In 1998 I got a peek behind the curtains at Ferrari of Houston...

I was wondering the other day about what were some of the key influences that really got me interested in cars and racing as a young guy, particularly Ferraris. Some of those moments are still pretty clear. Any kid who loved cars and grew up in the eighties worshiped the F40 and the 959. The battle of those two even spilled over into the digital world. I burned countless hours playing The Duel: Test Drive II on my uncle's Commodore Amiga (state of the art at that time), switching back and forth between the two cars, relentlessly trying to set a better time while putting the virtual cops in the rear view. The Countach? A cartoon for the uninitiated masses. Best experienced as a fantasy on your bedroom wall, right next to your poster of Farrah and Roger Clemens. Besides, when did they ever race that thing?

It's easy to remember that my obsession with F1 was sparked from reading about the Prost v. Senna wars in monthly installments of Road & Track at about that same time. I became a huge fan of Senna then and I still am today. Going to Suzuka for the Japanese GP twenty years later and getting within inches of his MP4/6 on display was a dream come true.

But one day, October 3rd, 1998, stands out as being particularly special. I was still a fairly recent college graduate and was just beginning to scrape together a little dosh for the first time in my life, so naturally it was getting spent on cars and racing-related pursuits. CART was still in its heyday then, so I was excited when I found out they'd be staging a race in Houston for the first time that October. Tickets were quickly acquired. Me and my old college roommate (still a close friend) woke early on that Saturday morning, piled our gear into his Civic, and sped down from Austin to Houston to make it to the track in time for qualifying.

We pulled into downtown Houston a few hours later and parked the car in a lot just as the last practice session had gotten underway. Anticipation was running high because neither of us had gotten the chance to attend a major race series event before. I'll never in my lifetime forget the sound of those turbocharged V8s echoing off the concrete canyon walls as we stepped out of the car! The plan was to rendezvous with some of our friends from Austin that had come in the day before, one of which was a cousin of Jimmy Vasser. There had been whispers the week before about the possibility of the fabled "hook up". We were practically running down the street toward the gates. I was at an actual CART race!

We met up with our friends inside and had a great time watching qualifying from the stands. We were only a little disappointed that Matty wasn't able to get us into Ganassi's VIP area in the paddock because it had been a great day with even more to come on Sunday. As a consolation prize, however, he did manage to get us some one-on-one time with Vasser back in the lobby of the hotel near the track where all the drivers were staying. We quickly made our way over and waited patiently for him to come down. Was that Mario Andretti and his wife walking by?! Vasser eventually came down and greeted us all. I was awestruck...I was meeting a real pro driver I'd been watching on TV for years. He looked like the stereotypical Californian: tan, fit, sunglasses pushed up on his head. For some reason I was surprised at how short he was. I asked him how qualifying went and he said the conditions were tough--it was pretty hot on the track, the streets were extremely bumpy, and he was having problems with traction all day. But he was happy to have out-qualified his teammate Zanardi and start a solid third. I still have my Saturday ticket that he signed for me that day. What a great guy.

After Vasser left we all agreed we would meet back at my friend's Dad's place in town where he was putting us all up for the weekend. The pizza was on him.

We made our way back to the car and started the long slog through traffic over to the house. My famously impatient friend, still pumped up on methanol fumes and zinging the Civic's VTEC engine to redline every chance he got, decided he would take a "shortcut" to get us back before everyone else. It just so happened that shortcut was to take us past the Ferrari of Houston dealership that day. My friend looked over and said, "Should we stop?" Sure, why not! You don't stop rolling the dice when you're this hot!

So there we were, two college age kids pulling up into the parking lot of an actual Ferrari dealership in our little white Honda. We got out of the car and sheepishly headed towards the showroom floor, tickets in lanyards still hanging around our necks, proud tokens of the day’s earlier events. To say that we were more than a little intimidated would be an understatement. In my head I kept imagining some exotic car dealership equivalent of a maitre d' in a tuxedo stopping us at the door and asking for our bank statements before we could enter. Mi dispiace molto, signore.


