The Lamborghini Countach Is Strong Like a Bull, and Likely to Stay That Way

In April of 1987, CBS dedicated a segment on 60 Minutes to the Lamborghini Countach. Broadcaster Morley Safer went to Italy, toured the factory in Sant’Agata Bolognese, and rode shotgun with test driver Valentino Balboni on a high-speed joyride. Even for a man whose lengthy career earned him 12 Emmys, one imagines this must have been the greatest assignment ever bestowed upon him. In the piece, Safer interviews beloved automotive journalist David E. Davis, who adores the Countach for its “outlaw” attitude and “operatic” 12-cylinder engine but also expresses healthy respect for its learning curve:  

“It’s a car that would just frighten you to death if you had the slightest doubt of your ability to drive it. I mean, to suddenly have someone just throw you the keys and say, ‘do you mind driving my car home?’ and walk out into a dark parking lot and see this thing sort of glowering at you, you would call a taxi. You’d do almost anything, bring in an airlift, anything, but you certainly wouldn’t want to jump in and drive it.”

When someone hands me the keys, the car is in a brightly lit garage. Not a dark parking lot. But the Countach does glower, and I am intimidated. And I think something is wrong with the HVAC that day because it is suddenly rather hot.

The Lamborghini in question is a 1985 LP5000 Quattrovalvole (four-valve) model, in European spec, with six downdraft Weber two-barrel carburetors. Gold telephone-dial wheels offset the sinister black paint, and the scissor doors open up to reveal a lovely, inviting tan interior. By 1985, 11 years on from the original “Periscopio” LP400 model of 1974 (so named for the small roof cutout intended to improve rearward visibility), Ferruccio’s Miura replacement had evolved. It was wider, two inches taller, and busier-looking. The massive tires (345-section rears), fat fenders to house them, and optional big wing came in 1978 with the Countach 400S—developments intended to keep the car up with the times, improving handling, stability, and visual menace but at the expense of the original Bertone-designed LP400’s elegance and top speed. 

The LP5000 QV, which was new for 1985, doesn’t just look meaner. Under the single hump in the engine compartment (two humps for U.S.-spec fuel-injected models) is a larger, more powerful version of Lambo’s venerable V-12 than the 355-hp, sidedraft-carbureted 3.9-liter in the first Countach. Behind the driver here sits a unit bored and stroked to 5.2 liters for 449 hp and paired with the same gated five-speed manual transmission. The interior is a touch more premium than in past cars—despite some scattered black plastic—and more spacious than the earliest LP400s thanks to a taller suspension and a higher roof starting in 1981. 

You don’t get into the Countach so much as you fall into it, sliding over the fat door sill until gravity plops you into the deep “banana” bucket. The seat slides forward some and even tilts, but even so, at 5’2”, I have to put a cushion behind me to be able to fully depress the clutch. The center tunnel is enormous, exaggerating the sensation that you’re sitting on the floor of the car. The steering wheel is thin and surprisingly small, almost delicate. The leather on it feels supple. The sheer bulk of the suspension and front wheels impinge on space in the pedal box, such that my feet are crammed into a space that seems no wider than a shoebox. Laid out in front of me is a row of circular gauges against a panel of black plastic and padded brown leather. The speedometer, flanked by smaller oil temp and pressure gauges, shows a 200-mph top speed.

I depress the long-travel clutch, twisting the key that springs the sextet of Webers into action. When the V-12 alights, its bark echoing throughout the large storage garage, my eyes involuntarily widen. As the engine settles into a nice idle, I familiarize myself with the controls. There’s a slight delay between switching the headlights on and, amid an audible whirring of little gears, them popping up.

