Twenty Four Hours in a Ferrari, Brentwood Magazine, March/April 2004
Twenty four hours. That's all I had with the Ferrari 360 Spider.
It's amazing how a sliver of time with a legendarily audacious car can spur one into action: appointments are cancelled, driving routes planned, friends phoned, and good weather (even in perennially sunny Los Angeles) prayed for. Regardless of how automotively jaded I consider myself, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of driving this particular prancing horse. Top down and delicious V8 buzzing anxiously behind my seat, it occurs to me that this could be a new textbook definition of potential energy. Before I've exited the driveway, my overactive imagination is already racing and my right foot itching to explore forward motion in this outrageously sculpted speed machine.
So, with a clunk of the famous gated Ferrari shifter, I transform potential energy into kinetic, and ease the $176,000 attention monger off the lot.
Getting acquainted with the razor sharp driving responses of the Ferrari requires a quick learning curve. If you're one of the patient buyers who have waited the requisite 36 months for a new Ferrari 360 Spider, there's a 70% chance you'll be driving with Formula 1-style paddle shifters. For those who have never driven with a high performance paddle shifter, there are a few counterintuitive distinctions. Most notably, while the driver is responsible for shifting with paddles mounted behind the steering wheel, a computer takes the initiative to engage and release the clutch. With that in mind, a delicately punctuated, well-timed release of the throttle before a shift creates a smoother and quicker transfer of power under hard acceleration, enabling a more harmonious rapport between engine and transmission. On the other hand, second-guessing the computer-controlled clutch will result in hiccupping, hesitation-plagued lurches, and general embarrassment. My test car, which happened to be equipped with a rare six-speed manual transmission, required a more conventional knowledge of gas, clutch, and shifter.
Regardless of transmission choice, there is nothing like driving a Ferrari: the feather-light gas pedal, the instantaneous connection between steering input and the car's directional movement, and that sound... that gorgeous, throaty, insistent roar that- I imagine- is loud and lovely in just the same way a newborn's first cries are described by its parents. This, perhaps more than any other machine, sounds like life. The other senses have a lot to take in, as well; a cleanly designed, aluminum trimmed interior that is a foil to the lavish exterior, the aroma of Connolly leather, and a low-to-the-ground fighter jet-like position on the road that brings the ground rushing around the car, adding even more perceived speed to its land-vaulting capabilities.
As I move smoothly through the city in search of adventure, the next agenda seems to be a certain sociological adjustment. It takes something extraordinary to turn heads in Los Angeles, and director Spike Jonze's music video "California" explicates this peculiar psychology quite well. In the video, an Angeleno engulfed in flames runs to catch a bus, and no one notices. So, as I sail through Hollywood, I start making mental notes of what I'm convinced will be subtle observations on personal behavior. Note #1: Young woman in Jetta ahead of me has checked her rear-view mirror. Eight times. Note #2: Middle-aged gentleman in the late-model Porsche to my right refuses to let me pass him. Note #3: At a red light, a woman in Daisy Dukes crossing the street slows down, leans over, and caresses the front end of the Ferrari, announcing shamelessly, "I like your car!" Whether or not my ego suffers at her omission of me, I think I am more taken aback by the strange invasion of personal (no, automotive) space. It occurs to me- spatial violations aside- that I could spend my remaining hours with the car selflessly testing its sociological effects on the opposite sex. And just as quickly as that thought enters my head, it also occurs to me that my girlfriend may not take kindly to such research.
I arrive at my girlfriend's place, announcing, "It's outside!" to which she responds, unimpressed, "I know. I heard it coming a block away." While appreciative of my journalistic endeavors, she has an uncanny way of dismissing them with ease. After an excruciating ten minutes, she emerges, and upon seeing the car, freezes. What proceeds from her mouth in a delighted squeal is unprintable in this magazine, and finally we're off, debating where to go first.
Cruising up Pacific Coast Highway, the drive manages to dissolve any remnants of her stoicism. After all, on this seaside asphalt playground-- beyond the soul-sapping gridlock of the city-- is where the Ferrari truly shines. PCH is also where I finally feel compelled to switch off the traction control and get a sense of what all 400 horsepower feel like, unbridled by the computer. With the switch off and the pedal dropped from a standstill, the rear tires smoke and emit a squeal not unlike that of my girlfriend's when she first set eyes on the car. After a few minutes of grazing the outer edges of the Spider's go kart-like handling ability, I switch the traction control back on. After all, this is a tempestuous Italian car capable of extreme levels of performance best reserved for a race track.
So I shift back to sociological research and call one of my best friends who lives in Manhattan and always bemoans the weather. Just for effect, I drop down a couple gears so the engine really sings. "Bastard!" he replies reflexively. It seems this car is a profanity magnet, driving people to either wondrous expletives or jealous pronouncements of resentment . And, on that particular note, I briefly consider a compendium of Ferrari-inspired deadly sins. Pride, envy, lust, and greed simmer on the surface, not unlike how the air currents distort like a mirage over the glass engine cover just behind the passenger compartment.
Evening already upon us, we traverse Malibu before finding the right restaurant with appropriately al fresco dining and a valet where we can watch the baby. Proving that I do have perhaps the best girlfriend a car journalist could ask for, she says, "I hope you're getting up early tomorrow before you return it." I smile knowingly. She asks, "Pick me up at 5:30am?" and I laugh out loud: of course I will. And I do, as we start our early morning tour of Los Angeles again from the low-slung seats of the Spider, hitting the beach and Mulholland one last time.
As my window of time closes and I race across town to drop off the car, I ponder the whirlwind of the past 24 hours. Who owns this car, and what would it be like knowing it's sitting in your garage every day of the year? Will I be able to live without this ridiculous indulgence? Of course I can, and I do. But not without some wistful memories of 24 very quick, sun-drenched hours.
Basem Wasef
info@basemwasef.com
323.791.8560