Elysée Wednesday tonight--All I can say is it's a good place to lay low...

We are a group of film & Ferrari enthusiasts who gather to share our stories.

Look for us Wednesday evenings on the patio from 8 pm (or shortly thereafter) until about 11pm at Caffe Primo, 8590 Sunset Blvd, West Hollywood, CA 90069. Underground parking on Alta Loma just east of the Cafe and south of Sunset (with partial validation from Caffe Primo) or on the street.

No need to RSVP; just join us if you can.

 

The poster seen here is an advertisement by BP celebrating the victory (in its first outing) of Ferrari GTO #3987 in the 1962 1000km of Paris held at the Montlhéry Autodrome. The drivers were the famous brothers Pedro and Ricardo Rodriguez from Mexico. The pair claimed pole position in qualifying and finished first overall and first in class in the race winning by a one lap margin. The car was entered by Luigi Chinetti's N.A.R.T.(North American Racing Team).

This was an auspicious beginning for one of the GTOs that seemed to own the racing world in its day winning the International Championship for GT Manufacturers in 1962, 1963 and 1964. 3987 was one of nine GTOs on the starting grid at Montlhéry that included fifty-three starters amongst them the extraordinary Ferrari Breadvan driven by Ludovico Scarfiotti and Colin Davis entered by Scuderia SSS Repubblica di Venezia. The Breadvan started from the 15th position on the grid and finished third, two laps behind GTO 3987.

Years later, my best friend Matthew Ettinger owned the Breadvan while I owned GTO 3987 and though their official racing days had passed, their unofficial racing days were in full swing as Matthew and I made full use of their performance on a daily basis. Having driven both of these exquisite cars, I can sum them both up by saying that both seemed to have been made to fit my needs perfectly. I can't think of any other car about which I can say this without reservation. I'm sure that I am not the only one to have had this reaction after taking a turn at the wheel.

This is what the cars looked like when Matthew and I owned them...

 

I just have so much respect for this thread.

 

Thank you, Marc!

 

Great story of the car unfortunately not for the drivers, because two weeks later Ricardo Rodriguez dies in Mexico City F1 Grand Prix

 

Very sad, indeed...

 

its Nice Post

 

The other day, I was asked how many cars I've owned and the answer was 'too many to count'. Best known for my adventures with Ferraris, my first car was a series 1 Jaguar E-Type coupe and I've enjoyed other Jaguars over the years as well including a Mk IX sedan I acquired from my friend Gary Wales and a few XJ6 sedans that I thoroughly enjoyed. The Mercedes 450SEL I drove impressed me as being bullet-proof and very comfortable for the long, high-speed rides into the desert where I was shooting one film or another and the air conditioning kept me ice cold regardless of the 100+ temperatures the desert was inflicting upon us.

I bought a lot of cars overseas beginning when I was 16 or 17 buying older Bentleys in London and Maseratis in Milano. Traveling to places like Bromley, Surrey or Southampton and one especially memorable drive to Parma in Italy with Tom Meade to purchase a couple of Maserati Mistrals made the acquiring of these cars as exciting to me as owning them. It seemed that each transaction had a story to go with it that gave pleasure long after the car had passed to another. Also part of the package was driving these cars before they were picked up by the shippers--the Bentleys taking me around London in the 'Swinging 60s' and the Maseratis guiding me through what remained of Italian Neorealism in Milano.

I sold a few cars that required a particular sort of buyer or, to quote my father, "What you need for this one is a sap!" he would say without treading too heavily on the fact that I was the sap who bought it for resale. One of these was a terrible Chevrolet Corvair that, if memory serves, still had a bit of compression in one of its cylinders. In the morning when the engine was cold, you could hear gusts of wind escaping from the chambers as the engine cranked over and it was futile to think that the spark plugs would generate enough heat to cause the metal to expand sufficiently to seal the heads and the block. I was able to find a happy buyer for this amazing machine when I experienced a confluence of good luck.

The first bit of luck was that I discovered an aerosol spray at the auto parts store that was so explosive you couldn't use it within miles of a house that had central heating. This product one would spray into the carburetors standing as far back as my arm length would allow while my father would crank the engine over from the relative safety of the driver's seat. If you have ever seen the jumbo size of Aqua Net hairspray (available in gas station mini-marts everywhere) you have an idea about the size of the can I was using. Early morning starts usually required three of these. The gentleman who showed up at eight o'clock one morning as I was attempting to fire up the engine from cold was as impeccably dressed as any I had ever seen in Los Angeles and had uncommonly fine manners in addition. Also, he was drunk, which I count as my second bit of luck. He sat good-naturedly on a nearby fire hydrant and my father and I continued crank our way through the second and third aerosol bottles of Ka-Boom or whatever it was called wondering if we would run out of the spray or battery power before the engine started.