I place the shift lever into first and raise the clutch pedal to find a super-narrow engagement point (this one has a Kevlar racing unit—a common modification to increase its durability), at which point the Countach desperately wants to GO. Even modest forward motion demands a liberal right foot on the gas. This proves difficult to manage in a warehouse full of other cars, with a single garage door barely wider than the car, which leads to a similarly sized single-car exit ramp. As colleagues direct me and ensure I don’t hit anything, my leg gets tired from manipulating the fairly heavy clutch. It occurs to me, repeatedly, that this car is worth in the neighborhood of $600,000 to $700,000, and it is not mine.

The stress I am experiencing, admittedly, is exactly the scenario that Countach experts tell you to avoid. I know this because I read Aaron Robinson’s magnificent article, The Case for the Countach, back in the summer of 2022. In it he consults with multiple-Countach owner Victor Holtorf, who explains the narrow band of conditions in which this Italian supercar can be properly evaluated. Dodging stop-and-go traffic and parking ramps are essential to that preparation. “It’s like an airplane,” Holtorf explained. “You have to flight plan with a Countach or you’re going to have problems. You can’t just jump in it and go to dinner somewhere you’ve never been before.”

Why is that? Well, aside from the fact that the front end is so low and you’d hate to scrape it without accounting for optimal clearance, it’s easy to wear out the stock clutch and then face a $20,000 bill to drop the engine and replace it. Beyond those particulars, the Countach is a car made specifically for the open road. It produces the bulk of its power and torque at the tippy top of its rev range. Gears are long, such that you can eclipse 60 mph in first. Revving out each gear, you’d hit fifth at about 140. Wide, 225-section front tires and unassisted steering turn low-speed maneuvering into a workout, although everything relaxes into a predictable rhythm once the car climbs in velocity.

My “flight plan” involves exiting the garage, going over several speed bumps to leave the industrial park, negotiating two roundabouts at a highway exit, and driving along a lightly trafficked back road with a handful of long curves and a few miles of smooth pavement. Idle speed is about 5 mph, which is faster than it sounds. I know in advance that this is sub-optimal. I am, nevertheless, not dumb enough to turn down the opportunity to drive a legend when it lands in my lap.

It’s not until I reach open road that my hands begin to relax on the steering wheel. I wouldn’t call it comfortable, but one soon adapts to what Robinson called the Lamborghini’s “goony” ergonomics. As the tach needle climbs, I near the top of first gear at about 6500 rpm. The sound is all-encompassing, musical, not at all brutish or uncouth. The car doesn’t much like fast shifts, so I patiently find second gear, sliding the lever along the grooves of its famous metal gate. It finds home with a feelsome, gorgeous mechanical clack. I manage a few high-speed bends and notice how much lighter and more precise the steering becomes. How the car’s sense of size and heft begin to vanish the faster I go. No longer am I sweating the six-figure price tag, nor even thinking about it. 

Ten minutes into the drive, the sky darkens. Drops of gentle rain bead up on the broad windshield. The single-arm, two-blade wiper, such as it is, manages only a leisurely sweep across the broad expanse of glass in front of me. The rubber blades groan in protest as the arm halts directly in front of my line of sight, pausing for a moment as if in mockery. (Gandini, it turns out, didn’t even include a windshield wiper in the original 1971 LP112 concept design. If it appears as an afterthought, well, it sort of was.) 

And then, traffic. The bumper of a Pontiac Grand Am becomes larger and larger, so I ease into the brakes and come to a gentle lope at 40 mph. I don’t want to brake too hard, as I can see nothing behind me, and the sideview mirrors display approximately 90 percent vent. Stifled once more, the Countach begins to feel fussy. My brief few minutes of fun are over, and it’s back to skittish shepherding. I pilot the Countach back into the industrial park and safely tuck it away into its garage, the ramp climbing and tight turns just as touch-and-go as when I set off. All told, the drive took maybe 40 minutes.

Later, Holtorf points out to me that the proper experience of the Countach is not just about the external conditions, but also the internal. He has nine Countaches in his shop right now. In his eyes, the two most desirable examples are the earliest LP400s, and “Downdraft,” Euro-spec 5000 QVs like the one I drove. “Downdraft ’85 is one of the best Countaches,” he says. “I love them and I also love vintage Lotuses, and both of them have a very narrow band—six inches in a 10-foot span—where the car is sublime. Supermodel in bed good. But outside of that it’s bad.”

