Dear Ferrari F40

A lovestruck 25 year old writes to his four-wheeled idol.

Dear F40, 
I remember seeing you when I was barely five. Of course, back then, I didn’t know you were you. But that matte sepia-ish poster stirred up feelings I didn’t know existed. A long, wide, unabashedly red sportscar with a wing larger than my dining table.


Borderline pornography. I know most say that your rowdy cousins from Sant’Agata make for better posters, but you know you’ll never have to jostle for space on the wall with them.

Because, for years, everyone’s tried to be you. Why red sportscars are mistaken for Ferraris can be traced back to you. You set the benchmark for being outrageous, and I almost shudder with disbelief to know it was 32 years ago. You’d run rings around these new-age sportscars and supercars.

And you know what, even if you didn’t, it wouldn’t really matter. It doesn’t really matter that you had a twin-turbo V8 back then, pushing out nearly 500 rampante cavallinos. For you had that innate ability to make a five-year-old feel fizzy. Heck, you make a 25-year-old me go weak-kneed and googly-eyed.

I can’t wrap my head around what I’d go through if I ever see you in flesh. What I’d go through if I heard that twin-turbo V8 come to life, in person. I reckon I’d cry. Profusely. I’m not sure if there’s any car made today that’s capable of stirring up such intense emotions. Yes, they might be safer, faster, cleaner in every imaginable way. But how many of them will baptise a five-year-old? Possibly none.

I’m convinced there won’t be another you, dear F40. And, truth be told, I’m glad!

Happy Birthday!

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