THE FERRARI
Mark's 1967 275GTB (3.3 litre)
Top Speed: 170mph+ in fifth gear
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(Intro to Get Out of My Mind from the SOMETHING HAPPENING CD)
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Reprinted from the January 1997 issue of
Mark Lindsay's Steppin' Out newsletter...
ME AND THE GRAND PRIX
(MADNESS in MONACO)
by: Mark
When I was growing up in Idaho in the early 60's,
my only personal experience with
imported four-wheeled vehicles was spotting a few VW's and one or two Volvos.
The
VW's looked to me like - okay, I'll say it! - BUGS! And the Volvos reminded
me of
three-quarter-scale '48 Fords. A flash of MG and a fleeting glance at a Sunbeam
Tiger
completed my repetoire of non-Detroit iron.
My main exposure to exotic foreign ground-based metal missiles was through articles
and mouth-watering photos in sportscar 'zines. By the time I was 16 or so, I
had narrowed
my fantasy choice down to Italy's famous high-strung Ferrari family, or perhaps
a Porsche
907. (This low but imposing silver bullet had been taking a lot of checkered
flags at the time.)
Sadly, I had dismissed the Mercedes Marque, as they had retired from competition
in 1957.
The hydraulically-actuated air brakes, which had slowed and stabilized many
a Stuka dive
bomber in WWII, had been incorporated into the design of Mercedes' fastest Grand
Prix
racers. One had somehow misfunctioned during a competition and the resulting
accident
involving spectators caused the carmaker to withdraw from racing.
Fast-forward to 1966. "Where the Action Is" was running five days a week on
ABC, and
The Raiders had successfully broached the Top Ten. And, one fine day, the CBS
royalty
department finally sent me a check. Wow! Just for making the music I loved!
It suddenly
occurred to me - I could at long last purchase the car of my dreams! But, oh,
the conflict!
. . . What's it gonna be? The Porsche or the Ferrari?
At my earliest opportunity I dropped in to the nearest Ferrari dealership, Hollywood
Sports
Cars, conveniently located a few short blocks from the CBS Recording Studios.
Boy, was
I in luck! One of the salespersons, Dave, just happened to be an ex-racer himself.
As I
explained my dilemma, he brightened. "Come with me," he said, and trying not
to brush
against any of the shiny new Ferraris on the showroom floor, I followed him
through a
door into the shop area. There were several sleek sporty specimens being hoisted,
lubed, rubbed, tinkered with, inspected, and/or pampered. Dave led me to a blunt
metallic
silver bomb. It was a Porsche 907. "This is one of Steve McQueen's cars."
"Wow," I said, trying to act cool.
"Go ahead, try it on," suggested Dave.
He didn't have to ask twice. I began my convoluted entrance. It was like trying
to fit into a
personal 3-D puzzle. I was finally able to cram my lanky frame behind the wheel,
but my
knees were folded into my chest and I couldn't find the brake or clutch pedal
without
squirming and stretching. Crawling ungracefully out onto the floor, I stood
up, popping my
joints. Dave didn't say a word; he didn't have to. Alas, the Porsche and I were
not
compatible - it wasn't even close! But I was still awe-struck by having placed
my Idaho
farm-boy butt on the same leather where Steve McQueen's jeans had been. It occurred
to me
that Steve looked pretty tall on the silver screen, taller than he was in "real
life" judging from
his car, IF indeed this was his car. But I really had no cause to doubt Dave;
after all, he rubbed
shoulders with Hollywood's finest, didn't he? As if to confirm this, he briefly
excused himself,
and then walked up to and handed a set of keys to Tony Curtis. Tony slid into
his Bentley
convertible and, donning his tan doeskin driving gloves, drove through a sliding
garage door that
magically rose and then decended just after the Bentley's back bumper had cleared
the portal.
I was stunned. Here I was, surrounded by cinema icons and the actual machines
that ferried
them to and from the studios, the Oscar Awards, lunch at The Brown Derby, and
dinner with
Audrey Hepburn. It was almost too much for a high school dropout from the wilds
of Idaho.
I stood there swaying gently in the ambiance of high-octane fumes and platinum
personalities.
Dave gently broke my reverie.
"Perhaps you'd like to look at something in a Ferrari?" he inquired. "The new
275 GTB's
have excellent leg space." Like a puppy, I followed Dave the expert back onto
the showroom
floor. After a brief history of the prancing horse, I slipped easily into the
cockpit of a sleek
red 275 GTB. From my slightly prone position, there was plenty of leg room.
And with the
seat fully extended, the wooden steering wheel was not quite at arm's length,
the perfect
distance. Hand-sewn Italian leather seats carressed my unworthy buns in a firm
grip.
