- Jan 2, 2008
- 37
- 10
I canâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t speak for the rest of the guys, because I wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t looking at them, but for my part my jaw fell like an egg dropped from a tall chicken…
There were convertibles and hardtops – four seater sedans, the few that I recognized held me enthralled – there was a 1968 Daytona coupe, the low, sensuous hood concealing the ferocious 12 cylinder engine, A fierce, efficient looking little “Dino†that resembled nothing so much as an earthbound flying saucer, and had been named for the son Enzo Ferarri had lost to childhood leukemia. And the last one I could name was a model named the “America Superfast†named so because the lightweight aluminum bodywork allowed the rather anemic 390 horsepower V-8 to move the auto down the road at a rate that Enzo thought acceptable.
Hanging on the walls in relatively organized disarray, like some giant had trapped huge, ornate fiberglass butterflies and pinned them haphazardly to a board for display were several body shells from retired Formula One and LeMans style racing Ferarris, complete with all the factory team decals and, in some cases the original crash damage.
Steve Brewer muttered a single “ Hot Damn!†and there wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t a man in that barn who didnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t have a lump in his throat, along with one in his netherregions. There wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t a man, that is, except the owner who had strolled in behind us to enjoy the inevitable reaction when we finally realized what we were looking at.
“These are my clunkers…The ones I drive….I keep a blanket insurance policy on all of them, and a couple more I have out back – If I want to drive one for a weekend I call my agent and have him turn on that VIN number.â€
He led the way around the insanity that was clustered in the center of this unguarded barn – no alarm systems, no locks, no watch dogs….no nothing… We exited through the rear door and walked around the side of the barn and werenâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t really surprised , but were flummoxed nonetheless to find two Lamborghini Countachs sitting side by side in an old empty chicken coup whose roof was comprised of a tattered canvas tarp stretched over the coupâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s framework with a few old bungee cords.
“Yeah, these are more clunkers – look there – Pacino ( One of his horses) kicked that one a real good one in the driverâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s door and caved it in – gotta get that fixed sometime… Come on in the house and Iâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]ll show you something thatâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s really neat.â€
And so, like a cadre of obedient robots, the four of us who, in all probability wouldnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t be worth a damn for the rest of the day followed this nebish out of the gate and up the hill to his house. On the way he introduced himself, his name being Steve Barney and he was the owner of Foreign Cars Italia – Greensboroâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s exotic automobile dealership, and that he and his wife Regina, who was Italian and well connected to the families of substance in and around Rome, spent their winters in Italy visiting all of Reginaâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s friends and relatives and Steve would poke around in their garages and occasionally found an aging Ferarri falling into disrepair and heâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]d offer a sum to the owner, the bargain would be struck and the old Ferarri would presently find itself embarking on a long sea voyage to America where Barneyâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s crew of artisans would restore it to itâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s former glory either to be sold off to a wealthy buyer, or , if particularly nice, to join itâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s Paisans in the rickety barn in Oak Ridge.
We followed him into the house, through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs to the basement, along a hall to a regular looking door. Now, I donâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t know what I expected to see, but I didnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t think anything could top the barn and its contents, but of course that just wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t the case.
In the middle of a windowless room with no door other than the 30 incher we had walked through ( He told us he had wheeled the car in through an opening he had broken in the outside wall and then had it bricked up afterwards) sat, on axle stands, a 1957 Testarossa Factory Racer. It looked to be brand new, hardly possible of course, but there it was nonetheless, Itâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s beautifully fluid lines curving and twisting like some incredible metal serpent frozen in time and space, racing decals new as they were in 1957, restored by the artisans in Italy that probably produced the originals, the paint so red that there was no red you could compare it to, and the unmistakable yellow and black hood badge – The Prancing Stallion of Marinello.
There were convertibles and hardtops – four seater sedans, the few that I recognized held me enthralled – there was a 1968 Daytona coupe, the low, sensuous hood concealing the ferocious 12 cylinder engine, A fierce, efficient looking little “Dino†that resembled nothing so much as an earthbound flying saucer, and had been named for the son Enzo Ferarri had lost to childhood leukemia. And the last one I could name was a model named the “America Superfast†named so because the lightweight aluminum bodywork allowed the rather anemic 390 horsepower V-8 to move the auto down the road at a rate that Enzo thought acceptable.
Hanging on the walls in relatively organized disarray, like some giant had trapped huge, ornate fiberglass butterflies and pinned them haphazardly to a board for display were several body shells from retired Formula One and LeMans style racing Ferarris, complete with all the factory team decals and, in some cases the original crash damage.
Steve Brewer muttered a single “ Hot Damn!†and there wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t a man in that barn who didnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t have a lump in his throat, along with one in his netherregions. There wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t a man, that is, except the owner who had strolled in behind us to enjoy the inevitable reaction when we finally realized what we were looking at.
“These are my clunkers…The ones I drive….I keep a blanket insurance policy on all of them, and a couple more I have out back – If I want to drive one for a weekend I call my agent and have him turn on that VIN number.â€
He led the way around the insanity that was clustered in the center of this unguarded barn – no alarm systems, no locks, no watch dogs….no nothing… We exited through the rear door and walked around the side of the barn and werenâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t really surprised , but were flummoxed nonetheless to find two Lamborghini Countachs sitting side by side in an old empty chicken coup whose roof was comprised of a tattered canvas tarp stretched over the coupâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s framework with a few old bungee cords.
“Yeah, these are more clunkers – look there – Pacino ( One of his horses) kicked that one a real good one in the driverâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s door and caved it in – gotta get that fixed sometime… Come on in the house and Iâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]ll show you something thatâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s really neat.â€
And so, like a cadre of obedient robots, the four of us who, in all probability wouldnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t be worth a damn for the rest of the day followed this nebish out of the gate and up the hill to his house. On the way he introduced himself, his name being Steve Barney and he was the owner of Foreign Cars Italia – Greensboroâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s exotic automobile dealership, and that he and his wife Regina, who was Italian and well connected to the families of substance in and around Rome, spent their winters in Italy visiting all of Reginaâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s friends and relatives and Steve would poke around in their garages and occasionally found an aging Ferarri falling into disrepair and heâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]d offer a sum to the owner, the bargain would be struck and the old Ferarri would presently find itself embarking on a long sea voyage to America where Barneyâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s crew of artisans would restore it to itâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s former glory either to be sold off to a wealthy buyer, or , if particularly nice, to join itâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s Paisans in the rickety barn in Oak Ridge.
We followed him into the house, through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs to the basement, along a hall to a regular looking door. Now, I donâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t know what I expected to see, but I didnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t think anything could top the barn and its contents, but of course that just wasnâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]t the case.
In the middle of a windowless room with no door other than the 30 incher we had walked through ( He told us he had wheeled the car in through an opening he had broken in the outside wall and then had it bricked up afterwards) sat, on axle stands, a 1957 Testarossa Factory Racer. It looked to be brand new, hardly possible of course, but there it was nonetheless, Itâ€[emoji]8482[/emoji]s beautifully fluid lines curving and twisting like some incredible metal serpent frozen in time and space, racing decals new as they were in 1957, restored by the artisans in Italy that probably produced the originals, the paint so red that there was no red you could compare it to, and the unmistakable yellow and black hood badge – The Prancing Stallion of Marinello.
