The Ferrari Purosangue Is a Horrible Road Trip Car—And That’s Why It Works

Oh, the places you’ll go…. And what better way to spend time on a road trip than listing the oh so many reasons not to drive long distances in Ferrari’s new SUV, the Purosangue? First of all, a ridiculously powerful and hilariously inefficient 6.5-liter V12 engine. And how about the stiff, sporty, complex suspension that foregoes sway bars in the name of a 48-volt electric system and spool valve technology. And just gaze upon the interior design, which lacks any semblance of spaciousness for either passengers or luggage.

In short, everything that allowed Ferrari to somewhat reasonably insist that the Purosangue is assuredly not an SUV makes it a bad SUV for road-tripping. Still, I determined nonetheless that the only way to truly understand the Purosangue was to do just that, so when Ferrari acquiesced—cheerfully, I might add—the girlfriend and I packed up and promptly put 700 miles on this not-an-SUV. And as patently ridiculous, uncomfortable, and unnecessary as the trip sounds, by the end, I found a special place in my heart for this particular prancing pony.

Packing Up a Purosangue

The interior space, or lack thereof, probably makes for the Purosangue’s most limiting factor. We only crammed in enough luggage to last two people three days, so not exactly asking a ton of any normal SUV. Yet the tiny trunk, which sits above the rear-mounted, eight-speed “transaxle” gearbox and features the build plaque, can barely hold two rollers and a couple of backpacks below the minuscule security screen. And that’s not mentioning a little carpeted spacer that comes in handy while folding the second row captain’s chairs down as flat as they’ll go, which otherwise needs to fit somewhere too, as we discovered.

Captain’s chairs still up, at least the recessed seat wells can snug items into place, as we also discovered—but more on that later. Still, a series of other decisions, each of which would render any other SUV from any other automaker an abject failure, began to crop up quickly. No center screen to load navigation, for example. And climate controls that bedevil even a passenger with no other responsibilities. Both cued more than a few streams of four-letter words flying about repeatedly. But a Ferrari is a Ferrari, I suppose. Just pack lightly and hit the road.

Namely, up the coastal route from Los Angeles to Monterey, CA, with a quick pit stop in Santa Barbara on the way. But first, the world’s most challenging test of shock damper technology: Not a racetrack, no, just the 405 freeway north over the Sepulveda Pass from West LA to the San Fernando Valley.

On a racetrack, I’d bet good money that the Purosangue reigns supreme as the fastest super SUV on the market. The V12 engine, after all, pumps a screaming 715 horsepower and 528 lb-ft of torque through an innovative all-wheel-drive system that includes the incredible eight-speed DCT between the rear wheels and a nifty two-speed power unit ahead of the engine between the front wheels. Hardcore steering, tires wider than wide, lowslung everything—a supercar, just lifted.

In reality, the Purosangue winds up as more of a GTC4 Lusso hatch, but lifted. The 4RM-S drivetrain essentially transferred right over, all the way to the gearbox hanging off the front of the engine. Not quite a differential, not quite a transaxle, this power unit features two gear ratios spinning up two clutches to divide torque between the front wheels. Above fifth gear, though, both clutches entirely disconnect and the Purosangue effectively switches to rear-wheel drive only.

Related: I Drive Supercars for a Living, and the New ’Roided-Up Mustang GTD 'Race Car' Left Me Completely Confused

Suspension as the Star of the Show

For real car nerds, the Purosangue’s suspension stands out as something slightly more novel, at least for application in a not-an-SUV. Ferrari partnered with Multimatic, of WEC Hypercar and Chevrolet ZR2 and Ford Mustang GTD fame, to develop a set of nifty roll control shock dampers. The 48-volt electric motor receives signals from the ECU as it calculates exactly how much pressure the True Active Spool Valve system needs to maintain traction and minimize body roll, which allowed Ferrari to then delete the sway bars. 

