Category Archives: Hunter S Thompson on Cars & Bikes

Have No Small Wrecks – Hunter S Thompson’s Rules for Driving Fast

Quoted from Kingdom of Fear:

Speedism can be Fatal when mixed with high-speed automobiles & whiskey. It is wrong & I condemn it, but some dingbats will do it anyway…. And not All will survive, but so what?

For the others, the Living, here are some basic rules.

No 1 – Make sure yr. Car is Functioning on all Mechanical & Electrical levels. Do not go out on any road to drive Fast unless all yr. Exterior lights are working perfectly.

There is only failure & jail very soon for anybody who tries to drive fast with a one headlight or a broken taillight. This is automatic, unarguable Probable Cause for a cop to pull you over and check everything in yr. car. You do not want to give them Probable Cause. Check yr. lights, gas gauge, & tire pressure before you drive Anywhere.

No 2 – Get familiar with Brake pressures on yr. machine before you drive any faster than 10 mph. A brake drum that locks up the instant you touch the pedal will throw you sideways off the road & put you into a fatal eggbeater, which means you will Go To Trial if it happens. Be very aware of yr. brakes.

No 3 – Have no small wrecks. If you are going to loop out & hit something, hit it hard. Never mind that old-school Physics bullshit about the Irresistible Force & the Immovable Object. The main rule of the Highway is that some Objects are more Movable than Others. This occurs, for instance, when a speeding car goes straight through a plywood billboard, but not when one goes through a concrete wall. In most cases, the car going fastest sustains less damage than the slower-moving vehicle.

A Small Wreck is almost always both Costly and Embarrassing. I talked to a man tonight who said he had been demoted from Head waiter to Salad Boy when he had a small wreck in the restaurant parking lot and lost all respect from his fellow workers. “They laughed at me & called me an Ass”, he said. “I should have hit the fucker at seventy-five, instead of just five,” he whined. “It cost me $6800 anyway. I would have been maitre d’ by now if I’d screwed it on and just Mashed the bastard. These turds have made me an outcast.”

No. 4 – (This is one of the more Advanced rules, but lets pop it in here while we have the space.) Avoid, at all costs, the use of Any drug or drink or Hubris or even Boredom that might cause you to Steal a car and crash it into a concrete wall just to get the Rush of the airbags exploding on you. This new fad among rich teenagers in L.A. is an extremely Advanced Technique that only pure Amateurs should try, and it should never be done Twice. Take my word for it.

No 5 – The eating schedule should be as follows: Hot fresh spinach, Wellfleet oysters, and thick slabs of Sourdough garlic toast with salt & black pepper. Eat this two hours before departure, in quantities as needed. The drink should be Grolsch green beer, a dry oaken-flavored white wine & a tall glass of ice cubes & Royal Salute scotch whiskey, for the supercharge factor.

Strong black coffee should also be sipped while eating, with dark chocolate cake soaked in Grand Mariner for dessert. The smoking of oily hashish is optional, and in truth Not Recommended for use before driving at speeds up to 150 mph in residential districts. The smoking of powerful hashish should be saved until after yr. return from the drive, when the nerve ends are crazy and raw.

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A closer look at the Lamborghini LM002

The Facts:

  • 301 LM002s were built between 1986 and 1992
  • It was the first 4×4 from Lamborghini
  • It used the 7.2 litre, V12 engine from the Countach
  • In order to meet the vehicle’s tire needs, Lamborghini commissioned Pirelli to create the Pirelli Scorpion tires with custom, run-flat tread designs. These were made specifically for the LM and were offered in two different tread designs, one for mixed use and the other for sand use only.
  • These tires could be run virtually flat without risk and could handle the desert heat, the loading, and the speeds of the LM.
  • The LM002 was fitted with a 290-litre fuel tank
  • On 18 July 2004, at a US military base near Baqubah, members of the American military used an LM002 that had belonged to Uday Hussein to simulate the effects of a car bomb. They didn’t know what the car was, or how rare it was, and destroyed it.

In 2009, Pistonheads wrote:

“Less than half a dozen LM002s are thought to be left in the UK. Chassis number 300 came up for sale in April this year: with 27,000 miles on the clock it was a fiver under £50k. If you find one for sale, check the roof.

