Farago: A Ferrari is Like A Mistress

A mistress is a total pain in the ass. They’re emotionally demanding, expensive and dangerous. It gets to the point – quickly – where you wonder WTH you were thinking. Wishing you’d never crossed that line. And then you do the horizontal mambo. “Oh right! That’s why I do this!” It’s exactly like owning a Ferrari.

My first Ferrari was a red/tan F355B. It was awesome – as in standing mute in the face of God (not like “that’s an awesome hamburger”). Her curves were alluring. Her sound intoxicating. Her handling inspiring. I understood the financial advantages of not putting miles on the clock, but Oscar Wilde was right: I could resist anything but temptation. She was right there, tucked away in the garage. I’ll just slip out for a while . . .

Driving my 355 was everything I wanted it to be – right until it wasn’t. “Tricky” at the limit? Lots of cars are tricky at the limit. Not many seduce you into finding it. “Come on, you know this road. A little faster. That’s it! See? Easy-peasey! A bit more. A bit more. Oops! I guess I’ll go visit my friends in that big garage now.” Speaking of expensive vacations . . .

The gentleman above winges about the cost of the F355’s engine-out cambelt service. Lol. How about rust under the flying buttress. WTF? Rust? On a modern car? Meanwhile, the 355’s factory wheels were as prone to curbing as Jeremy Clarkson is to hyperbole, requiring extremely pricey repair (the wheels, not Clarkson). Regular “maintenance” (not including systems failure) was a regular occurrence.

Folks, that car was expensive. It cost more to insure than my house. Equally, time is money. The 355 practically lived in the shop – leaving me behind the wheel of a shitty little econobox. Talk about feast and famine! I thought about making a sticker that said “My other car is a Ferrari. No really.” It got to the point where I called myself a Ferrari visitor, rather than a Ferrari owner. And the dealer treated me like sh*t.

Then again . . .

I’d drive her and all was right with the world. Caning the 355 on road and track was the most fun I could have with my clothes on. Unless I drove naked . . .

I remember a [clothed] sprint home from the office, the tiny-valve engine howling, the gated shifter clacking, the chassis alive under me. I’ve driven Porsches, Lamborghinis, Paganis, Corvettes – any number of high performance cars. There is nothing like a Ferrari at full chat doing what it’s supposed to do. Which it doesn’t do at least 40 percent of the time.

If you’re thinking about purchasing a Ferrari, that’s the world you’re buying into. A place that alternates between heaven and hell, biased towards the hotter clime. So don’t be seduced by . . . never mind. Kiss you money goodbye and know this: nothing makes you value your wife more than a mistress. Every time I get out of a Ferrari into my Audi S4 – no matter how wonderful the drive in Maranello’s mad machine – I love my German Q-car more. Not for what she can’t do. For what she can.