Ferrari F430

Ferrari F430

The dealership was bored by my procrastination, Woman is bored with me reading the handbook at the dining table, my mates are bored with me trying to justify it, the broadcasting personality has warned me that I’m becoming boring and I might actually be boring myself.

Thing is, though, I’ve now driven it. After the trauma of bringing it home in the snow, I left it in the garage for two days, though largely because I wasn’t sure I could get it out again.

Even then the weather was a bit scudgey but, like the bloke who’s forced to use the chemical lavvy at the village fete, I just couldn’t hold off any longer.

To remove the Fezza from the garage it has to be lined up precisely with the exit, otherwise the metal channel that the motorised door runs in will be damaged by the car’s bodywork.

This means a blasphemous underground 99-point turn followed by some heavy perspiration. Finally, and to the delight of the swelling crowd of cheering children, the F430 emerges into the watery winter sunshine.

So, what’s it like? Well, it’s a Ferrari; a Ferrari is a bit magical, I’ve always wanted one, and I feel very fortunate. It’s there now, in the garage, under its cover.

My mate Colin is never going to speak to me again, but that’s a small price to pay for looking down and seeing the rampant pony in the centre of the steering wheel.

Since I haven’t sold it yet, and might not, because I still love it and I’ve performed some simply Olympian man maths, comparison with my Porsche Boxster is, well, a bit fatuous but interesting nonetheless.

The Boxster feels like a low-volume product of manufacturing science; the F430 feels like a high-volume product of the craft tradition. The Porsche was built by Germans, the Ferrari was made by Italians.

Stuttgart gives you better detailing and an easier life, and I suspect the soldering is better, but Modena pricks a part of you that lies dormant in other cars.

But it isn’t what the PR would have you believe. Despite the aura of sophistication and high tech, the F430 is a pretty basic car.

Inside, there are just a handful of switches – my Fiat Panda has a more impressive trip computer – and a sense of unadulterated machinery at work.

The paddle gearbox clunks, the whirling mystery of the engine intrudes everywhere, at low speed the suspension crashes through holes and it’s quite noisy. Woman described it as “granular”, which is exactly right.

A Ferrari looks as though it will propel you on a sublime wave of something like mayonnaise, but in fact it embroils you in a private mechanical mayhem.

Consider the engine. In the Boxster, you can’t actually see it without taking the car apart. The F430′s V8 sits under a transparent cover, lest you forget what it was you were actually paying for. It’s slung between two triangulated bearers like the engine of a piston-era fighter aircraft, and is largely open to the air.

Article Source: telegraph.co.uk