However, the hood seemed impossibly long . . . well, I reasoned, you can't shoehorn
in
a V-12 just anywhere . . .
My eyes found the gauges - the tach was red-lining at 7500. "You could occasionally
take it
to 8000 or 8500," murmurred Dave, "Just momentarily, of course - and when freshly
tuned!"
I nodded my assent. And then I saw the speedometer - 300 kilometers per hour
- man, that
was FAST! I managed to stand up and walk around the sculptured art form in what
I hoped
was a casual manner. (My soul had been shaken; my heart had been stirred. I
felt just like
James Bond.) "I'll take it," I said. "Well, unfortunately, this particular vehicle
is already sold to,
ah, Roman Polanski, I believe. But you can have the next 275 that comes into
the country."
"This model?! This color?!"
"Of course," assured Dave, and I pulled out my checkbook.
The few weeks until my Ferrari hit the docks, cleared customs, and was pre-serviced
for
delivery dragged on until finally, Dave called. "She's here!" he announced.
That evening,
about twilight, I cautiously eased the long nose of the blood-red racer out
onto the streets
of tinsel-town. I couldn't resist cruising up Hollywood Boulevard and back down
Sunset.
Strangers waved, smiled, and honked; and no one tried to cut in front of me!
I could feel
power and confidence as man and machine became a cohesive unit.
As I approached Vine Street, the marquee of the Hollywood Cinedome caught my
eye:
GRAND PRIX it shouted in vivid red letters. Grand Prix? My lucky day - a racing
movie!
And then God smiled. A car pulled away from the curb right in front of the box
office, and
an empty parking space was revealed. It had to be the only open slot on the
Boulevard for
miles. This had to be divine Providence!
I slid into the vacancy and shut off the purring V-12. I looked at my watch
- the movie
was starting in just a few moments. After locking the doors, I moved through
the crowd
that was gathering to admire the red laquered aluminum body. Suddenly, a uniformed
usher
approached me. "Please come with me, sir!" He led me past the long line of ticket
buyers
into the theatre lobby, where he handed me a pass. "This is a complimentary
ticket for you,
sir. Please enjoy the movie!" Who on earth did he think I was?
I took a seat in the fourth row center. The movie began with the thump of a
loud heartbeat,
which was gradually drowned out by the sound of Grand Prix Formula 1 racing
engines . . .
starting, revving, roaring, screaming, and then they were OFF! The first sequence
was a
montage of shots of the Monaco Grand Prix. The international cast of actors,
which included
James Garner, Yves Montand and Toshiro Mifune, was supplemented by professional
race
drivers - many of them my childhood heroes: Phil Hill, Graham Hill, and the
list went on - the
creme de la creme of the world's racing elite. After Monaco, the drivers raced
at all the
famous tracks on the Grand Prix circuit, racking up points toward that year's
"big win."
When the final credits were finished rolling, I got up and floated outside to
my waiting scarlet
chariot, the same model that had won for Ferrari at LeMans. I started the engine
carefully and
warmed up the oil to operating temperature. Only then did I roar away in a scream
of whirling
overhead cams and spinning tires. At 65 miles an hour I snicked the five-speed
into second
gear and continued to accelerate. At 85, I got on the brakes and managed to
stop at the red
light. I had gone less than a block. I decided to take the long way home, and
somehow
managed not to fly off the corners on Mulholland. As I raced home, yes indeed,
my guardian
angel was working overtime that night!
Reprinted from the February 1997 issue of Mark Lindsay's Steppin' Out newsletter...
Madness In Monaco
Part Deux
Last month I left you with the image of my guardian angel hovering fretfully
above me,
and zooming down to push me and my new red toy back on the narrow, winding two-lane
every time centrifugal force threatened to launch me into oblivion. I'm sure
the angel was
shining with sweat and asking for reassignment by the time I turned the key
and stopped
all the prancing horses doing their "V-12 thing" under the hood.
The house I shared with Terry Melcher was at the end of Cielo Drive off Benedict
Canyon.
Benedict Canyon twisted and turned up from Beverly Hills and down to "The Valley",
with
Mulholland Drive at the apex. Turn right at the top and it was six quick miles
to Hollywood,
turn left, just keep drivin', and evntually - voila! - the blue Pacific. Mulholland
was the perfect
course to play "speedracer", and this is where the unofficial Beverly Hills
Grand Prix was
held several times a week. My competition was usually Terry in his black '67
Jaguar XKE,
as we fought to get to the CBS studio in world-record time (and on several occasions,
I'm
sure we did!) But sometimes my adversary would be Dennis Wilson, who had a Ferrari
identical to mine in every way except color -- his was silver; mine, of course,
was Ferrari
racing red. Even though our "steeds" were evenly matched, I always figured the
advantage
was mine, because hadn't Enzio Ferrari himself declared, "The only color a Ferrari
should
be is RED! The color of blood!"?
