One man's trash is another man's treasure. From junkyard to warehouse, from country to country, from one man to another, one person's leftovers became another person's passion. The long and winding road that is the story of 0846 is riddled with bumps and potholes and detours. Age, time, wear and tear have taken their toll. However, even more fragile than this '60s legend is the truth behind it. Embrittled by a suspect history, a lot of so-called facts surrounding this car are murky at best. But nothing is clouding the owner; his passion lies not with the past, but with the present. Late Friday morning on February 20th, I received a private message from James Glickenhaus. The short, unsolicited query humbly asked if I was busy the following day. Below that was a phone number. The message was titled P4. I was excited, yet at the same time, hesitant to call; I was the only one in the office and the phones were ringing off the hook. The thought of having to put Mr. G. on hold wasn't one I wanted to entertain. I returned a few calls, then, when things seemed quiet, I nervously dialed his number. "Glickenhaus " " uh James ? Hi, it's Carbon " The conversation went very well. Later, in the afternoon, I got a call from Bruce. "You comin' out or what ?" "I'll be there; let me ask you a question I spoke with James Glickenhaus earlier; he invited me out to see his P4 Said I could bring a friend; you wanna come ?" "Absolutely!" "Great; see you tonight " After work, I went to Bruce's house. We hung out but ended the night conservatively. Tomorrow was going to be a big day. The next morning, we were up by 11 and out by Noon. A quick stop for go juice (and a cherry Coke) and we were on our way. By 2:30 we pulled up to the address James gave me over the phone the day before. As we exited the car, we were approached by a man. "Can I help you gentleman?" "Yeah, we're here to see James Glickenhaus." "Oh, ok go down there and through that door." Bruce and I walked toward a very nondescript door. There was no indication of what would be inside; no indication of what we anticipated. When I opened the door, my eyes quickly surveyed the room; my brain barely had time to register what I was looking at before my heart rate quickly doubled. I couldn't believe I was here. I walked in and Bruce followed behind. "Hey, you made it!" James said as he warmly greeted Bruce and I. From there, the conversation just took off. Mr. G. was more than happy to answer all of our questions. Every time I saw something and didn't know what it was or what it was for, he was only too happy to explain it to me. I couldn't stand still in the shop. After being there for about 10-15 minutes, I had a headache from sheer excitement. I kept pacing around the shell of the P4. A hollow body, motionless, was waiting to join its counterparts. It was truly breathtaking. Every line, every curve, every angle of that body had a purpose. James showed us a book of pictures of 0846, at different stages of its lifetime. This car, this magnificent Ferrari racecar, had seen so much history and created that much more. My eyes darted back and forth, from the pictures in the book, to the car, right next to me. I was in awe. Although the body was propped up, it wasn't hard to realize how low to the ground it would be once completed. The distance from the bottom of the car to its dome left very little room for anything, let alone a twelve cylinder engine, a driver, a spare tire and other racing essentials. Trying to imagine exceeding 200mph in this tiny, exotic creation was more than I could fathom. I had to take it all in doses. I'd ogle the body for a few minutes, then re-direct my attention to something else. Only a few feet away was the chassis. Hollow, steel tubes symmetrically running in every direction. A skeletal body that was nakedly incomplete. Looking at the mass as a whole, it was easy to get confused and overwhelmed. However, if you looked closely, paying attention to each section, separately, you could almost understand it all. Various shapes in various places told me where the gas, clutch and brake pedals would go. Further up, thin, metal tubes carved invisible nothingness into shapes where the gauges would be. It was obvious where the seat would go once it was put in. What became even more obvious, though, was just how much work goes into a restoration of this magnitude. Speaking with Sal & James, I realized just how much time, effort, attention to detail, blood, sweat, tears and research goes into a project like this. After 4 years, it's almost done. Towards the corner of the room was the engine. It was huge! Twelve cylinders of vintage Ferrari voracity and pipes that urged the vociferous personality therein, had a presence all its own. The proper definitions and terminology that go along with describing such a thing are beyond me, so just do this: think about the fiercest, loudest, most fear-invoking thunder you've ever heard in your life and imagine standing mere inches away from what makes that thunder. I've never heard a P4 in person or seen one in motion but the sound clips I've heard are only a fractional indication of the audible wonders this engine must symphonize. There was more detail than my poor, overworked memory could retain; I tried to comprehend but my mind just went blank. Bruce threw questions at James and James threw answers right back. I was only half listening though, as the rest of my concentration was hell bent on keeping up with my eyes as they traced every wire, angle, curve, hole and indent of the engine before me. It was a huge pile of intricately pieced-together materials that compelled itself into the history books. And it was all right in front of me. Bruce and I spent an hour and a half at Mr. G.'s shop. James pointed out different parts and different pieces of parts to us, explaining what their purpose is. How they worked, what their function was and so on. In a P4, nothing is for show; everything has a purpose. The best part of this whole thing was that it wasn't mapped out. Bruce and I were not two of many invitations, blindly sent out; nor did we submit applications "for a viewing". Mr. G. invited us out, privately, to check out his racecar merely because he knew we like it. He didn't tell us to look around as we pleased while he ran off to tend to something else; he showed us around; he tended to us. This wasn't a club event or a museum show, it was three friends, hanging out and shooting the breeze. About a ridiculously awesome car. Next to that, the purest thing in that room was James' obvious passion for his P4. He showed us the original wheels, the slicks, the street tires and the spare body. This car isn't going to sit in his living room; it will soon see the road, once again. James has not concerned himself with the trivial suppositions surrounding his car. He bought it, with no idea, hint, inclination or hope that it might be 0846. He purchased it for the sole reason of wanting a P4 to restore and, one day, drive on the street. In the course of restoration he came to believe that parts of the original chassis of 0846, the 1966-built Ferrari P3 that was converted to a P3/4 in 1967 before going on to win Daytona, are incorporated into his chassis. I could go on and on about the extensive, catalogued records that Mr. G. opened up to Bruce and I. Invoices, registrations, confirmations, correspondence, names, numbers, people, places, etcetera. I could explain to you, in detail, the various minutiae that James physically showed us. Points that Bruce and I wouldn't even know to look for; things we would've otherwise missed. But then I would just entangle all of us in a twisty skein of misinformation and half-truth circuitry, rewiring the entire point of James' hard work. His effort lies not within proof of what he has, his time and passion are a coupled, laborious union of what he wants. He hasn't shown us what we think WE WANT; he's shown us what he knows HE HAS. And the passion that we all know quickly becomes embrittled by a hunt for something that's not there. In his own words: "I don't care; when I'm gone, my kids'll get it and then my grandkids will get it. Let THEM deal with it. I just wanna enjoy the damn thing." My deepest thanks and appreciation go out to you, Mr. G. That day is a day forever burned into my memory.