The result definitely rides as firm and flat as a supercar, just higher off the ground. On the 405 freeway’s ceaseless concrete washboards, the Multimatic suspension transmits every single jiggle, bounce, and prang directly into the sub-cockles of any poor soul riding therein. After chewing a couple fillings loose and combating the specter of looming back spasms, I switched the “Manettino” dial on the steering wheel to Sport, hoping to let the ground handle some damping force rather than relying on the Multimatics so much. Counter to my frequently counterintuitive hopes, the suffering continued.

Luckily, then we hit a solid traffic jam headed west on the 101 through Calabasas and Woodland Hills. Shoulda known. And here, even as the choppy ride quality improved, the eight-speed DCT struggled with stop-and-go, shuddering at low speeds between first, second, and third gear. Or was it the front clutches engaging and slipping? Again, I tried to outsmart the computer (and its Italian software) by switching into full manual mode via the little metal slider on the center console. Voilà! This time, my theories proved more reliable. By winding up the V12 in a selected (rear-axle) gear, the powertrain stayed in a happier, smoother rev range. 

As bonus points, the V12 sure sounded great—even if the already deplorable fuel economy then started to plummet precipitously. Worth it, though, for a bit of respite until the 101 cleared up further northwest near Carpinteria. Here, on velvety tarmac and ripping through perfectly spaced traffic in calm yet controlled overtakes, the Purosangue flourished. Such precise steering, with exactly the expected weight and response, begs the question: Why on Earth can’t other automakers figure out electrically assisted power steering? Especially when Ferrari needed to work with a strange front transaxle AWD thingy and the active Multimatic damper tech, which should only have made the job harder.

Somewhat ironically, we showed up to Santa Barbara in the Purosangue to drive my No. 1 fave super SUV, the Aston Martin DBX, now in a new S variant. Aston wants to sell as many SUVs as possible, relying on that newfound cornerstone of the supercar industry as pioneered by the Lamborghini Urus. To do so, the Brits designed more of a true SUV with an almost minivan sized interior and a breadth of capability so much wider than the Ferrari.

Unlike, please note, Ferrari. Which by way of contrast promised that Purosangue production will never exceed 20 percent of total annual output, to maintain exclusivity and a focus on “true” supercars. Doing the math, that means probably somewhere between 2,500 to 3,000 not-an-SUVs streaming out of Maranello per year. And true to form, I’ve seen only a handful of privately owned Purosangues in Los Angeles over the past year or so. (One did repeated hard pulls past a restaurant as I ate on Rodeo Drive a few months back, to the surprise of absolutely nobody.)

Road-Tripping up to Monterey

I finished up the hard task of testing the DBX S by late afternoon the following day, and we set back out for the more realistic road trip portion of the trip—a quick blast up to Monterey, keeping an eye out for CHP, struggling as I headed off the temptation to drive at Ferrari owner pace. After all, why shouldn’t I just gobble up miles at triple-digit speeds? I’m a member of a specific subset of the population, special even for these erstwhile few days. Unfortunately, I struggled to pull up Waze on the gauge cluster to warn of police ahead. In fact, the entire gauge cluster and infotainment system emerged as an even darker nightmare than the previous day’s couple of hours initially hinted.

It wound up being easiest for the girlfriend to pull up CarPlay on her passenger dash screen. Yet that screen, for safety reasons, features exactly dark enough polarization that the driver cannot see the display, but rather only a series of finger smudges on a black screen. So I succumbed to the only option of letting her play rally co-driver as I focused on the hard task of staying sane and legal—not in her element nor in mine, to say the least. Adaptive cruise for the win.

Meanwhile, away from the coast, ambient temps started to rise. And rise. So the joys of Ferrari’s climate controls once more came to the fore. The main controls make, to put things lightly, absolutely no fucking sense (even less than turning CarPlay into a gauge screen controlled by unlabeled swipe-sensitive haptic pads on the steering wheel). The center knob that controls the climate system retracts into the dash automatically, then pops out to spin clockwise or counter-clockwise. Another haptic screen on the front displays what, exactly, spinning clockwise or counter actually does. But the whole thing is so delayed, that by the time I selected the actual controls for lowering or raising the air temperature, the knob often retracted again at that very moment.

