Fortunately, the interior handle and door card on the driver’s side of Scott Chivers’ left-hook Testarossa spider is secure. Pull the handle on the passenger side and it comes off.
I am driving Ratarossa, a Ferrari Testarossa well-known by the internet. The car derives its name from the ‘recycled automotive transport’ exemplified by rusty Type 2 VWs and is the ultimate expression of Scott’s philosophy.
Its grey body is rough. The engine cover is barely secure, it’s been hit hard with the lowering stick. But the car’s original flat-12 engine and five-speed manual ‘box remain.
Scott bought it from a chap in California who was intending to restore it, but just never got round to it. All in – car, shipping, taxes – this Testarossa cost just £16,000.
It’s an amazing thing. And quite intimidating to get into. Nevertheless I make it into the driver’s seat, wearing the stringbacks Scott thinks are total Don Johnson.
I’m about to turn the ignition key but, first, let us pray. Down on my right is the famous Ferrari gate. I can’t wait. Reverse is down and forward; first, straight back. Better get those two right. I fire up the flat-12.
There’s a cacophony of mechanical gnashing and a delicious intake howl when you dare to blip the throttle. No wonder Scott’s elderly neighbour complained to the council.
The pedal box is for Formula 1 drivers in Sparco slippers. I’m wearing motorcycle boots. I practise telling my B from my A. C, the clutch, weighs a ton. So do the front wheels. I can barely operate the steering.
Pulling away is surprisingly smooth. First to second gear and beyond is a deliberate operation, although there is some spring bias to help tee the selector for each slot.
There’s no lag or hesitancy as the engine accepts the next cog. The temperature looks good and the blue smoke on start-up has cleared.
Given that its body has been stiffened with the equivalent of a garden gate, the Ratarossa feels surprisingly taut, at least at 40mph.
The brakes are firm but progressive too. The steering has lightened up but it’s not what you’d call quick. You have to wind on the lock nice and early to avoid ploughing straight on.
And is that petrol I can smell? “A small leak,” explains my co-pilot.