than retoric. (Should read: rhetoric) "Sting Ray" definately (Should read:
definitely) dosen't (Should read: doesn't) know what he's talking about,
with the Vette getting a head start (Should read: headstart) & slowing
(What?) crusing (Should read: cruising) to 130 - nothing like a 1/4 mile
run. Besides, if Vettes are only good for 1/4 mile runs, I don't want one.
(With grammar like that, I suspect you'll never own one!)  I hope you're a
writer for a living: (Go back and reread the post. He didn't write it!) very
nice peice. (Should read: piece)
~ Paul
aka "Tha Illiterate Dreamer"

Giggle Cream - it makes dessert *funny*!

When you learn how to verbalize what you wish to say, please post an
intelligible response! Bwa, Haa, Haa! B'Duh, B'Duh, B'Duh,  that's all
folks!

Actually the Miura was a 4 liter V12.

If you really think it's fluff, here's the facts for you to verify it with:

Title: Confessions of an exotic-car enthusiast.

Subject(s): AUTOMOBILES

Source: Road & Track, Aug93, Vol. 44 Issue 12, p102, 6p, 3c

Author(s): Clinard, John; Berkey, John

Abstract: Discusses the author's lifetime attraction to exotic-cars.

At 14, gluing pictures from `Road & Track' in textbooks; First time

seeing a Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing; Introduction to cars built for

passion as much as profit; Listening to Jaguar E-Type mechanical

symphony; Hearing his first Maserati 3500 GT; Test driving Ferrari 500

TRC; Driving the Lamborghini Miuras.

AN: 9307090027

ISSN: 0035-7189

Database: MAS FullTEXT Ultra

Actually why not just post the entire article!

Title: Confessions of an exotic-car enthusiast.

Subject(s): AUTOMOBILES

Source: Road & Track, Aug93, Vol. 44 Issue 12, p102, 6p, 3c

Author(s): Clinard, John; Berkey, John

Abstract: Discusses the author's lifetime attraction to exotic-cars.

At 14, gluing pictures from `Road & Track' in textbooks; First time

seeing a Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing; Introduction to cars built for

passion as much as profit; Listening to Jaguar E-Type mechanical

symphony; Hearing his first Maserati 3500 GT; Test driving Ferrari 500

TRC; Driving the Lamborghini Miuras.

AN: 9307090027

ISSN: 0035-7189

Database: MAS FullTEXT Ultra

CONFESSIONS OF AN EXOTIC-CAR ENTHUSIAST

I was hooked early; my schoolbooks had pictures cut from Road & Track

glued inside the covers...

IT'S NOT WHAT you know, it's who you know." We've all heard this said,

and I can attest that it holds more than a grain of truth in my life

as an exotic-car enthusiast. Certainly, what I know doesn't merit a

story, but the "whos" I've been fortunate to know over the years do.

It all began in an ordinary enough way. I spent my first 18 years in a

North Carolina industrial town, where discussion of things automotive

generally centered around who would win the next NASCAR race, and

everyone drove Fords and Pontiacs, and the occasional MG or Triumph.

Well, almost everyone.

It was 1963, a happy year in the life of the automobile, and a pivotal

year in my life. I was 14. My school textbooks had pictures cut from

Road & Track glued inside the covers. I read of neverseen, faraway

cars like Ferrari, Bugatti, Maserati, as if they were on another

planet. I was visiting an uncle in another part of the state. I set

out on a walk through the neighborhood and came upon a silhouette in a

garage that Road & Track had introduced to my mental file years

before. A Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing. White, with rich black leather

and a huge white steering wheel, which was folded horizontally to

allow the lucky driver access. Rudge knockoff wheels with the

three-pointed star cast upon them. Luggage straps on the rear shelf to

keep suitcases in place at 150 mph. The car dripped with quality and

athleticism. Seemingly a mere fraction the height of the Lincoln

parked next to it. Exotic in the extreme.

I went to the front door, rang the bell and was greeted by an older

man. I introduced myself, saying something like, "I just had to

compliment you on your Mercedes," and he promptly handed me the keys

from his pocket and said, "Thanks. Why don't you take it for a drive?"

