Silver Nürburgring. These two words I keep thinking of as I open the shutter of the garage that holds for a dozen days the 550 Maranello that Luca and Samocar have made available to me for a thorough road test, on my street. The instrument reads 5,850 km when I pick it up at the salon in Via Smerillo, Rome. At the L'Aquila Est toll booth I see it at 5,999 km. It's all goosebumps with this car, starting with starting it. Do you know how the starter motor on these 1990s Ferrari V12s does it? If you don't know, pay attention to it the next time you happen to hear it start from the cockpit. It sounds like a car that has something important to say. And it says it. Punctually. I do these 100 meters outside the toll booth and the instrument reads 6,000 kilometers exactly. I feel guilty, I feel a fizzing sense of displeasure at making her lose her five-thousand virginity by going into the six. She, however, who has been used since 1999 to doing a few meters a time, under-torque, politely, pushing the high gears with all her 569 Nm, feels like she is on vacation. She tells me this every time we go out. So sleek and proper, in a gray suit, with overly quiet sport mufflers and very little experience, she feels on vacation. She is almost disappointed when on the highway I don't even indulge in a stretch of laps toward the red zone, but I have a hard time treating a young lady like that like the others. We look like the highwayman and the princess escaped from the tower. By job, however, I act as a bridge between motoring enthusiasts and these incredibly precious creatures, so her vacation will begin at some point, after the due couple of days of dutifully courting her. A first time can be right or wrong, beautiful or just necessary, it can teach you so much, with difficulty, or it can work like a well-calibrated mechanism. Cla-Clang.
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