If it’s got an opening flap over the back seats it might be one of the 100 LM002s President Gaddafi ordered for the Libyan army, complete with machine-gun mounting points. And if you buy any LM002, don’t expect to get much joy out of Kwik-Fit when you need a new tyre.”

And we’d be willing to be that in 2016 that same vehicle would reach £100,000 at auction. Hey ho.

The LM002 had various famous owners, including prolific writer Hunter S Thompson:

“It was a big bore Lamborghini hot rod, a monstrous thing that weighed 5000 pounds with bulletproof glass and twelve cylinders with a top speed of 125 miles per hour and a .50 caliber machine-gun mount behind the drivers seat… One night on the Big Sur Highway I beat a Porsche 928 from the Carmel Bridge to Nepenthe by nine minutes, mainly because I beat her like a cheap hound on the curves. It was a small woman driving the 928 and she went all to pieces when I passed her at 110 on the Bixby Creek Bridge and then squeezed her into the sand dunes…”

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H.S.T reviews the Ducati 900SS

As car/bike reviews go, they don’t get much better than this:

Song of the Sausage Creature

by Hunter S. Thompson


There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc cafe racer is one of them – but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one. That is why they are dangerous.

Everybody has fast motorcycles these days. Some people go 150 miles an hour on two-lane blacktop roads, but not often. There are too many oncoming trucks and too many radar cops and too many stupid animals in the way. You have to be a little crazy to ride these super-torque high-speed crotch rockets anywhere except a racetrack – and even there, they will scare the whimpering shit out of you… There is, after all, not a pig’s eye worth of difference between going head-on into a Peterbilt or sideways into the bleachers. On some days you get what you want, and on others, you get what you need.

When Cycle World called me to ask if I would road-test the new Harley Road King, I got uppity and said I’d rather have a Ducati superbike. It seemed like a chic decision at the time, and my friends on the superbike circuit got very excited. “Hot damn,” they said. “We will take it to the track and blow the bastards away.”

“Balls,” I said. “Never mind the track. The track is for punks. We are Road People. We are Cafe Racers.”

The Cafe Racer is a different breed, and we have our own situations. Pure speed in sixth gear on a 5000-foot straightaway is one thing, but pure speed in third gear on a gravel-strewn downhill ess-turn is quite another.

But we like it. A thoroughbred Cafe Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.

Cafe Racing is mainly a matter of taste. It is an atavistic mentality, a peculiar mix of low style, high speed, pure dumbness, and overweening commitment to the Cafe Life and all its dangerous pleasures… I am a Cafe Racer myself, on some days – and it is one of my finest addictions.

I am not without scars on my brain and my body, but I can live with them. I still feel a shudder in my spine every time I see a picture of a Vincent Black Shadow, or when I walk into a public restroom and hear crippled men whispering about the terrifying Kawasaki Triple… I have visions of compound femur-fractures and large black men in white hospital suits holding me down on a gurney while a nurse called “Bess” sews the flaps of my scalp together with a stitching drill.

Ho, ho. Thank God for these flashbacks. The brain is such a wonderful instrument (until God sinks his teeth into it). Some people hear Tiny Tim singing when they go under, and some others hear the song of the Sausage Creature.

When the Ducati turned up in my driveway, nobody knew what to do with it. I was in New York, covering a polo tournament, and people had threatened my life. My lawyer said I should give myself up and enroll in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Other people said it had something to do with the polo crowd.

The motorcycle business was the last straw. It had to be the work of my enemies, or people who wanted to hurt me. It was the vilest kind of bait, and they knew I would go for it.

Of course. You want to cripple the bastard? Send him a 130-mph cafe-racer. And include some license plates, he’ll think it’s a streetbike. He’s queer for anything fast.