I know, I know. I should have done it. My first-ever drive, and all

that. But I didn't drive the car if for no nobler reason than respect

for its well-being. I sat in it for probably a half-hour, running my

fingers over the door handles, admiring the comprehensive

instrumentation, working the switches that moved in a strange silence

about their jobs, and absorbing the cocoon of leather. Here was my

introduction to cars built for passion as much as for profit. I gave

the keys back to the nice man and walked home without touching the

ground.

A month later, and another nice man, named Ted. Ted owned a paperbox

plant in town and drove a 3.8 Jaguar saloon. Among my circle of

friends (who drove twin-engine go karts and hung out at the

neighborhood Texaco station where British sports cars were serviced),

word had it that Ted had ordered an E-Type coupe. A summer evening

just before dark I received an excited call from one of the fellows

saying, "Ted got it! You gotta go see it!"

Skipped dessert. Made the 10-minute walk to Ted's house in six, and

stopped! As I crested the hilltop and looked down upon that dark blue

cat (how accurate a description), crouching in the fading light

glistening off the chrome wire wheels, the car truly stopped me in my

tracks.

After a bit, I regained mobility, walked up to the car, looked through

the expansive hood louvers at the largest SUs known to man, looked

through the window at the rich red leather and the golden cat on the

steering wheel, and looked and looked and looked. I don't think any

car of the postwar era has contrasted so dramatically with the rest of

automobiledom as did the Jaguar E-Type. So incredibly different was

this car.

I heard the door open, looked up and was greeted by Ted. "Hi, John.

Want to go for a ride?" What a memorable experience. A flood of

impressions...eerie lighting over the instrument panel, the tach

needle bouncing across its face, the muffled yet piercing exhaust

note, the dominating great whine, no, bowl, from the old Moss

gearbox...all delightfully British. We were somehow obligated to keep

a stiff upper lip and practice understatement in the face of

high-speed peril. The car rocketed up hills faster than I'd ever

traveled downhill before, threatening to outrun the headlights.

Traffic ahead parted like sheep before a wolf It was magnificent.

Later, I stood outside my house and listened with appreciation as Ted

drove all the way home. Such was my good fortune that night that there

were no other cars to interfere with that encore to a mechanical

symphony. What a year it was. But the best was yet to come...cars that

end in "i."

I am certain that most people, when hearing the mention of "exotic"

cars, think of cars from Italy, red, animal-like. Beginning in 1964, I

came to appreciate why, thanks to a man in town whom I'll call "Mr.

Gold." A likely name. At the height, he owned 15 Ferraris at once,

and, in time, I had the opportunity to drive all of them. But before

the Ferraris, and before I had met him, Mr. Gold owned a Maserati 3500

GT. The first Italian exotic car I ever saw.

I was raking leaves on a quiet fall afternoon. I heard the sound of an

approaching car, which I could not identify. It sounded like a huge

Evinrude outboard motor. A deep, throaty warbling, like nothing I had

heard before. Exotic. Then, in a swirl of red leaves matching the car,

a Maserati passed briskly by, with a very satisfied-looking man at the

wheel. In that indelible moment, Italian genius had been introduced to

me. I later learned that he was Mr. Gold, who lived less than a mile

from me. What fortune! Yet, it was to be a while before I met him.

A few months later. As was frequent Saturday practice, I rode my

bicycle to the local Triumph dealership, which was the only bona fide

sports-car establishment in town. All manner of British cars were to

be found there, which provided good entertainment. On this particular

day, as I was about to round the corner of the building to enter the

service door, there erupted a muted, crackling, urgent exhaust note

such as I had never heard. Sophisticated. Race-carlike, yet muffled. I

stopped at the doorway and saw six round taillights adorning a gold

car, four large black exhaust pipes emitting intoxicating sound and

scent, and the badge "Ferrari."

My jaw dropped. No sooner had I arrived than the car began backing

out, the mechanic taking it for a road test. As it emerged into view,

I was introduced to the deepest and most beautiful wire wheels I had

ever seen, elegant coachwork in rich gold paint surrounding tan

leather, the signature Pininfarina "f" on the fender, and the sound of

the engine now beside me, spinning and ticking like a thousand sewing

machines. Up the hill it went, in a "ripping canvas" shriek--which

never allows one to be blase, even after 25 years.