The engine has to be properly tuned, the racing-type uniball suspension (with its plastic inserts to ease friction) annually oiled and in good working order. Stock is best, and bad aftermarket setups can harm ride and handling. Pirelli only makes a run of these big P7 tires every seven years or so, and if you miss the boat, pretty soon you run the risk of being stuck with old, hard rubber that doesn’t do the driving experience any favors.

Market prices reflect Holtorf’s assessment of the various Countach iterations. The earliest cars command $1.35M on average, in #2 (“excellent”) condition. That’s the most of all Countaches, and the 1985-and-on QVs are next-most valuable by about half—in the high-$600K range in #2 condition. The original is most prized because of its design purity as well as its light weight and more nimble chassis, but also because it’s the rarest. Lamborghini produced only 151 LP400s between 1974 and 1978, whereas about half of the Countach’s 2000-unit run took place in the final three years of manufacture after Chrysler took over in 1987. The appeal of the Euro-spec Downdraft ‘85 is the extra space afforded by the high body, the more extravagant looks (if that’s your vibe), the more upscale interior, all combined with the divine power and instantaneous throttle response of the carburetors.

“In the history of the Hagerty Price Guide, the fluctuation in values of the Countach has been notable,” says Dave Kinney, publisher of the guide. “They’ve had some dramatic ups and downs, but for the most part, they have found their balance. I see prices for these Lamborghinis on the incline in the next 10 years.”

Early Countaches saw a massive market jump in 2014, with #2 values increasing from the mid-$700,000 range to more than $1.2M before correcting downward in 2018. It’s been a moderate upswing since then, without any long-lasting dips. Later cars have also had periodic gains, losses, and stalls since 2018. Most recently, this year, #2-condition 1985 Downdraft LP5000 QVs are down to $685,000 on average, from their high of $755,000 earlier in 2024. Overall, it is up 30 percent over the last five years, compared with 40 percent for the early LP400s, 37 percent for the LP500S, and 24 percent for the LP400S.

Kinney points out that the Countach essentially saved Lamborghini in the 1970s and ‘80s, amid the well-documented ownership drama over those decades, which cements its importance to the marque. That significance to automotive history and car culture is apparent across demographics, according to Hagerty Director of Valuation Analytics John Wiley:

“Based on Hagerty policy quotes from the past four years, the demographics for the Countach are only slightly different than that of the overall enthusiast vehicle market, with 63 percent of quotes from people born after 1964 (versus an average of 63 percent for the entire market). However, the older the Countach, the younger the potential owner, as the share of quotes from Gen X and younger (born after 1964) trends upwards the older the version.”

Translation: Everyone loves the Countach, and the future looks particularly bright for the earliest examples.

Consider that the segment from 60 Minutes appeared on CBS in 1987. At that point, the Countach had been on the market for 13 years, and with its claimed top speed of 192 mph, it was still the fastest car in the world. This machine, whose core powertrain dated back two decades, was still capable of world-beating performance to go along with outrageous styling that adorned bedroom walls throughout the 1970s, 1980s, and even the 1990s.

I never had a Countach poster on my wall. But as an eight-year-old, I went on a thrill ride with my dad’s friend in his 1974 LP400. It was early in the morning, and I was still in my pajamas. We hit what felt like 100 mph in a blink. The monster noise, the wild vibrations, the sheer absurdity of the thing on public roads next to Mercury Sables and Chrysler Concordes—it did something irrevocable to my little brain. Even my brief drive behind the wheel of a Countach, more than 25 years later and in far from ideal conditions, was an unforgettable cyclone of sensation. The car’s legacy of greatness is earned, despite its narrow window of optimal performance, and all signs rightly point to this Lamborghini remaining an iconic supercar for many decades to come.