The Saga of Searching and Snagging a Barchetta

A few short weeks ago I posted my desire to buy a Barchetta. Well, amazingly enough, I actually did it. Ever since I happened upon one years ago at the local dealer, I’ve considered it one of the most beautiful cars I’ve ever seen. In tandem with that was my desire to fulfill the admonition that Malcolm Forbes made during a TV interview long ago to the effect that every man should have a 12 cylinder car before they die.

It is interesting to trace the trajectory of the Barchetta. They were all sold before delivery and saw the attendant ridiculously high prices on the resale market. Then suddenly everyone noticed that they didn’t have much of a top. Everyone sold theirs, because, of course, it wasn’t practical and you couldn’t have that and the Superamerica was coming and so no one could possibly want a Barchetta and even CarMax wouldn’t take it if you gave it to them. Then the big, scary recession came and everyone thought the world was ending and prices collapsed further. When the world didn’t end, a few people started thinking that, okay, not every car has to be practical and it really is a fun, nice looking car and a manual to boot. There were a lot for sale last year and when there’s plenty to buy it’s easy not to buy because you think you’ll always have the chance. But prices have gone up a bit and there’s not so many for sale anymore. I didn’t want to be the guy who searches for a lifetime for “just the perfect car”. The guy who is still babbling as he trudges along with his walker, mumbling “Yessiree, I’m closing in on my car, any day, now, any day…”

There were only a couple of likely suspects. The one I was drawn to was in San Diego at Bobileff Motorcars. They had serviced the car since it came to California and it sounded pretty nice. It was my favorite color and had the Fiorano Handling Package and a Tubi.

I like a bargain as much as anyone, but I have come to realize that everyone in the world pays less for their cars than I do. And, to add insult to injury, they sell them for much more than I ever get. That, and everyone pays less for insurance. I don’t know just how it happens, but I can shop every insurance company known to Man, from the Wall Street biggies to some obscure carrier doing business out of a yak barn in farthest Tibet. Just when I think I have a reasonable deal I read about someone who has 12 reckless driving convictions, yet manages to insure their dozen exotics, the house, their yacht and their 737 for $99 for full coverage.

Using pointers gleaned from F-Chat I decided to coldly calculate the price of the car and to force, through unassailable logic, the seller to accept. Okay. Start with a Barchetta base price of $170,000 for a perfect example with no miles, no owners and notarized service records signed by the Pope. Ready? Here we go. Subtract $10K because it has had several owners. Another 10 because it’s sticky. The leather looks perfect, no shrinkage. That’s a red flag that it might shrink later. Minus $10K.

There is, brace yourself, a door ding. $10K of course. Take off 10 because it was driven too little in its early years. And of course, in kind of a Ferrari catch 22, take off another 10 because it has over 5,000 miles. The manual is slightly wrinkled, the tool kit case has a nick and the flashlight has no batteries, for another 10 off. Not sure when the power steering fluid has been changed. What, is there no regard for maintenance? 10 off and you’re lucky it’s not more. Another 10 because the car cover doesn’t have matching numbers. It was purchased later. Everyone knows a clean CarFax is no guarantee, so another 10. Tires are three years old - $10K.

It is not resale red, so we must absolutely take off another 10. And, horrors, it’s yellow, so for that, I’ve got to go down $20. In a shameful revelation of my unworthiness, I like yellow cars. I’ve seen Barchettas in several colors and, gulp, yellow is by far my favorite on that car. And the company I keep is no better. My friends, when shown pictures of various colors unanimously picked yellow. Until F-Chat I didn’t know that no one likes yellow and that all the unsold Ferraris that sit forever until turning into dust are there due to that unfortunate color. I know that the reasonable F-owner buys his cars for resale and is only, in effect, borrowing it from the next owner, in a pious, unselfish manner that would make Mother Teresa proud. Alas, I must be one of those devil-worshipping atheists, because I just don’t give much of a damn about coddling a flock of “next owners”. I’ll just have to pray (which will be of doubtful effect) that for the next owner I’ll be able to find someone as depraved as me.

You might have noticed that I’ve tended to do things in tens. That is admittedly for convenience and may not be accurate. The lack of accuracy demands punishment, so I’m taking off a further $10K. So, adding it up we can all conclude the car was only worth about $20,000. Unfortunately, in spite of my impeccable logic, I had to entertain the possibility that the owner might not see things my way.

So here’s what happened. I told myself that it was ridiculous to buy another car. I told myself it was doubly ridiculous to buy one without a top. I realized how inconvenient it would be to shuffle cars around, to register and insure them. I sat in the corner in the lotus position and practiced detaching myself from material goods. Then I thought “There’s no harm in calling and asking a question.” It’s Saturday, there’s probably no one there anyway. I made the call. Gary Bobileff answered. I immediately began incoherent stammering about wanting to buy the car. Oh, I was a tough customer. Did I negotiate a discount? You bet I did. In fact, if the price of oil falls a little more I might almost be able to full up the tank with my discount.

The car was delivered on a Tuesday morning in a covered trailer. The big auto transport companies took too long and would have driven my car all around the west before getting to me. So Bobileff had an independent they knew bring it. This was the kind of guy you want to deliver your car. It was in a single car trailer and he drove straight to Utah, stopping only once to catch a little sleep in his truck.

As we backed the car out of the trailer, neighbors started to emerge from their enclaves. Men’s lips trembled as they silently wept and wondered how I got my wife to let me do it. Women looked concerned and wondered why in the Hell my wife let me do it. They quickly turned their men around and ushered them back to their desperate minivanned existence.

I started it. The Tubi rumbled menacingly. I drove, the twelve cylinders enveloping me like a dozen hungry lovers determined to leave no pleasure zone unattended; yes, it’s true, the motor is that good…
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