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Enzo Ferrari reached across his desk and pressed a button on a little control panel. Instantly his office door opened and his attendant scurried in. Ferrari spoke gruffly, turned back to me and continued talking.The attendant shot out and returned carrying something. It wasn’t right. Ferrari snapped at him. When he came back, Ferrari snatched the thing and passed it to me. He saw my surprise – I wasn’t expecting a gift – and a faint smile creased his rugged face. The object was a polystyrene box containing a big yellow ashtray with that rampant black horse in its centre.It was May 1973 and I was in Enzo’s office at the end of my first visit to Maranello. At 6.30pm, while I was in the racing department watching earnest mechanics poring over the (miserable) 312 B3 F1 racers and (brilliant) 312 PB sports cars, Dottore Franco Gozzi, Ferrari’s right-hand man, beckoned and said: ‘We must hurry now – Mr Ferrari is waiting to see you.’In the drab admin block near the main gate we stepped through the attendant’s antechamber into a long, sparse room. Enzo’s big black desk was on the left. Nothing adorned the dull blue walls except a portrait of Alfredo – Dino – Ferrari’s son who’d died at 24 of muscular dystrophy in 1956. It faced his father’s desk, permanently lit by three lamps: green, red and white.As I neared, Enzo rose, still a big man at 75, with an elegant bearing despite, now, a slight stoop. He grasped my hand with a steely grip. His high forehead and pushed-back white hair made him seem as if he were sitting high in an open car, going fast. The craggy features, with the jutting nose, were drawn and frail after recent illness. But his unnerving eyes were untouched and peered through the celebrated dark glasses. He indicated the chair on the left, with Franco to the right, ready to translate. 
Where to start? The prototype 365 GT/4 Berlinetta Boxer was outside, just back from a test run. Mindful of legislation we thought then would kill off fast cars, I asked how frustrated he was that perhaps he could never make a faster one.His tone conveyed his disdain for the American-led regulations. They were killing enjoyable motoring and inspirational engineering, he said. Anti-pollution and safety rules would just mean bigger engines and cars that were tanks. With the BB, he said with an angry flourish, he’d ignored the US laws, and if Americans weren’t able to drive it, then that was too bad for them.We got onto racing. The 1973 F1 season was disastrous – in 15 Grands Prix, the Scuderia wouldn’t once even trouble the podium let alone its top step. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it hasn’t been going well. But we must measure our performance against the victories of 27 years. Failure is a temporary thing and will not endure. Our work and experience will see to that.’Drivers? Only one matched Tazio Nuvolari’s supreme skill and bravery – Stirling Moss, the most complete driver he’d ever seen. Anyone else coming along? ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘the fiery South African Jody Scheckter… if he doesn’t let his ambition kill him.’
Something crossed his mind. He pressed the button. The attendant hurried back in, Ferrari again spoke brusquely, and he returned with a yellow book titled ‘Enzo Ferrari, Ie briglie del successo‘ – the reins of success. I watched, awed, as he signed its fly page in the legendary purple ink. He smiled as he saw my delight. He knew full-well the effect of his action.How did he feel about the Targa Florio’s discontinuation? Ah, he said, rocking back and grinning – what a race! He first drove the 44 miles through the Sicilian mountains, and came ninth, in 1919. In the book he described driving his CMN racer the 900 miles to Sicily. ‘In a blizzard in the Abruzzi mountains we were chased by wolves! They were put to flight by shots from the revolver I kept under the seat.’ He was born of tough times.I’d witnessed the ’73 Targa two weeks earlier, and Ferrari laughed as I recounted watching his 460bhp prototypes roaring past the donkeys, chickens and peasants in practice. Still grinning, he fetched Autosprint from his drawer and flicked to its Targa report. We leaned over it with him as he chuckled at photos of the Porsche Carrera RSRs, Alfa Romeo Type 33TTs and his 312PBs storming through cheering crowds mere feet away. ‘The authorities must have a fit when they see that – not a barrier in sight,’ he said. ‘It’s the only proper race left in Italy.’