Which is true. I have been a connoisseur of fast motorcycles all my life. I bought a brand-new 650 BSA Lightning when it was billed as “the fastest motorcycle ever tested by Hot Rod magazine.” I have ridden a 500-pound Vincent through traffic on the Ventura Freeway with burning oil on my legs and run the Kawa 750 Triple through Beverly Hills at night with a head full of acid… I have ridden with Sonny Barger and smoked weed in biker bars with Jack Nicholson, Grace Slick, Ron Zigler and my infamous old friend, Ken Kesey, a legendary Cafe Racer.

Some people will tell you that slow is good – and it may be, on some days – but I am here to tell you that fast is better. I’ve always believed this, in spite of the trouble it’s caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba….

So when I got back from New York and found a fiery red rocket-style bike in my garage, I realized I was back in the road-testing business.

The brand-new Ducati 900 Campione del Mundo Desmodue Supersport double-barreled magnum Cafe Racer filled me with feelings of lust every time I looked at it. Others felt the same way. My garage quickly became a magnet for drooling superbike groupies. They quarreled and bitched at each other about who would be the first to help me evaluate my new toy… And I did, of course, need a certain spectrum of opinions, besides my own, to properly judge this motorcycle. The Woody Creek Perverse Environmental Testing Facility is a long way from Daytona or even top-fuel challenge-sprints on the Pacific Coast Highway, where teams of big-bore Kawasakis and Yamahas are said to race head-on against each other in death-defying games of “chicken” at 100 miles an hour….

No. Not everybody who buys a high-dollar torque-brute yearns to go out in a ball of fire on a public street in L.A. Some of us are decent people who want to stay out of the emergency room, but still blast through neo-gridlock traffic in residential districts whenever we feel like it… For that we need Fine Machinery.

Which we had – no doubt about that. The Ducati people in New Jersey had opted, for some reasons of their own, to send me the 900ss-sp for testing – rather than their 916 crazy-fast, state-of-the-art superbike track-racer. It was far too fast, they said – and prohibitively expensive – to farm out for testing to a gang of half-mad Colorado cowboys who think they’re world-class Cafe Racers.

The Ducati 900 is a finely engineered machine. My neighbors called it beautiful and admired its racing lines. The nasty little bugger looked like it was going 90 miles an hour when it was standing still in my garage.

Taking it on the road, though, was a genuinely terrifying experience. I had no sense of speed until I was going 90 and coming up fast on a bunch of pickup trucks going into a wet curve along the river. I went for both brakes, but only the front one worked, and I almost went end over end. I was out of control staring at the tailpipe of a U.S. Mail truck, still stabbing frantically at my rear brake pedal, which I just couldn’t find… I am too tall for these new-age roadracers; they are not built for any rider taller than five-nine, and the rearset brake pedal was not where I thought it would be. Mid-size Italian pimps who like to race from one cafe to another on the boulevards of Rome in a flat-line prone position might like this, but I do not.

I was hunched over the tank like a person diving into a pool that got emptied yesterday. Whacko! Bashed on the concrete bottom, flesh ripped off, a Sausage Creature with no teeth, fucked-up for the rest of its life.

We all love Torque, and some of us have taken it straight over the high side from time to time – and there is always Pain in that… But there is also Fun, the deadly element, and Fun is what you get when you screw this monster on. BOOM! Instant take-off, no screeching or squawking around like a fool with your teeth clamping down on our tongue and your mind completely empty of everything but fear.

No. This bugger digs right in and shoots you straight down the pipe, for good or ill.

On my first take-off, I hit second gear and went through the speed limit on a two-lane blacktop highway full of ranch traffic. By the time I went up to third, I was going 75 and the tach was barely above 4000 rpm….

And that’s when it got its second wind. From 4000 to 6000 in third will take you from 75 mph to 95 in two seconds – and after that, Bubba, you still have fourth, fifth, and sixth. Ho, ho.

I never got to sixth gear, and I didn’t get deep into fifth. This is a shameful admission for a full-bore Cafe Racer, but let me tell you something, old sport: This motorcycle is simply too goddamn fast to ride at speed in any kind of normal road traffic unless you’re ready to go straight down the centerline with your nuts on fire and a silent scream in your throat.

When aimed in the right direction at high speed, though, it has unnatural capabilities. This I unwittingly discovered as I made my approach to a sharp turn across some railroad tracks, saw that I was going way too fast and that my only chance was to veer right and screw it on totally, in a desperate attempt to leapfrog the curve by going airborne.

