The day I met Enzo Ferrari: Part one

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.

Read part two