A photograph of him, please? No; and Franco signalled that it was time to leave. I picked up my things. Ferrari came up out of his high-backed chair, extended his big firm hand and said arrivederci.But something must have clicked. Perhaps it was because I’d come 13,000 miles from Australia to see the Targa and visit Maranello on my way to London. Whenever I returned, regularly while I was editing CAR and then at Autocar, he’d summon me at day’s end. What did I think of his latest car? I’d tell of stirring blasts through the hills, and he’d lean back in that big chair and grin. In five minutes it’d be over, ended when he buzzed the attendant who’d enter with a gift. A tie, a briefcase, a paper weight, another book to be signed with a flourish. This was how he flattered visitors.Fixed in my mind now is his mix of warmth and chilling brusqueness, his plain-speaking, his pride and utter confidence. He was kind to me but my visits were inconsequential. Those who worked for or dealt with him spoke of his autocracy, ferocious assertiveness, gritty resolve, ruthlessness, explosive temper, foibles, and cunning. ‘I am,’ he said, ‘an agitator of men.’ I saw him last in 1987 at the Ferrari 40th anniversary lunch. When I returned in 1988 to drive the F40, a car that embodied his spirit and touched his soul, he was ill; ten months later, at 90, he was gone. Few have left such a legacy.
You get 3 free articles to read on their website.
Enzo Ferrari reached across his desk and pressed a button on a little control panel. Instantly his office door opened and his attendant scurried in. Ferrari spoke gruffly, turned back to me and continued talking.
The attendant shot out and returned carrying something. It wasn’t right. Ferrari snapped at him. When he came back, Ferrari snatched the thing and passed it to me. He saw my surprise – I wasn’t expecting a gift – and a faint smile creased his rugged face. The object was a polystyrene box containing a big yellow ashtray with that rampant black horse in its centre.
It was May 1973 and I was in Enzo’s office at the end of my first visit to Maranello. At 6.30pm, while I was in the racing department watching earnest mechanics poring over the (miserable) 312 B3 F1 racers and (brilliant) 312 PB sports cars, Dottore Franco Gozzi, Ferrari’s right-hand man, beckoned and said: ‘We must hurry now – Mr Ferrari is waiting to see you.’
In the drab admin block near the main gate we stepped through the attendant’s antechamber into a long, sparse room. Enzo’s big black desk was on the left. Nothing adorned the dull blue walls except a portrait of Alfredo – Dino – Ferrari’s son who’d died at 24 of muscular dystrophy in 1956. It faced his father’s desk, permanently lit by three lamps: green, red and white.
As I neared, Enzo rose, still a big man at 75, with an elegant bearing despite, now, a slight stoop. He grasped my hand with a steely grip. His high forehead and pushed-back white hair made him seem as if he were sitting high in an open car, going fast. The craggy features, with the jutting nose, were drawn and frail after recent illness. But his unnerving eyes were untouched and peered through the celebrated dark glasses. He indicated the chair on the left, with Franco to the right, ready to translate.
Where to start? The prototype 365 GT/4 Berlinetta Boxer was outside, just back from a test run. Mindful of legislation we thought then would kill off fast cars, I asked how frustrated he was that perhaps he could never make a faster one.
His tone conveyed his disdain for the American-led regulations. They were killing enjoyable motoring and inspirational engineering, he said. Anti-pollution and safety rules would just mean bigger engines and cars that were tanks. With the BB, he said with an angry flourish, he’d ignored the US laws, and if Americans weren’t able to drive it, then that was too bad for them.
We got onto racing. The 1973 F1 season was disastrous – in 15 Grands Prix, the Scuderia wouldn’t once even trouble the podium let alone its top step. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it hasn’t been going well. But we must measure our performance against the victories of 27 years. Failure is a temporary thing and will not endure. Our work and experience will see to that.’
Drivers? Only one matched Tazio Nuvolari’s supreme skill and bravery – Stirling Moss, the most complete driver he’d ever seen. Anyone else coming along? ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘the fiery South African Jody Scheckter… if he doesn’t let his ambition kill him.’
