- Jan 2, 2008
- 37
- 10
With a slight grin the Barney walked into the other room and produced a length of flexible duct that a common man would use to vent a clothes dryer and placed it over the twin exhaust pipes of the automobile. After placing the other end over the vent that was cemented into the wall at the rear of the car he reached into the cramped cockpit and flipped a toggle switch. A small red light glowed dully on the spartan, engine-turned aluminum dashboard and he said:
“Because of the all-aluminum engine and the complex gearbox like these they installed heaters in the crankcase and transmission to warm the oil so you donâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t starve the gears and such for oil when you start erâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji] up – The Italians build emâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji] like watches – lots of tiny parts that move in close tolerance so you have to be careful if the damn thing is going to last.â€
After a couple of minutes or so, when he judged the time right ( during which time we were all standing around, grinning like idiots at an morons convention), he reached into the cockpit and pulled out the old fashioned choke cable. Then, pausing for a moment, for effect he pushed in the starter button. The engine rolled over for a few seconds until he saw the oil pressure gauge register a satisfactory reading. Then he flipped a toggle switch labeled “Ignition†and touched the starter button once more. The twelve cylinder engine caught and idled, the radical racing cams producing a fierce, staccato tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut…loud, but bearable in the confines of the brick room.
With obvious satisfaction he pulled the pins that held the hood in place and raised it, securing it with the obsolete rod that hinged to the radiator bulkhead. The six dual throat Weber carburetors perched between the distinctive red valve covers ( Testarossa means “Red Head†in Italian) that topped the two banks of cylinders produced a slight hissing noise as they gasped for more air, the engine barely idling.
“Gotta bump it once in awhile….if you donâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t the engine loads up and the gas washes the oil off the cylinder walls – that can be bad..†With that he grasped the delicate throttle linkage and gave it a series of gentle yanks. The engine note changed from a muted growl to an ear-splitting shriek and for a moment I swore that the mortar between the bricks of the walls was vibrating visibly and the concrete of the floor was shaking beneath our feet. I leaned over and looked at the tachometer – the red needle was bouncing merrily between seven and nine thousand R.P.M. – not even near the ten thousand-five hundred red line. After a moment he allowed the engine to settle back into its gravelly idle and finally shut the ignition switch off. When the engine died the silence in the small room was shattering and Steve Barney stood smiling like a master magician that had just performed his most intricate illusion.
There was a faint after-smell of high-test gasoline lingering in the air and we stood ringing the Ferarri dumbfounded. Barney slowly unlatched the hood stay and lowered the sheet metal gently into place, securing it with the two hood pins that he held in his hand. He stuck both hands in his pockets and looked at us with obvious amusement.
This now had become a near-death experience for me, suddenly I felt a little lightheaded, maybe from the petrol fumes but more likely from amazement, and scarlet and yellow specks danced before my eyes – If I had crossed over right then Iâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]d probably be late getting in because I would assuredly babble this entire impossible tale to St. Peter. Then something he was saying brought me back to reality:
“,,, is one of six made in 57â€[emoji]8482[/emoji], probably the only one to survive the racing circuit that year. Certainly the only one in this shape. The last time I had a fellow from the DuPont Registry look at it he conservatively appraised it at around 7 and ½ million and asked me if Iâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]d like to sell it…â€
Seven and one half million dollars…$7,500,000 sitting there in the middle of a basement of a farmhouse in Oak Ridge, North Carolina… Suddenly my intestines began to churn, and for one awful moment I feared that I would overamp and dishonor myself in front of this man who was, on the face of things talking in such an offhand manner about an unbelievably unique and priceless piece of automotive history - for all his nonchalance me may as well have been talking about a riding lawnmower.
What saved me was taking a closer look at Steve Barneyâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s eyes – If you looked closely they sort of reminded you of Mr. Toad from the childâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s tale “The Wind In The Willows†who went just a bit crazy whenever a new and wondrous machine caught his eye – almost like pinwheels circling in his pupils. And I knew then that despite his façade of coolness, this unbelievable display of English Gentleman-like understatement, he was as astounded as we were that this mythical beast was somehow magically here and real, complete and in our presence. Perhaps even more astounded than we were because he knew that in fact, he held this beast in thrall for his personal pleasure.