I had parked the car at the top of a hill to facilitate the car's first morning steps, so to speak, believing as I did that the car would have to journey a ways before level ground should be attempted and especially eschewing anything that could be seen as an incline. My new found gentleman friend was delighted by the car and was soon pressing cash into my hand. I counted it and gave him back his change as he had overpaid in his excitement. It was then that he said he was buying the car for his ex-girlfriend; an astonishing admission that brought the proceedings to a halt. This really isn't the sort of car one buys for an ex-girlfriend, I told him. It was one thing for him to buy the car for himself after witnessing the morning start-up ritual but to pawn it of on a woman for whom he had cared was quite another. The more I tried to dissuade him, the more insistent he became about buying the car and, in the end, we concluded the transaction, which brings us to the third bit of luck. I don't think he was ever able to remember where he had purchased the car.

As a buyer, however, the most interesting purchase for me was when I bought a 1971 Lincoln Continental Mk III. I had wanted one ever since seeing William Friedkin's film The French Connection in which one is featured. By 1989, I finally decided to see if I could find one knowing that the odds were against me locating one that was in 'as new' condition and I wasn't wanting a car that needed a restoration or that had been poorly restored. When I found an ad for an example that sounded like what I wanted, I called and received the strangest phone interview I've ever received or given during a car purchase. "Why do you want a Mk III?" "What kinds of cars have you owned?" "How will you be using the car?" "Do you hand wash your cars?" I had the feeling that I was adopting a child rather than buying a car but I began to have an understanding of the seller. I asked him if I could come look at the car. He told me he would think about it and call me back. The next day, he did and I was given directions to his home.

I arrived to discover that this man kept his Mk III in a carpeted garage; the other family cars were relegated to the outdoors. There was nary a scratch on any of the paint or bright-work and the black leather interior was flawless. This car looked as though it had just been driven home from the Lincoln dealership! The mileage on the car was negligible given its eighteen years. He offered me the service history worksheets and receipts for inspection. I knew I would never find such a Mk III anywhere else. I had absolutely no leverage on this transaction whatsoever. What are you asking, was all I could say. I wanted this car. He looked at me and said, "I don't know." He promised to call me after he had thought it over and I left more than a little perplexed.

Later that day, the man called me and quoted a price that was about a third of what I had been expecting. I was flabbergasted. "I wasn't really going to sell the car," he told me "but I'll sell it to you because you are the right person for this car." I didn't question him on his reasoning or motives but I got over to his house in Woodland Hills just as fast as I could with cash. It was an unusual transaction, to say the least, and I realized how lucky I was to experience another transcending confluence of luck in an extraordinary automotive experience.

I believe I was the right person for that Mk III but I must admit that I'm glad the seller never saw his car on the poster of my film Dead Right in which the car was featured. Seen, as it is, on the dusty dry lake bed of El Mirage, the poor man would no doubt have suffered a heart attack.

 

As I was looking at the image of me in the GTO passing Peter Helm in his SWB California spider on Mulholland Drive, I was reminded of another occasion when I made an illegal pass (crossing a double yellow line) on a narrow, winding canyon road during the same era. As those who knew me well can attest, I always obeyed all traffic laws at all times except sometimes.

I was going up Topanga Canyon from the beach in the GTO taking a maximum of pleasure from the winding road and enjoying the sound of the V12 engine as it reverberated off the canyon walls. The mechanical noises inside the lightly insulated cockpit were a perfect alternative to any music an FM radio or tape deck would have supplied and the sound of six twin-choke Webers sucking air through twelve unfettered velocity stacks always made me smile. It was a good day.

Topanga Canyon is, for the most part, a tighter course than Malibu Canyon further to the north and there are few opportunities to make use of fourth and fifth gears. Slow moving traffic can impede the most adventurous spirit especially in the tighter sections where passing opportunities are rare and a double yellow line is offering the suggestion that passing other cars might be frowned upon even on those stretches where the road seems to be encouraging the act. On those occasions, first and (maybe) second gear is commonly used resulting in a build-up of frustration at the opportunities being squandered by 25 mph cruising speeds. It felt more like loitering than cruising.