It was a bold and reckless move, but it was necessary. And it worked: I felt like Evel Knievel as I soared across the tracks with the rain in my eyes and my jaws clamped together in fear. I tried to spit down on the tracks as I passed them, but my mouth was too dry… I landed hard on the edge of the road and lost my grip for a moment as the Ducati began fishtailing crazily into oncoming traffic. For two or three seconds I came face to face with the Sausage Creature….

But somehow the brute straightened out. I passed a schoolbus on the right and got the bike under control long enough to gear down and pull off into an abandoned gravel driveway where I stopped and turned off the engine. My hands had seized up like claws and the rest of my body was numb. I felt nauseous and I cried for my mama, but nobody heard, then I went into a trance for 30 or 40 seconds until I was finally able to light a cigarette and calm down enough to ride home. I was too hysterical to shift gears, so I went the whole way in first at 40 miles an hour.

Whoops! What am I saying? Tall stories, ho, ho… We are motorcycle people; we walk tall and we laugh at whatever’s funny. We shit on the chests of the Weird….

But when we ride very fast motorcycles, we ride with immaculate sanity. We might abuse a substance here and there, but only when it’s right. The final measure of any rider’s skill is the inverse ratio of his preferred Traveling Speed to the number of bad scars on his body. It is that simple: If you ride fast and crash, you are a bad rider. And if you are a bad rider, you should not ride motorcycles.

The emergence of the superbike has heightened this equation drastically. Motorcycle technology has made such a great leap forward. Take the Ducati. You want optimum cruising speed on this bugger? Try 90mph in fifth at 5500 rpm – and just then, you see a bull moose in the middle of the road. WHACKO. Meet the Sausage Creature.

Or maybe not: The Ducati 900 is so finely engineered and balanced and torqued that you *can* do 90 mph in fifth through a 35-mph zone and get away with it. The bike is not just fast – it is *extremely* quick and responsive, and it *will* do amazing things… It is like riding a Vincent Black Shadow, which would outrun an F-86 jet fighter on the take-off runway, but at the end, the F-86 would go airborne and the Vincent would not, and there was no point in trying to turn it. WHAMO! The Sausage Creature strikes again.

There is a fundamental difference, however, between the old Vincents and the new breed of superbikes. If you rode the Black Shadow at top speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die. That is why there are not many life members of the Vincent Black Shadow Society. The Vincent was like a bullet that went straight; the Ducati is like the magic bullet in Dallas that went sideways and hit JFK and the Governor of Texas at the same time.

It was impossible. But so was my terrifying sideways leap across the railroad tracks on the 900sp. The bike did it easily with the grace of a fleeing tomcat. The landing was so easy I remember thinking, goddamnit, if I had screwed it on a little more I could have gone a lot farther.

Maybe this is the new Cafe Racer macho. My bike is so much faster than yours that I dare you to ride it, you lame little turd. Do you have the balls to ride this BOTTOMLESS PIT OF TORQUE?

That is the attitude of the new-age superbike freak, and I am one of them. On some days they are about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. The Vincent just killed you a lot faster than a superbike will. A fool couldn’t ride the Vincent Black Shadow more than once, but a fool can ride a Ducati 900 many times, and it will always be a bloodcurdling kind of fun. That is the Curse of Speed which has plagued me all my life. I am a slave to it. On my tombstone they will carve, “IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME.”

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Hunting for Hunter’s Lamborghini

Hunter S Thompson was a prolific writer, who’s writing changed the face of journalism and has a huge following around the world. As well as being a writer, Hunter was a ‘car guy’. Much of his work hints at his adventures (or misadventures) with two and four wheels, using vehicles of all shapes and sizes.

In the book Songs of the Doomed Hunter describes his experiences with the mighty Lamborghini LM002 4×4 supercar engined jeep. Our question is…

Did Hunter S Thompson own a Lamborghini LM002?