Then, when I tried to change the fan speed, the laggy response to any adjustments took even longer. Which required starting the whole process over—and which I needed to do repeatedly, because the Purosangue also loves to randomly default to “Auto” mode for climate control, which 100 percent of the time chooses a random temperature and then turns the fan to full blast. And full blast gets so loud the surprisingly tinny audio system struggles to drown out the rush of wind. 

Hey, at least we could still adjust the vents themselves manually—looking at you, Rivian and Tesla, and the new Porsche Cayenne EV, all sinners in the face of touchscreen distraction safety. You should know better. The best way to manage my growing frustration and body temperatures? Of course, keeping the ventilated seats blasting. But even they kept turning off randomly, and along with the massaging function, can only be controlled in the passenger screen. Brilliant!

Ferrari knows all this, by the way. And already revealed plans to revive real, you know, buttons, on the same steering wheel. Physical controls, what a blessing! Now how’s about a real center touchscreen, instead of sticking with a bad decision? Please? The Roma two-door’s will do nicely, thank you very much.

Monterey Not in Car Week

We arrived in Monterey just before sunset. Well, Carmel Valley, being precise. Even at the Bernardus Lodge and Spa, which keeps a fleet of Maybach for guests to just borrow—and where the valets regularly park Bugattis—the Purosangue drew plenty of awed attention. Most people simply have never seen one, and I repeatedly fielded the semi-starstruck question, “What is that?”

That night, we ripped out to Carmel-by-the-Sea for dinner, where I spent the evening terrified of curbing a 22-inch wheel in the darkly lit neighborhood streets. More importantly, I desperately needed to fill up on gas—the moment of truth. We really hadn’t driven too terribly far by now, but I started recalling the previous year when I almost completely drained a Lamborghini Revuelto on the same drive, relying on full-electric hybrid power to find a gas station as the EV range dropped precipitously down to just the two-mile mark. The Purosangue, though, holds a whopping 26.4 gallons of high-test, and I added 25.099 gallons that night. Push it to the limit.

The next day, sunny in shockingly atypical Monterey fashion, we went out exploring. A hike near the cliffs, parked next to the Subarus and Mazdas of the crunchy local crowd, plus a series of humdrum rental cars no doubt driven by international tourists who flew into SFO or San Jose to visit the spectacular Central California coastline. A Ferrari in blood red, also definitely out of its element the month after Car Week, to say the least.

I got at least a few moments on some of Monterey’s nicer roads to open up that V12, blessedly escaping far away from the maddening crowds. The suspicion that Monterey might somehow be less crowded outside of Car Week evaporated—guess again!—or maybe everybody just still loves chasing Ferraris around.

Road-Tripping With My Two Favorite Allies

At a roadside pumpkin patch set up for season’s greetings, we picked up an iced espresso and a matcha latte. And a couple of pumpkins, of course, your typical orange “Warty Goblin” and an unusual brain cell-colored Halloween special dubbed the “Jarrahdale” (straight out of Australia, obviously). We nicknamed the duo Blobbler and Jerry, but started to worry that our new friends might roll around too much in the trunk next to the build plaque. Meanwhile, a couple of old white guys walked by talking about the Purosangue, maybe a next buy, on the way to climbing into a brand-new Cayenne, as we leaned in through the electrically operated suicide doors to strap Blobbler and Jerry safely into the rear captain’s chairs. Captain Jack-O’-Lantern, if you will.

More irony: I borrowed a Maybach GLS 600 to save some fuel for the Purosangue. Try to imagine two more radically opposed SUVs. Maybach essentially takes Mercedes-Benz’s three-row and swaps in captain’s chairs—OK, similar—but doing so creates so much more space. The girlfriend described the Maybach’s seat as being hugged. And the suspension, absolute walking on clouds. Steering light and vague, a chauffeur special doing a fairly solid Rolls-Royce imitation. Almost, but not quite there.