It seems I had joined a processional of cars whose drivers were content with what can only be described as a funereal pace. Finally, after dawdling along for miles at minimal revs in second gear hoping not to foul the plugs, we approached the village that is downtown Topanga. This section of road that goes past the Quonset hut market is one of the few straightaways in the canyon that allow for a clear view of the road ahead and what I saw was free of oncoming traffic and inviting if one were inclined to execute a passing maneuver. I was.

I engaged first gear--back from second, left against the spring and back into first--and let it rip. The noise was exquisite! A quick, unrestrained run up to seven thousand rpm provided a sensation of speed and sound that was intoxicating. I had selected a gap between two cars near the head of the procession where I would safely complete the passing maneuver and return to my lane. It was a brief yet joyous few seconds of exuberance. The canyon amplified the sound of the Ferrari engine the way the setting of the Greek Theater enhanced the music of Chicago during their concert there. As I resigned myself to a resumption of the processional, I discovered what had been causing it. Four cars ahead of me was a black and white Dodge belonging to the California Highway Patrol. It had been setting the funereal pace for the rest of us.

Whether the CHP officer had spied my maneuver in his rear view mirror or whether the canyon's acoustical properties conveyed those few exciting seconds to him like they were the last bit of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture (with cannons) I'll never know. What I did know was that he waved the car that was immediately behind him around. Then, he made a similar motion to the next car that was behind him. A pattern of behavior on his part was emerging.

Before any further developments could develop, we reached a curve in the road where Topanga Canyon continued onward towards the San Fernando Valley and the magnificent Old Topanga Canyon Road veered off to the left. The CHP officer carried on, no doubt intent on arriving at some location in the Valley. For my part, I had seen quite enough of the San Fernando Valley and it had been awhile since I had traveled the old road...

No doubt, the CHP officer would like to have gotten a closer look at the GTO--who wouldn't?--but he had already committed to staying on the main road whereas I was traveling a different road that day and have continued to do so ever since

 

There are some whose interest in the Ferrari GTO stems from its financial value in today's world where exotic cars are portfolio items rather than objects of fun and adventure. Years ago, I ran into a fellow GTO owner in a New York-style piano bar/restaurant in Santa Monica (they even had their own version of Bobby Short) and we traded reminiscences and anecdotes focusing on our GTOs. He wanted to talk about finances--what he paid, restoration costs, what he received when he sold, its (then) current value, etc., etc.--and I wanted to talk about driving the car at full-chat on the way to 'Vegas.

As I look back on the exchange, it dawned on me that I never saw him drive his GTO; it was always in pieces undergoing restoration. When the long process was complete, he sold the car. His interest and attachment to the GTO were no less genuine than mine; the car simply provided us with a different sort of satisfaction. I wonder if he ever spends a moment savoring the gearshift action on his GTO...

What most people remember about their time behind the wheel or as a passenger in a Ferrari is the sound of the engine and the GTO--with its lack of insulation and unfiltered velocity stacks on the six, 2 bbl Weber carburetors--provides plenty of thrilling sounds to make the experience unforgettable. The thrill of speed and acceleration is greatly enhanced by these sounds and the fact that the engine is nervous and high-revving provides sensations that a Maserati, Aston-Martin or Shelby Cobra could not match. Driving the car is pure, relentless pleasure.

Though not commonly discussed, the gear change mechanism is one of the car's subtle, aesthetic components and provides a definitive aspect, of driving a GTO. Looked at one way, the DNA of the GTO brand as a mechanical design is manifest in the shifting mechanism. It is simple and straight-forward using a thin chrome lever emanating from a slotted, chrome gate and topped by a round, turned-aluminum knob. No effort whatsoever is required in moving the lever through the gate and the lightly spring-loaded action ensures that only the slightest hint from the driver to the shifter is required to send it into the next slot, which the lever seems to seek out on its own whether shifting up or down. In comparison, changing gears in a Corvette of the same period felt as though one were operating heavy equipment.

Every aspect of the GTO’s functioning seemed to have built into it an ease of operation that was designed to make any driver look like an expert and this fact, as much as the financial worth of the car as an investment, is what defines for me the essence of this extraordinary race car from Ferrari. The GTO was made to ensure success.