In search of Enzo Ferrari

With J-Los, R-Pats, and an alphabet soup of people with more dollars than sense, it shouldn’t be too hard to see a Ferrari around Los Angeles, right?

Well, I guess that all depends on where you are. It’s not like this place has been a dearth of exotic automobiles. On my second night here, I saw a Maybach 57 sedan parked right on Spring Street downtown. On my first day of work, I was passed by a black-on-black Bentley Continental Super Sport convertible on my way to the 105 (that’s how you say highway names out here — not “Interstate 105” or “I-105”). But not counting what might’ve been a Ferrari California a mile down the road and a few “lesser” Maseratis, I’ve yet to see an Italian Stallion. I know they’re in lesser supply around here these days. Nic Cage had to give up some of his collection in the aftermath of financial meltdown. It’s even gotten to a point that I’m sure is annoying with my coworkers that I have created a game called “Ferrari Watch.”

I’ve not won yet, obviously.

But for crying out loud, I saw more Ferraris in North Canton, Ohio than I’ve seen in what some people consider the mecca of rare and exclusive cars in the U.S. Part of this could stem from the fact that I have yet to visit Beverly Hills and too, too much of Orange County where the rich and famous roam the real estate. No, I’ve stuck mostly to my spot near USC, Long Beach, and Van Nuys, where I’ve now been twice. This isn’t to say I’ve not seen rare and eclectic cars abound. Lamborghinis and Porsches are like the sun out here — not a day goes by when you don’t see one.

And even in my lower-middle class area, there are tons and tons of Jihadi-spec old Toyotas that you may never see in your life if you live in the Rust Belt. It makes me not wonder so much what Afghanistan is really like, sans the fact we don’t have IEDs here.

But getting back to Ferraris, they were never meant to be seen so much as the Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Aston Martins, and Lamborghinis of the world in spite of the fact that just a decade ago, you could pick up a new 360 Modena for less than the price of a new Mercedes S600.

When a wine maker and tractor producer bought a Ferrari back in the 1950s, he fancied the Pininfarina design and sporting character. But let’s be honest, it was harsh and as reliable as getting your money back from an impoverished meth addict. So that man went about creating a car that could carry the same sporting nature while providing a bit more practicality and refinement. That man’s name was Ferrucio Lamborghini.

Ferrari, on the other hand, fancied his street cars as a means to an end; a way to get funding so he could build his world-beating race cars. He couldn’t care less if your car broke down so long as you bought another one. And it wasn’t until the 1990s that Ferrari stepped up its game in provocation from Honda with the NSX, a car that proved sporty didn’t have to be unreliable. Really, up until Ferrari realized most of the people lusting after them couldn’t drive stick, its cars weren’t about luxury or getting your money’s worth in creature comforts. With the F40 in 1987, you could see the glue runs on the door seams where Ferrari had fastened the car together. It was the last car Enzo himself worked on before he died that year.

Here I am, wishing in a place with probably the largest disparity of wealth on Earth that I’d see just one of the handbuilt sports cars — just one. Of all the people who buy them out here, you’d think that would be the case. But until I venture over to the western corridor of this city, I’ll likely have to settle for my Porsches and other ego-mobiles that just aren’t Ferraris.

Pity me.