Something crossed his mind. He pressed the button. The attendant hurried back in, Ferrari again spoke brusquely, and he returned with a yellow book titled ‘Enzo Ferrari, Ie briglie del successo‘ – the reins of success. I watched, awed, as he signed its fly page in the legendary purple ink. He smiled as he saw my delight. He knew full-well the effect of his action.
How did he feel about the Targa Florio’s discontinuation? Ah, he said, rocking back and grinning – what a race! He first drove the 44 miles through the Sicilian mountains, and came ninth, in 1919. In the book he described driving his CMN racer the 900 miles to Sicily. ‘In a blizzard in the Abruzzi mountains we were chased by wolves! They were put to flight by shots from the revolver I kept under the seat.’ He was born of tough times.
I’d witnessed the ’73 Targa two weeks earlier, and Ferrari laughed as I recounted watching his 460bhp prototypes roaring past the donkeys, chickens and peasants in practice. Still grinning, he fetched Autosprint from his drawer and flicked to its Targa report. We leaned over it with him as he chuckled at photos of the Porsche Carrera RSRs, Alfa Romeo Type 33TTs and his 312PBs storming through cheering crowds mere feet away. ‘The authorities must have a fit when they see that – not a barrier in sight,’ he said. ‘It’s the only proper race left in Italy.’
A photograph of him, please? No; and Franco signalled that it was time to leave. I picked up my things. Ferrari came up out of his high-backed chair, extended his big firm hand and said arrivederci.
But something must have clicked. Perhaps it was because I’d come 13,000 miles from Australia to see the Targa and visit Maranello on my way to London. Whenever I returned, regularly while I was editing CAR and then at Autocar, he’d summon me at day’s end. What did I think of his latest car? I’d tell of stirring blasts through the hills, and he’d lean back in that big chair and grin. In five minutes it’d be over, ended when he buzzed the attendant who’d enter with a gift. A tie, a briefcase, a paper weight, another book to be signed with a flourish. This was how he flattered visitors.
Fixed in my mind now is his mix of warmth and chilling brusqueness, his plain-speaking, his pride and utter confidence. He was kind to me but my visits were inconsequential. Those who worked for or dealt with him spoke of his autocracy, ferocious assertiveness, gritty resolve, ruthlessness, explosive temper, foibles, and cunning. ‘I am,’ he said, ‘an agitator of men.’ I saw him last in 1987 at the Ferrari 40th anniversary lunch. When I returned in 1988 to drive the F40, a car that embodied his spirit and touched his soul, he was ill; ten months later, at 90, he was gone. Few have left such a legacy.
PART II
In the old days, visiting Ferrari depended on the good offices of Dottore Franco Gozzi who was officially Ferrari’s Press Officer but in truth was Enzo’s advisor and confidant. ‘Ferrari’s lieutenant,’ he called himself.
Before I left Sydney in 1973, I’d edited an Australian car magazine. I’d sent issues containing Ferraris to Dr Gozzi and received polite replies in return. Now I tried the big one: might I visit the factory, see the racing department, go out with a test driver, meet Mr Ferrari… Not too much to ask, perhaps?
‘Certainly,’ replied the exuberant Franco, who was then 40. ‘Call me when you’re in Modena and we can arrange it.’ Of course, he was known to jest ‘Remember, I’m a terrible liar,’ and laugh heartily. As I’d learn down the years, it was just part of keeping you on tenterhooks.
But if he liked you or you had something to offer, he was as good as his word, and his usual greeting – ‘Oh, if only we’d known you were coming we’d have had a car ready’ – became a standing joke. You just rolled with it.
I once saw a German journalist get it spectacularly wrong. While I was waiting to get first crack at the F40, the German arrived at the gatehouse, expecting to do the same. Lots of shrugging; no, you’re not on the list; etc etc. When he realised no F40 would eventuate, he exploded, cried outrage, and left.
I stayed put, knowing the form. Lunch with Franco at the Ristorante Cavallino, the afternoon spent wandering the factory until at 6pm Franco shrugged his big shoulders and said sorry, no F40 today. No problem, I said; I’ll come back tomorrow.