According to those that knew him, he was never flush with cash. Although he’d made money early in his writing career, by the late 1970s he was fading out of focus. The ‘Rumble in the Jungle Incident’ (being drunk in the hotel pool instead of actually reporting on the most significant boxing match of all time) of 1974 was the beginning of a strange and gradual decline…. So did he have the money to invest in a six-figure rare and exotic car?

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Where is Hunter S Thompson’s Lamborghini LM002 now?

Although much of his work has become widely read after his death, based on the blurred line between fact and fiction in much of Hunter S Thompson’s writing; it could be said that HST never owned an LM002. Despite being a well paid journalist and respected freelance writer, HST wasn’t the kind of person to have $100,000 at his disposal to lavish on outrageous purchases (If anyone can clarify or correct us on this point we’d love to hear from you).

Would he have spent it all on Heineken and ammunition before getting the chance to park an LM002 outside Owl Farm?

Cars like the Lamborghini LM002 don’t disappear, and they’re not cheap in 2014 (when this blog was first written). A recent auction of an LM002 is expected to make around $250,000, and the vehicles will only be appreciating. Edit.. It’s now 2020 and this blog is 6 years old, this one did $467,000 in 2017, this one did £157,000 in July 2020 and this one is currently for sale.

Being a rare vehicle, the chances are that someone knows what happened to Hunter’s Lamborghini, and knowing that the great HST himself had been listed on the vehicle registration document would be sure to cause a stir if the car turned up at auction. Perhaps Johnny Depp, or John Cusack, or Bill Murray have it squirrelled away in a lock up in California…?

We would love to think that Hunter S Thompson’s Lamborghini will turn up one day, a car will head to auction with Raul Duke listed as a previous owner… but until then, we can only wonder.

If you can share any knowledge on the whereabouts of Hunter’s Lamborghini, or whether he even owned the vehicle, then do get in touch – we’d love to find out more.

Here’s what Hunter S Thompson had to say about the Lamborghini LM002:

The big weird jeep was still there, lurking peacefully under the trees and almost invisible in the mist and the hanging Spanish moss… It was huge, but it had no colour. It came from the factory with no paint – only a dull stainless steel finish that soon faded to a filthy shade of yellow and millions of tiny reddish pits all over the hood and doors and even the Panzer-style undercarriage.

“Theses holes are not rust,” the pompous little factory rep assured me. “What you see here is priceless chemical development that was applied to the vehicle after fifty-five years of careful research at our secret Colour Lab in the Milanese Alps.. So you must be patient” he warned. “This process takes time. It involves the slow liberation of the Astro-Bacteria, which is frequently lethal to laymen. And which did, in fact, end the life of the tragic genius who first invented it, a man named Squane from Austria”.

Well, maybe so, I figured. It was ugly and pitted all over with millions of festering poison pits, which boiled and bubbled constantly and infected all who touched it…But it was a full-bore Lamborghini hot rod, a monstrous thing that weighed 5000 pounds with bulletproof glass and twelve cylinders with a top speed of 125 miles per hour and a .50 caliber machine-gun mount behind the drivers seat… One night on the Big Sur Highway I beat a Porsche 928 from the Carmel Bridge to Nepenthe by nine minutes, mainly because I beat her like a cheap hound on the curves. It was a small woman driving the 928 and she went all to pieces when I passed her at 110 on the Bixby Creek Bridge and then squeezed her into the sand dunes…

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Why not? It happened to me once – in Sacramento, when some Japs in a brute Lamborghini ran me down The Parkway like I was standing still, then bashed me repeatedly at top speed until I finally lost control… It was one of the ugliest moments of my life and I’ll never forget it. Those tattooed swine! I should have had them locked up, but I was helpless. After that, I got one of my own, for $150,000

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It was still early and we still had an hour to kill, so I drove around for a while and listened to Bob Dylan songs while I took the big Lambo through Cherokee Park at speeds that caused Andrew to lose his grip again. He wept and jabbered and cursed me as I aimed the huge tank of a jeep down narrow roads full of S-curves at a hundred miles an hour without even touching the brakes…

– Hunter S Thompson, Songs of the Doomed

Do you know any more about Hunter S Thompson’s alleged ownership of an LM002? Contact u.