent, though I haven’t spent more than a few hours in the car. No, to understand what this Audi exec was whispering to me in hushed tones, I’d either have to spend more time in the car, or try to empathize with the rich, hot and oh-so-annoying Hollywood heiress. One sounded a lot more appealing, and fortunately more accessible. The key fob, you see, to the silver R8 was still in my pocket. I’d be driving it out of here and back to Manhattan in just a few hours. Our early morning run from the Audi Forum in midtown Manhattan, on up to the track in Connecticut was fairly normal. Other than some ogling bagel shop owners near Rockefeller Center where we’d stopped to grab a bite, there weren’t many people out and about to see or appreciate the car. No, at 8 A.M. on a Saturday morning, most New Yorkers are sleeping off a hangover from too much booze, too much work or both. Not even the song of an R8 could roust them. The return trip to NYC proved a bit different. After the race, we slide into the R8 and I fire it up. Valets usher our car, the third in a line of as many R8s, out of the Audi hospitality paddock and into a creeping line of cars exiting the track. Sitting in the stop-and-go traffic, wave after wave of race fans walk past, admiring the three silver cars. “Let’s hear it!” I’m told about a million times. Each time I oblige, and burn through more than my share of fuel while just sitting there. Our R8 inches past the Porsche corral, and I find myself sitting next to a brand new Carrera S. Looking over, I’m ready to give the 911’s retirement-age owner a nod of appreciation. He must have seen us coming, because he won’t even glance our direction. He stares dead ahead. Even when his wife looks over at the car, says something to him and looks away, he still won’t look over. As the line snakes past the corral of Corvette owners, we hear some drunk guy yell out “an automatic Vette will beat it!” My spot-check memory of automatic Corvette 0-60 times fails, so I just yell back, “I’ll still look better losing in this.” For reference, Chevy claimed about 4.5 seconds for the manual ’07 Corvette. Audi claims 4.8 on the R8, though tests of the car have put it down near 4.3. Even in an armchair race, I suspect this guy was incorrect. It doesn’t matter though. The line creeps along, and we’re soon out on the road and on our way back to Manhattan.
Into the early evening traffic, we’re suddenly much more aware of what we’re driving. At almost every redlight, a cell phone is held out of a car nearby to take a photo. Turning onto the highway, we cross in front of a modded B5 Audi S4. As soon as the S4 owner gets the green, he takes off in chase. The older Audi comes up fast to our rear, and we I over to get out of the way for the pass. The other driver moves to our 10 o’clock and sits as his passenger fumbles with a digital camera. Coming up on the next exit, the black S4 nosedives, drops behind us, then tears down the off ramp to circle back the way he came. There’s more of the same with virtually every subsequent exit. Mobile phones and Blackberries are waved around in abandon, trying to get that perfect low-res grainy shot of the car that’s all over the internet already. Pulling into a rest stop, a Camry almost collides with another car as the passenger tries for a shot. Pop goes the flash, across a lane of traffic, more likely to have gotten the expressions of the annoyed Hyundai in between us than an actual shot of the R8. We exit the R8 to relieve ourselves and return to find folks looking admiringly. The usual questions ensue, though we’re due back in New York City, so we cut the car talk short and get back on the road.
Nearing Manhattan, there’s another Porsche encounter. This time, it’s a white 997 Turbo flying up through traffic on our right. The car pulls alongside and we look over, fully prepared to see another old school Porsche owner checking out the car under duress. We’re pleasantly surprised to see a younger driver and his girlfriend both with big smiles and giving us the thumbs up. Seems the less traditional Porsche owner has no issue with the beguiling Audi. We flash the thumbs up back at the couple in the Turbo. Heading back toward the Audi Forum once we’re back on the island, we decide to take a detour through Times Square for some quick photography. On our way there, a kid pulls up next to us in a Civic and rolls down the window, motioning us to do the same. “Dude! what the f#%k is that?” he yells over through our open window. “It’s the new Audi R8,” we yell back. “Audi, huh,” he says in more of a normal voice. Then he grins. “Buddy,” he says to my driving partner who’s now at the wheel. “Drop him off. You could get mad p#$%y in that.” The light turns green. He tears off into the distance and we turn towards Broadway.
Pulling underneath the neon sign on the front of the Late Show’s Ed Sullivan Theatre, I hop out of the car, camera in hand, and start shooting. A guy with the build of a jockey hanging out nearby takes some shots of his own, then goes over and leans against the car. Yeah, he’s walking into my shot, but he doesn’t care. He’s dead set on getting the skinny on the R8 from the guy at the wheel. I keep shooting. Gratuitous Late Show neon shots fired, I’m effectively blocked from slipping back into the R8 and have to physically move the guy back with the passenger door. He either has a man crush on my copilot or a car crush on the R8. I’m guessing the latter. Creeping through the Saturday evening snarl down Broadway and into Times Square, the R8 is greeted like a celebrity. Cars stop beside the silver Audi. Tourists do double takes. Cameras and camera phones come at it from all sides. As I climb back into the car on the south end of Times Square and we make the left toward the Audi Forum on Park Avenue, I finally get it. Months before, I’d heard Paris Hilton say something about how hard it is being famous. The paparazzi, the general nuttiness; it all weighed on her so heavily. Blah, blah, blah.
My response was to feign gagging. Being paid insane cash to simply show up at parties, the fame, the attention; what a terrible existence that must be. NOT! Today, coming home from the race, I got a sample. All of a sudden that Audi exec’s comments no longer rang with a jagoff tone. Even Paris’ complaint made some sense. Attention is fun, but too much can wear on even the biggest attention whore. Driving the R8 was intoxicating, but repeatedly dodging stupid maneuvers by others nearby in traffic just to get a shot on a camera phone got old. The constant questioning at gas stations and rest stops also didn’t help us get back on the road any faster. So maybe there might just be a downside to rolling around daily in a car like the R8… maybe.
Back at the Audi Forum, I regretfully hand the keys back to one of Audi’s PR staff. Yeah, I’d still drive an R8 in a heartbeat. I now get why an R8 driver might consider hanging out by the Krispy Kremes an extra minute or two until the crowd disburses, and I might even have some sympathy for Paris Hilton, but I’d still rock an R8 any day. Unfortunately for me, tomorrow won’t be that day. Tonight though, I’ve learned the price of fame - $109,000 if you row your own gears through that gated shifter or $118,000 with R-Tronic. All things considered, that’s a bargain really. I bet Paris has paid more than that to her hair stylist alone.
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