The time eventually came to bid arrivederci to Monterey and Carmel and pack up the Purosangue for the ride home. This time, I planned an all-day blast with as few stops as possible. After, of course, a quick rip on the lovely road headed east from Carmel Valley toward the 101 South, pumpkins snugged into place tightly lest the Purosangue and Multimatics struggle with some bumps and dips on the rutted and gritty asphalt.

Again in Sport via the Manettino, the damper tech imparted just enough stiffness into the ground to stay planted and allow me to unleash the V12 well up toward the 8,000-rpm redline. But I still wished that Ferrari allowed me to finetune some kind of an individual mode, where the engine, exhaust, and DCT tuning goes as aggressive as possible, but the suspension stayed softer for these slightly less than ideal road surfaces. Trust us, Ferrari seems to say. But I bet nobody at Maranello ever gave a moment’s thought to Blobbler and Jerry in the backseat.

Back onto the eternal stretches of the 101, after a lymphatic drainage massage the day before, driver and co-driver both needed a quick bathroom stop at the soonest rest area just north of Paso Robles. Here, we met the most serious collection of OWGs yet: a Corvette Club, chock-full of white New Balances and crisp jorts, entirely uncertain of what exactly they’re looking at. Yeah, it’s a Ferrari. No, it’s not electric. Actually a naturally aspirated V12 engine. Yes, naturally aspirated.

I gave the crowd a few revs in neutral, then a bit of launch control pulling away just for fun. The girlfriend only got a little mad in the passenger seat—no complaints from our friends in the back—but hey, you gotta give the old guys something to dream about in their 'vettes. Which legitimately might ride smoother than the Purosangue at highway speeds. God bless MagneRide.

The next few hours of smooth sailing flew by, metaphorically speaking. A few minutes of rain coming over the San Marcos pass showed where all-wheel-drive confidence comes into play while driving a half-million-dollar Ferrari in the wet. And as a bonus, the carbon fiber recessed wheel arches then started looking more functionally awesome.

Back through Ventura, our luck started to run out. Three major crashes between the coast and home turned what should have been an hour drive into double time. Using adaptive cruise, this time around the system kept beeping and turning off, which meant no texting while driving but also no checking maps other than in the passenger screen. Oh well. I turned back to the eternal challenge of whether the computer manages better fuel economy than my right foot. Hoovering through this second tank of gas, I thought we might even need to fill up again before getting home.

Falling in Love with Ferrari’s Fuzzy Math

Then the lanes opened up and the last miles actually added range to the Purosangue’s onboard estimate. But at the end of the trip, doing admittedly fuzzy math based on fill ups and total miles traveled, I double-checked the car. Despite mostly cruising at 80 miles an hour, battling a few traffic jams, and hammering through more than a couple extravagant full-throttle launches, the Purosangue managed 14.3 mpg steady. That’s right in the EPA’s window of 11 mpg city and 15 mpg highway, but still not exactly great on expensive 91 octane purchased in Monterey and Santa Monica.

That math presumably matters much less to a prospective Ferrari owner than the number of heads turned, the OWG vultures circling, valets taught to kowtow doing the kowtowing, and of course, the pumpkins from late-September pumpkin patches to haul the family to without risking the SF90 getting filthy.

But here’s the problem. As much as my own proclivities lean to filthy 1990s Mitsubishi trucks, and as frustrated as the Purosangue’s many inanities made me over the course of 700 miles on the road, I still must own up to the fact that I felt that Ferrari spirit welling up within me. The world just treats Ferrari owners differently. Not necessarily always deferentially, but definitely differently.

“Only the finest, or go without,” as Hugo Weaving’s diabolical father in Patrick Melrose should have said slightly more poetically. Not quite my words to live by, since anyone who knows me knows my definition of “finest” is simply a fully sorted Gen 2.5 Montero. But after 700 miles of living with a Purosangue worth the better part of a million bucks, or around 65 times more than a minty Montero, I can maybe, just maybe, allow that Ferrari might just be onto something fantastic with this unnecessarily idiosyncratic, yet undeniably spectacular, kind of a not-an-SUV.