“Because of the all-aluminum engine and the complex gearbox like these they installed heaters in the crankcase and transmission to warm the oil so you donâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t starve the gears and such for oil when you start erâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji] up – The Italians build emâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji] like watches – lots of tiny parts that move in close tolerance so you have to be careful if the damn thing is going to last.â€
After a couple of minutes or so, when he judged the time right ( during which time we were all standing around, grinning like idiots at an morons convention), he reached into the cockpit and pulled out the old fashioned choke cable. Then, pausing for a moment, for effect he pushed in the starter button. The engine rolled over for a few seconds until he saw the oil pressure gauge register a satisfactory reading. Then he flipped a toggle switch labeled “Ignition†and touched the starter button once more. The twelve cylinder engine caught and idled, the radical racing cams producing a fierce, staccato tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut…loud, but bearable in the confines of the brick room.
With obvious satisfaction he pulled the pins that held the hood in place and raised it, securing it with the obsolete rod that hinged to the radiator bulkhead. The six dual throat Weber carburetors perched between the distinctive red valve covers ( Testarossa means “Red Head†in Italian) that topped the two banks of cylinders produced a slight hissing noise as they gasped for more air, the engine barely idling.
“Gotta bump it once in awhile….if you donâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t the engine loads up and the gas washes the oil off the cylinder walls – that can be bad..†With that he grasped the delicate throttle linkage and gave it a series of gentle yanks. The engine note changed from a muted growl to an ear-splitting shriek and for a moment I swore that the mortar between the bricks of the walls was vibrating visibly and the concrete of the floor was shaking beneath our feet. I leaned over and looked at the tachometer – the red needle was bouncing merrily between seven and nine thousand R.P.M. – not even near the ten thousand-five hundred red line. After a moment he allowed the engine to settle back into its gravelly idle and finally shut the ignition switch off. When the engine died the silence in the small room was shattering and Steve Barney stood smiling like a master magician that had just performed his most intricate illusion.
There was a faint after-smell of high-test gasoline lingering in the air and we stood ringing the Ferarri dumbfounded. Barney slowly unlatched the hood stay and lowered the sheet metal gently into place, securing it with the two hood pins that he held in his hand. He stuck both hands in his pockets and looked at us with obvious amusement.
This now had become a near-death experience for me, suddenly I felt a little lightheaded, maybe from the petrol fumes but more likely from amazement, and scarlet and yellow specks danced before my eyes – If I had crossed over right then Iâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]d probably be late getting in because I would assuredly babble this entire impossible tale to St. Peter. Then something he was saying brought me back to reality:
“,,, is one of six made in 57â€[emoji]8482[/emoji], probably the only one to survive the racing circuit that year. Certainly the only one in this shape. The last time I had a fellow from the DuPont Registry look at it he conservatively appraised it at around 7 and ½ million and asked me if Iâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]d like to sell it…â€
Seven and one half million dollars…$7,500,000 sitting there in the middle of a basement of a farmhouse in Oak Ridge, North Carolina… Suddenly my intestines began to churn, and for one awful moment I feared that I would overamp and dishonor myself in front of this man who was, on the face of things talking in such an offhand manner about an unbelievably unique and priceless piece of automotive history - for all his nonchalance me may as well have been talking about a riding lawnmower.
What saved me was taking a closer look at Steve Barneyâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s eyes – If you looked closely they sort of reminded you of Mr. Toad from the childâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s tale “The Wind In The Willows†who went just a bit crazy whenever a new and wondrous machine caught his eye – almost like pinwheels circling in his pupils. And I knew then that despite his façade of coolness, this unbelievable display of English Gentleman-like understatement, he was as astounded as we were that this mythical beast was somehow magically here and real, complete and in our presence. Perhaps even more astounded than we were because he knew that in fact, he held this beast in thrall for his personal pleasure.
