Check It Out!

Tuesday night. Tübingen. Stuck in traffic. The city is clean, wet and cold. The Ferrari Roma rumbles and pops at low rev. Even at an idle, even with turbo tech, there’s no accusing this Ferrari of being weak in character. The presence is voluminous, the realization profound. All the more so in this city, where they demonize the combustion engine to such a degree that if you park illegally for just a few minutes, you get this uneasy feeling that even the sidewalks will report you to the authorities. At the wheel I inevitably become Prometheus, the eternal martyr chained to a stake where, tormented by a thousand lightning strikes, he ultimately cries out: “Ah! see the injustice I endure!”

We roll on, the length of one car, then stop again. A co-worker calls from the office. I pick up on speakerphone. His voice sounds a little tinny as it echoes through the Roma’s cabin. “Where are you?” he asks, and, without waiting for a response, he fires off a reproach: “You’re in the Ferrari, aren’t you?” He’s right, of course, but even as I’m thinking it, the same thing happens to me that always happens when I get my hands on the keys to a Ferrari: I start speaking with an Italian accent. “Eh ragazzo,” I say, prattling on. “You know how it issa. Bella donnas everywhere and me in da Ferrari. And I still gotta drive beautifula Madonna home.” My colleague doesn’t exactly see the humor in this and dryly tells me to cut the nonsense and get over to the office because the Ferrari is “urgently needed”. Yeah, I get it.

Easier said than done though.

Unfortunately, I can’t even see why we’re making such poor headway at this point. There’s a black SUV in front of me, and in front of that, slightly off to the side, a silver-gray SUV. Out of a sense of decency, I’m reluctant to name the brands. But their taillights are my horizon. And I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but even Prometheus was just a demigod, after all, and his fate the result of a private reckoning. This puts things into a bit of perspective. “Glamour is a country that no one ever gets to,” as French writer Frédéric Beigbeder so aptly reminds us. But at the wheel of a Ferrari, you can put up with this knowledge. That’s because a Ferrari suggests a villa in Corsica, a chalet in the Swiss Alps, a penthouse in New York, a private jet in Zurich, a yacht at anchor in Nice. Driving a Ferrari, I’m never just driving a Ferrari – it always feels a bit bigger. Either way, we need something to get our story’s development moving a bit faster than this sluggish city traffic. 

Let’s take the design. It looks fantastic even when we’re standing still. The Roma looks a little like the Thunderquack jet of comic hero Darkwing Duck. Except that the long beak – pardon: nose – curves downward, not upward, and the cockpit is set far back despite the presence of two (tiny) rear seats. That was my first unqualified impression as I was walking toward the car. But then I realized: You could fill entire books about the design of nearly every Ferrari, yet it’s the Ferrari tradition that a new model always stands on its own. The guys in Maranello have never and will never give us uninspired retro design. Those style-conscious Italians are far too proud and much too passionate about what they do. Thinking about who or what this new Ferrari might be reminiscent of is also limited in vision – or not. Though on second thought, the Ferrari Roma makes it especially difficult not to engage in comparisons. Motoring journalists have compared the Roma to an Aston Martin, to a Jaguar, to something. Jeremy Clarkson has even remarked that the car looks like Swedish actress Alicia Vikander. Then again, he is reminded of her by every other Ferrari he sees. Is it because of the cars?

The fact is: the Ferrari Roma is a Ferrari Roma. Period.

At some point, we start moving, and I still have no idea what took us so long. As a conscientious employee, I’m naturally reluctant to bring the Roma back with a half-empty tank. So to be on the safe side, I decide to drive it completely empty so I can fill it up afterward. Of course, that’s not possible in the city. Thanks to the infrastructure in and around Tübingen, I don’t have to travel far. As I reach the city limits, I have to curb my initial impulse, give a friendly nod to the speed camera, and then – pop, boom, bang – downshift from eighth to fourth using the left paddle. What the Roma’s 620 horses do at the swift command of the accelerator can be commended outright as confident, dynamic and irrepressible disobedience. This turbo-triggered ecstasy is rare in the league of sports cars. As I remember it, the McLaren GT, which at least on paper could be a twin to the Roma, seems far more modest. And modest isn’t necessarily the first thing that comes to mind when you think of a McLaren. Back in the Ferrari, I’m weaving my way through a couple of more uphill bends. Brakes, chassis, steering – all of it superb. And then: ding! The warning light for the fuel reserve works just fine as well. That didn’t take long.

So off to the watering hole for some high-octane refreshments. A Shell station. V-power racing at the liter price of a vintage wine. Only the best for this Italian racer.

A young man with a sparkle in his eyes approaches me almost subserviently. With his hoodie and sneakers, he looks fairly alternative at first glance, but a second look says the individual elements are too finely coordinated, the quality of the materials is too good, the beard too trimmed. He stealthily inquires about the Ferrari. And imagine that: he’s a little embarrassed, he says; he doesn’t know THIS one at all. “I don’t really keep up with the new models, I’m more familiar with the older ones.” And then he cheerfully names them off: F40, Testarossa, F355, 308, “. . . and of course the 250 GTO. The Roma looks a bit like a tribute to the 250 GTO.” “Hmm, now that you mention it . . .”

We do a little research on the Roma’s key specs because I don’t really have them on tap. Actually, I never do. I’ve always been more interested in the design and emotions of a car than in whether a smart chassis is able to solve crossword puzzles faster than the team at the local retirement home.

“Do you get a lot of stupid comments about the fuel economy when you drive a car like this?” my new friend asks as the gas continues to bubble merrily into the tank.

“Not really. Most of them just want to have a look or take a pic.” 

“But it’s not really in keeping with the times.” Wait, what? For a moment I think I’ve misheard, but then I immediately grasp the seriousness of the situation. What we’re dealing with here is a classic case of a youthful lack of education due to unreflective media consumption. I can’t let something like that happen. This poor young kid. 

I counter politely but firmly: “I don’t see it that way at all.” I gather myself inwardly to now impart great wisdom to this young person: “The sight of such a sports car makes people happy. That’s been scientifically proven. And in this day and age, we need things in our society that spread joy. That’s the only way to push back against the growing sense of despair.”

“Hmmm . . .”

“I believe that the well-to-do have an obligation to drive sports cars and supercars at every possible opportunity and to park them in the city for people to see. That’s their responsibility to society.”

My opposite raises his eyebrows, amused. “Tell that to Bill Gates,” he says.

“Bill Gates doesn’t count.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I read somewhere that Bill Gates pays five million dollars every year to compensate for his ecological footprint. And that of his family.”

“But that’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

“It’s neither good nor bad. Bill Gates can do whatever he wants. He doesn’t represent the salvation of humankind or our apocalypse. He is what he is, perhaps the richest man in the world. He can act like a Greek god, cruel and absolute – or selfless. He’s as distant to the rest of us as he is to a pair of new shoes. And somehow, he’s probably even distant to himself. There is a malignant charm in that. There’s no more progress with him. And what would it look like anyway? The most he can do is become his own idol.”

The young man looks at me questioningly. There was a logic to my explanations, wasn’t there? And I made an effort to be understandable and comprehensible. Then he starts talking again briefly, stops mid-thought, and begins again – with a question.

“So why’s the Ferrari blue?”

Just then my cellphone rings: it’s the editor-in-chief himself. Perfect timing. Now I really have to go.