The Ferrari French Quarter Classic. The most prestigious event of the year. Every year. 4 days of non-stop, in-your-face, VIP, no-holds-barred Ferrari. Couldnt make it to the first nights dinner with 5-star chefs cooking and an open bar, followed by a relaxed atmosphere in the VIP room ? Then surely you made it to Friday mornings track event. You know, the track event with the high-speed police escort through New Orleans, all the way out to the Grand Bayou Raceway. The custom-fitted, red-and-blue-lighted police bars on top of a 360 and a 355, transforming them into Ferrari police cars. Couldnt find a seat in the bleachers to watch the races ? Then you must have been taken to the stands in the sky. You know, the hot air balloon ride that gave you a birds eye view of the racetrack and the various exotica frantically circling it. It was too sunny for you ? So then you went and took a seat in John & Francos beautiful garage. Did you get a massage while you there ? There was a masseuse in the garage, giving massages to all who wanted one. VIP never felt so good. Whats that ? It was your first time bringing your F40 to the track and you wanted some instruction ? If GT champ Anthony Lazzaro couldnt help you, then former Formula One driver, Eric Van De Poole certainly could. Hes all too familiar with the F40. And who ever said girls dont like cars ? Every time I turned around, there was some beautiful woman walking by or rolling along in her Ferrari. It was almost as if Hugh Hefner had a Ferrari-themed party; gorgeous women, Ferraris, race cars, limousines, world-renowned cooking and there I was, in the middle of it all ! But I wasnt thinking about that at the moment. I wasnt really thinking about anything. John scurried past me, keys in hand, as I looked on in a mixed gaze of confusion and wonderment. Dead ahead in his path was an Enzo. A red one. He was walking straight toward it and had beckoned me to follow. Who was I to disobey ? Just then, his body made a sharp 90-degree left turn as he rounded the front drivers-side corner of the Breadvan. As he opened the door, he spoke: Cmon, get in I was speechless. I skipped through a stutter but managed to snap out a question as I stood by the passengers side door. In THIS car ? Yeah, he said, as his thin frame delicately DEScended into the cockpit. Disbelief stifled screams of joy but I rationalized the whole thing in my mind: Dude, this is probably a dream, I thought, so shut up and get in before you wake up! Anticipating fingers nervously looped over the door handle while an excited thumb poked at the button to release the door and open it. Monte, the owner, came over and instructed me on how to get in the car. Pockets! I thought. Empty your pockets! First rule of getting into a Ferrari, empty your pockets. I grabbed my camera from my pants and shoved it into some guys confused hands. Can you please hold that for me? Ill be right back. I stood with my back facing the car, bent at the waist and knees and eased my butt down into the seat. Clumsily, I shuffled my legs over the doorsill, into the car. The seat belt was a tight fit and it made me struggle before finally giving in. John was already buckled up and ready to go. Rather than on the steering column, the ignition is on the dash, to the right of the 6 gauges behind the steering wheel. Thats exactly where John aimed the key and before I knew it, this little 41 year-old racecar I so delicately slipped into roared to life with an authority Ive never heard before. The idle was loud and constant, its rumble resonating for what seemed like miles; anyone within earshot couldnt help but stare. The Breadvan is nothing like what it seems in pictures. Its tiny. Its lower to the ground than any photograph Ive ever seen, dictated. Its not the 60s station wagon-looking thing a camera makes it out to be. Its a real, 1960s Ferrari racecar. 1962, to be exact. Built off of a 250 GTO short wheelbase by Ferraris top people. But you wont find a prancing horse badge on the car. Instead, in its place on the fenders and in the back, youll find a sticker of a flag with the following below it: SCUDERIA SSS REPUBBLICA DI VENEZIA. The history behind this car is far more impressive than any other I encountered at the event. Mystery, sabotage, competition, intrigue its a car DEServing of its own, separate book. All these thoughts raced through my mind as John put the Breadvan in gear and made his way to the grid. We sat on the grid for just a moment, awaiting the okay that it was clear to get onto the track. The wire wheels, surrounded by thick rubber, rolled to a reluctant halt. The front-end 12-cylinder throated a lions growl, rumbling with impatience. Then, suddenly, the okay came. We were clear to get on the track. Still in gear, John eased off the clutch and on the gas. The decibel level increased with velocity and things only picked up from there once we merged onto the track. Barreling down the straight, the Breadvans engine cut into my chest with a bass-like shriek; the deafening roar, an alert to all who were on the track. No sooner than turn one was in front of us, it was behind us as John downshifted, worked the brakes and got back on the gas, headed towards turn two. Although it his first time driving it, John quickly adapted to the Breadvan; his mind and body working with powerless steering and an unforgiving, 41 year-old gearbox. His grasp on the reigns of this one-off beast were tight as he negotiated each twist and turn on the track. For a car that was already 17 years old by the time I was born, the acceleration and speed were impressive. The look, the feel, the essence of being on a racetrack in a true Ferrari racecar is second to nothing. But the sound; the sound emanating from this incredible machine is like nothing else Ive ever experienced. Out of the half-million or so words in the English language, I cant come up with one or even a string of a few, to accurately DEScribe my ride in the Breadvan. Difficult and impossible are the first two to pop into my head. Beyond that, Im struggling for a third word, ANY word. It was just that incredible. Twice around the track then back into the pits, most of the ride was a blur. My memory, shaken from the engines bellow, which still echoes in my head today. The thoughts from that day fudged and smeared from the speed and force of the ride. But Ill never forget that day; that ride, that car. The history is a cement in which the experience is planted, eternally introducing me to a new level of Ferrari, of which, I am now intimately aware.