I have long argued that cars are machinery first, and art second. With the very rare exception of pure show cars, they were designed to be driven, not to be displayed for gawking passersby. It is only through the use of a car that its underlying magnificent strengths and disappointing weaknesses emerge.
Our Ferrari is nearly 40 years old, and is even somewhat collectible, being one of 50 cars built with the 4-liter motor in the 250 GTE chassis. But the 1962 330 America is not restored, it's still a driver, as it was when born. And each time I fire it up to run an errand I am reminded of the exultant way the Ferrari claims its space.
Noisy, raucous, belligerent, confrontational. I think back to the early '60s, and an Italian autostrada peppered with Bianchinas struggling to hit 60 mph, and the feeling the captain of the Ferrari must have had as he swept through at 120 mph, scattering them in his wake.