Of course that wasn't the case. One of the salesmen greeted us and told us it would be no problem to look around and to let him know if we had any questions. We made our way around the floor admiring all of the cars, keeping a respectful distance and speaking about them in hushed and reverential tones. After we'd had our fill we thanked the salesman and showed ourselves out.

But a funny thing happened on the way back to our car. A siren's song--the distinctive, urgent wail of a revving V12 being put through its paces--drew us toward the gate leading to the back of the dealership. But this was no ordinary mechanical music. Oh, no. No street engine sounded like that. It was obviously a race engine...but what was it attached to? My friend looked at me and I looked at him. The gate was wide open.

The temptation was just too great. We looked over our shoulder and stepped through to the other side. Any imagined consequences of being in well over our heads were rendered powerless by the siren's tune. This was automotive Valhalla. And we'd just snuck in through the back door.

Walking with as much mock confidence as possible we made our way towards the source of the sound. We came to the door of the garage area and stopped. There it was right before our eyes: a red Ferrari 333SP with its rear bodywork off and a handful of mechanics huddled around it tuning the engine. We both, of course, knew the car well. We sat there quietly for minutes watching them go about their work, too mesmerized to speak. That is until a tap on the shoulder from behind snapped me out of my trance-like state and back to reality.

I turned around to find a tall, slim man with slightly curly hair, probably in his early thirties, staring back at me. "What are you guys doing? You can't be back here." I think I stuttered out something resembling a "sorry" and tried to muster the best gee-I-can't-believe-I-was-speeding-officer look of remorse and amazement as I could. The game was up and we were busted. Like all gamblers, we'd rolled the dice one too many times that day. I imagined the police were already on their way. We'd be spending Sunday in a Houston jail cell for trespassing while our friends would be hanging out with models in the Ganassi hospitality area and enjoying the race. Do you know what they do to boys like you who sneak into Ferrari dealerships uninvited? I'm too pretty to go to jail!

We must have looked pretty pathetic because he quickly followed that up with, "You just have to be supervised while you're on the property. C'mon, I'll show you around." Wait, what? Did that just happen?

He proceeded to take us over to the 333SP and let us watch the mechanics tune the engine for a while. Lord, was that thing loud! Like twelve of Thor's hammers beating at your eardrums and chest simultaneously. He explained that they were preparing to take the car to Road Atlanta for the first ever Petit LeMans. After that he took us into a room on the other side of the garage where they stored "customer cars". I felt like I'd been led into one of the inner chambers of King Tut's tomb. There were dozens of modern and vintage Ferraris lying around. Some were even covered in a light layer of dust looking like they hadn’t been driven in years. There was a partially exposed F40, an F40!, peaking out from behind a cover. Several F355 Challenge cars were lined up against another wall. “This one belongs to one of the princes of the Saudi royal family. He drives it when he’s in Houston.” Was that a 250TR over in the corner?

We stayed and chatted with our impromptu tour guide for another fifteen minutes or so until he said he had to go. We thanked him effusively for everything, shook his hand, and made our way back to the car. We drove out with giant grins on our faces, astonished by our good fortune and already reliving everything we’d just seen.

When we walked into our friend’s house everyone stopped. “Where have you guys been? The pizza got here an hour ago.”

Well, you’re never going to believe what happened to us…

Some days are better than others. Yes, some days are pure gold.

 

Thanks guys. It was a fun experience and I remember it well. Would love to hear other people's stories, too.

 

Hilarious. I literally laughed out loud at that part.

Thanks, John. I used to do a little freelance writing for some of the local rags in Austin for extra cash when I was in school but I haven't done that for a long time. Every once in awhile I try to see if I can still put paragraphs together in the internet age of shorthand communication.

I'd like go back to pay them another visit. This time I won't be afraid of running into the maitre d'.