Sure enough, at 10am that Saturday the F40 was ready and mine for two hours at Ferrari‘s Fiorano test track. I flew back with the world’s first story, for Autocar, on what the F40 was like to drive. I wondered if the German ever knew what he’d stormed away from.
There was nothing glamorous about the Ferrari factory of old, built in 1946 on the Modena side of Maranello. The offices were stark, rectangular blocks rendered in ochre. Everything looked a bit shabby. The workshops through the arch beneath the ‘Ferrari’ sign sported broken windows. Odds and ends littered the courtyard.
Dr Gozzi’s office wasn’t plush either but its walls were a feast of history – race posters, books, and photographs bearing famous signatures. On a shelf was the melon-sized rock scuffed with red paint that some pissed-off Sicilian had flung in front of Jacky Ickx’s 312PB in the ’73 Targa, sending him crashing out. Ickx had imprudently dubbed Sicily a shitty place. Franco kept the rock for years ‘as an inflexible warning to anyone with a long tongue.’ It was a powerful message about the discretion and loyalty Maranello expected.
In a roomy workshop near the gate, grey-coated mechanics prepared race cars for customers; two Daytonas were there on my first visit. Doors led to the foundry where gleaming alloy hot from the moulds shone in the gloom. Stacks of webbed and finned gearbox housings, V12 blocks and piles of cylinder heads. An old man swept around them carefully.
Outside, mechanics perused the prototype Berlinetta Boxer, its grey paint scuffed from a long day’s testing. The Dino 308 GT4 prototype, similarly hard used, was there too, four months ahead of its launch. A metallic blue 365 GT4 2+2 eased out of a workshop. Franco introduced me to the dark, handsome young test driver Paolo Guidetti. We climbed into the GT4 and Paolo headed south for the hills.
He bided his time then, with a clear road, ran the 4.4-litre V12 out hard in second and third and settled into a relaxed cruise around 115mph in fourth. With his hands low on the rim, he shuffled the leather-bound wheel in practiced, unflustered style. He changed gear quickly but with fluid movements. Sometimes he pushed enough to nudge the tail into oversteer. He’d feel the messages at the wheel, and when the answer was right, his toes maintained the balance. I saw the poise of a good car, well-driven.
Back at the factory, in the bright and airy production buildings, casually dressed craftsmen toiled over rows of Daytonas and Dinos and an occasional 365 GT4 2+2. Their bodies had been trucked in from the carozzerie – Scaglietti for the Daytona and Dino; Pininfarina for the GT4 – to be mated with their mechanicals, and finished. The calmness was palpable; it was more like a warehouse of sleek, glistening shapes than a factory.
The machine room was more hectic. Billets of steel ready to be carved into crankshafts rested on the floor until their molecular structure stabilised. Components for the V6, V12 and flat-12 engines gleamed like mirrors before awesome rows of finished V12s toting downdraught Webers for the Daytonas and sidedraughts for the GT4, all awaiting the test benches.
In the test cells an engineer was running in a new 3-litre flat-12 F1 engine. It would be there for 22 hours, like all Ferrari engines. At low revs, its noise was like the staccato firing of light cannon. But beyond 5000rpm the sound blended into a prolonged roar. And then came that furious Ferrari howl. Before the engineer finished, the 12 would give 490bhp at 12,600rpm and have been pushed to its 13,000rpm limit.
The racing department was a shock – humble, long and narrow with the cars strung-out Indian-file on stands or calibrated benches and jigs. It seemed to lack the equipment you’d expect but no, it was all there, down the centre with the cars or in the numerous bays. Clinically clean, of course, and exuding a sense of urgency. The mechanics’ dedication and intensity was obvious.
Down the years, as Fiat’s holding grew from 50 to 90 per cent, its rising influence brought design, development and production efficiency to Maranello. The broken windows went; the buildings were smartened; automation transformed production; more operations came in-house; technology proliferated, and so did staff.
Ferrari grew up; its cars (mostly) got better and today it’s an impeccable, tech-packed factory that does ooze glamour. It will always be thrilling to go there but it’s not the same as knowing that, in one of those plain buildings, the Old Man who started it all is there, ruling with an iron hand.
Photography courtesy of Mel Nichols
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