On this day, the Ferrari established its supremacy in my mind. I had

seen, and heard, my first. It was a 250 2+2, which had just been

purchased from television personality Dave Garroway by Mr. Gold.

In the years that followed, Mr. Gold and I developed a great

friendship. I helped him more and more with caring for the cars, and

with buying cars, having the pleasure of driving them on many

occasions. First, it was the Garroway Ferrari. Then, another Ferrari,

and another, and another, right up to a private collection of one-off

touring and racing machinery that I think only Pierre Bardinon

surpassed in the early Seventies.

On a late November day, Mr. Gold asked if I would like to accompany

him and his mechanic, George, to South Carolina, where one C.C. Canada

had a Ferrari 500 TRC for sale. The all-time beautiful,

Scaglietti-bodied, 2.0-liter, 4-cylinder, 190-horsepower race car. You

bet I would. Next morning it was a bit chilly, but we nestled into his

Lincoln and headed south. Upon arriving, it was more than chilly. It

was 40 degrees and cloudy. C.C. allowed that 1st gear was inoperative,

but the car was otherwise roadworthy. No muffler, of course, as this

is indeed a race car, numbers and all. George had two Lotus Elevens

and did quite a bit of SCCA racing, so he was given the assignment of

checking out the car. I went with him, my first ride in a Ferrari race

car.

I bundled up as best I could, hopped into the left-side passenger

space (there was no seat, this being a race car) and eagerly accepted

the job of signaling to George when traffic cleared for passing. Here

began a fourhour nonstop smile.

The "key" was nothing but a straight brass peg, almost like a nail,

with a leather strap tied through a ring on one end. George simply

shoved it into its receptacle. No turning. Then, he reached down in

front of the gated gearshift to a short metal lever atop the starter

motor, which was right there in the cockpit between us. Just about as

stark a contrast to the Lincoln as could be imagined. He let the fuel

pump tick away a few moments, then tugged on the starter lever.

The engine erupted in a cacophony of whirling chains, explosions,

rushing air and metal-to-metal vibration. Not the mellow signature of

a V-12; the harsh staccato of a whole box-no, a truck load-of

firecrackers. I could hear every cylinder fire. This Ferrari

assaulted, abused and delighted every sense. Hearing was hammered,

smell was inundated, vision was blurred.

The clutch was of the on-off variety. One doesn't slip the clutch; one

slips the rear tires, even when starting in 2nd gear. The engine

insisted on going as fast as it could, and George obliged. This

rampant Ferrari spat upon all rules of civility and challenged its

driver to be its equal. Dump the clutch, fight the slewing rear steer,

grab another gear with a crash as the tach needle freewheels across

its face, bounce over the hill crest, dive on the brakes and

downshift. Vibration, noise, abandon. Learn to live a long time

without breathing. Concentrate on nothing but maximum utilization of

the machinery.

The machinery responded gleefully, like a wild animal set free. The

uncompromising spirit of Enzo, embodied in steel, understood and

appreciated by a lucky few, as only a race car can fully demonstrate.

George coasted the car back into the garage beside Messrs. Gold and

Canada, pulled out the brass "nail" by its strap, and the engine fell

instantly silent. No wasted reciprocation in this engine. Like it ran,

it stopped--now! The silence was slow to come upon me, my ears still

ringing. "Nice car," George said calmly. Mr. Gold bought it.

We began our three-hour return trip just as darkness fell. Twenty

degrees. No heater, no top, no weather protection. Just enthusiasm to

comfort us. George relied upon his ever-present thermos of hot tea,

which I poured with difficulty, as I bundled myself in the MG Mitten

car cover...the portion that did not also serve as my seat cushion. We

bounced, crashed, roared and smiled through the darkness of Interstate

85 that night, like pioneer aviators flying the northern route.

Communication was achieved by hand signals and shouting, and by a

common affection for this car, which didn't require words. Mr. Gold

chased us in comfort, and smiled too.

Then it was 1968. Another car that ends in "i" made its entry into my

life. Mr. Gold bought one Of the first Lamborghini Miuras in the U.S.

