I got my license at 15. Restricted, sure. School, work. But lobstering counts as work, right? A trip to McDonald’s to analyze the McLobster? That’s research. I’d eat one right there in front of the cops.
Everyone wanted to drive back then. Universal truth.
Now? The stats say 16-year-olds getting licenses dropped from half to a quarter since 1983. People call that apathy. They’re wrong. At least, wrong about my kids. And plenty of theirs. My house has two teens who go to Cars and Coffee. They play Forza. They tinker.
Rhys is 15. His high school lot isn’t a parking lot, it’s a garage. A lifted Volvo. A caged Miata. An E46 drift setup.
Does he care about cars?
“Yes. And you could prove that by bringing a Lambo to my class.”
So we asked Donald Martin, Rhys’s auto teacher. He said yes. Lamborghini said yes. It was going to be a good day.
The V-12 Entrance
The plan was simple. Operation Awesome Day.
The car? A Lamborghini Revuelto. The price tag? $753,000.
The specs don’t matter as much as the sound, but the numbers are fun anyway. 1,001 horsepower. 814 of them come from a 6.5L V-12 engine. The other 187 come from electric motors. It’s a PHEV. You can drive it in silent mode for a few miles. Perfect for sneaking up on unsuspecting teenagers.
We parked quietly in the garage. EV mode on. No noise.
Mr. Martin showed the hype video in the classroom first. “From Now On.” Good video. Makes you want the thing. Then he opened the door.
That was my cue.
I hit the button. The V-12 barked like a demon opening a door to Hell. Or a Van Halen album cover. The sound bounced off the brick walls of the high school. Kids poured into the hallway. They didn’t walk. They flowed.
Teenage Observation Skills
I thought I’d give a lecture. I’m charismatic, after all.
Then the Revuelto started idling. Charisma doesn’t compete with $753,003 of Italian engineering. I stepped back. Let the room hum.
217 mph top speed. Carbon fiber everywhere. V-12. Any questions?
I barely had time to blink before I was surrounded. And these aren’t just wide eyes. They noticed things I missed in my first drive.
A kid named Greyson looked inside. “Where are the cup holders? How do I drink my matcha at high speeds?”
The answer? They deploy from the dash. Like a Porsche. He was right to ask.
Then there’s William. He saw a tiny drain hole near the gas cap.
“That’s so water doesn’t pool,” I explained. Or, rather, I tried to explain. William had already figured it out. I told him I stole his insight for my article. I keep my promises.
It’s About the Money
After a little more revving—and teaching them how to back out like a Bond villain (Balboni style, obviously)—the adrenaline faded into actual conversation.
Why did people think kids don’t care?
“It’s more about money than interest,” Mr. Martin said. “Average car is $50,000. Financing is hard. Kids get that now.”
He’s right. Cars are expensive. The hobby is expensive. That’s why Rhys learns on my old Subaru, not the Lambo. I have commitments to education, not just ego.
The V-12 screamed again. One last time for the cameras.
The door swings open. Sky above. Shoulder check. This is what dreams look like. They were dreams when I was Rhys’s age. They still are.
So the question isn’t if kids care.
It’s what we’re doing with their wallets.