For a company that did not participate in racing, Lamborghini made in

the Miura as much a race car for the street as any manufacturer's

offerings in that era.

A Thursday afternoon in the summer. Mr. Gold phoned:

"John, would you have time to do me a favor this Saturday?" "Sure,

what's up?"

"The Miura is in Maryland, where I had the Marelli electrics replaced

with Delco. I got tired of changing fuses. I'll buy you a plane

ticket. If I get you there early in the day, could you drive it home?"

"Sure. What else are friends for?"

Thirty-four hours later, I was handed keys for an orange P400 Miura

and told to keep it under the redline. I had ridden in the car several

times, but had not driven it. But, there was something very different

about the car this time. The mechanic, whom Mr. Gold relied upon to do

"heavy" work, was also in the habit of taking it upon himself to

initiate further work addressing any problems he might find. Seemed he

found the presence of a muffler system on the Miura to be a problem.

He took it off and fabricated a hollow exhaust system in its place! Oh

well. The car never had a radio anyway.

I assumed the Miura "splayed-knees" driving position (this is where

the gokart experience came in handy) and-set forth in an effort to

keep the revs down as I threaded my way through the nation's capital.

I maintained this discipline until the southern edge of town. A

tollbooth leading into Virginia on Interstate 95. A long stretch of

straight, clear road ahead. A 327 Corvette beside me, its driver

glancing condescendingly at me when he thought I wasn't looking. I had

the Miura idling, trying to be quiet enough to avoid unwelcome

attention from the uniformed attendant.

The Vette driver deposited his quarter, and drove...with

deliberation...from his lane. Moments later, I did the same. No cars

ahead, few behind. The Corvette went faster and faster. "This is a

matter of honor," I told myself. "Either this guy thinks I'm driving

an Aztec-bodied Volkswagen, or he's determined to prove that there's

no substitute for cubic inches."

The Miura is a sort of Can-Am car for the street. Low, loud,

rabbit-quick. It was feeling more and more at home as I continued

pacing the Corvette, keeping my distance about 20 car lengths

behind...100, 110, 120, 130. The Corvette ran out of breath at 130. We

continued at this pace for perhaps a half-mile. Then, I saw sparks

beginning to flicker from the Corvette's exhaust pipes. "Better do

this guy a favor and stop him before something expensive happens," I

thought. The Miura was in 4th gear, merrily singing along at about

5000 rpm. just cruising.

Clear road ahead. I could see to the horizon. No bridges, no trees, no

anything. Hey, this was honor. I explored the long travel in the

accelerator pedal and made a point of calmly shifting into 5th from

about 7000 rpm just as passed him. What a sound! If I was impressed, I

had to believe he was. "Sorry, sir. There is a substitute for cubic

inches!" The soundtrack for many a movie could have been recorded that

day. For a fleeting moment, I thought of all that mass being tossed

about at warp speed six inches behind my head. But, I knew that

Lamborghini test drivers did this for hours on the autostrada.

The Corvette was no longer in my mirror. Perhaps he really did have an

expensive day. I hoped he just chose to rest his tired car. I began to

slow down, noticing the rapidly sinking speedometer needle passing

across 150 mph. The car was in its element, steady, happy. Certainly I

was happy.

No one else on this highway could have imagined the relaxation this

car imparted at speed. I was in altogether another plane of reality.

Future capability brought a century ahead. The Miura demonstrated what

can be achieved when the acceptance of mediocrity is cast aside. One

hundred fifty felt like 50. I was struck with how slowly we all

travel, and how the next century will surely laugh at us...but not at

the pioneer Miura.

The drive took me into the night. The Miura's massive instrumentation,

lit so beautifully in the darkness, the precise gearbox and quick

clutch takeup, the bellowing engine as I danced through the rural

roads into North Carolina...all of this made for one of the most

intimate drives I can remember. What a car! The Raging Bull of Sant'

Agata. Mr. Gold was happy to see it home. And he noticed it sounded a

bit differently too.

"Did you let it out?" he asked.

"Yeah, just once."

"I knew you would," he smiled.

As he turned off the garage lights, I could hear the ticking of

cooling metal and smell the heady mixture of stillwarm clutch, brakes

and tires. It had been a good drive indeed.