I had more close calls than I care to remember, but somehow I managed not to
lose any of
my blood or body parts in the process. I did manage to accumulate numerous speeding
tickets, though, so instead of blood pouring from my veins, money gushed from
my
wallet -- another altogether painful proposition.
Eventually, I sold the "red bomber" in the mid-eighties to a man from Arizona.
I figured
the prancing horses deserved to run in the wide open spaces, and LA had become
increasingly choked with more vehicles than would fit on all of the highways
and by-ways
(including Mulholland.) Since there was no place to drive safely in Los Angeles
County,
the Ferrari had been on blocks in the garage for a couple of years. One of Enzio's
finest
had given me much pleasure (and more than one adrenaline rush), and I hated
to see it go
to waste. The man made me an offer I couldn't refuse, so I reluctantly sold
my dream. I
regretted it the next day, but I have never been able to locate the "man from
Arizona" who
paid with a cashier's check. So if anyone knows the whereabouts of my red '67
275GTB,
serial number 08853, please get in touch!
In December, Deb and I actually took a week off from phones, faxes, computers,
and
synthesisers. (Thanks, Santa!) We made a whirlwind visit to France, spending
two days
in Paris, then taking the train down to the South of France. We stayed in Nice,
which shares
the coastline of the Mediterranean Sea with Cannes and the miniature principality
of Monaco.
It was off-season, so the hotels were not crowded, and we managed to get a suite
with a
million-dollar view.
We rented a red Fiat Punto, and the next morning we were off to Monaco. I jokingly
told
Deb that since Ferrari and Fiat had merged, our little car was at least a distant
cousin to a
real fire-breathing Ferrari. Never mind that the genuine item had a top speed
two or three
times greater than our present set of wheels -- this was, after all, a five-speed,
and as I shifted
up and down through the gears, I pretended that the wheel in my hands had a
wooden rim
and a horn button with a black prancing horn emblem . . .
Then it sank in! I was on the road to Monaco! The tunnel we had just buzzed
through was
the very tunnel that all the race cars had flashed through in Grand Prix, the
movie!
. . . slow fade . . . . . .
Cut to medium close up: the cockpit of a vintage Formula 1 racing car. Mark
Lindsay is on
the business end of a small steering wheel, wearing a hemet and racing goggles.
He grits his
teeth as he fights the g-forces in a tight turn . . . . . .
The wind buffetted against my helmet, but I couldn't hear anything except the
high-revving
V-12 and the roar of the unmuffled exhaust pipes. I shot a brief glance to my
right. Deb! --
What was SHE doing here??! This was a one-seater! How was she managing to hang
on --
wouldn't the wind blow her off at 200mph? But I couldn't worry about that now
-- a sharp
right-hand corner was coming up.
I drifted into the turn, gently playing the throttle with my foot, trying to
keep from breaking
loose and crashing into the rocky cliff on my left, or spinning into the sea
on my right. I
made it! I shifted up and stomped on the "go pedal" -- I was flying! Suddenly,
out of
nowhere, VROOM! I was passed in a flash by a silver Mercedes -- wait a minute,
no fair!
Mercedes had retired from racing, hadn't they??
With a jolt I came back to the present. Deb was still there, but she was inside
the car, sitting
beside me (clutching whatever she could.) And the "wooden" wheel, well, it was
just black
plastic. But I hadn't been dreaming about the silver Mercedes -- there he was
ahead of us,
growing smaller each second as he accelerated. And I wasn't just "Sunday driving",
either.
I was over the speed limit by at least 50 kilometers per hour, a little oversight
that Deb had
just brought to my attention. So how come, if I was going so fast, I had just
been passed like
I was moving backwards? And then it happened again -- ZOOOOOM! This time it
was a
Citroen, for God's sake. How could I be so outclassed and outpassed?
I pushed the whole incident away for a while, and Deb and I enjoyed the rest
of our outing,
which included a trip to the casino and walking in the footsteps of Prince Rainier
and his
American princess Grace Kelly.
On the flight back home a few days later, high above the Atlantic, I developed
a theory.
Yves Montand was a huge cinematic idol in France in the sixties. Obviously,
almost everyone
in the entire country saw Grand Prix when it first came out, and a cult was
born, devoted
to the romance of fast cars and Monaco's famous race. The movie must have been
run and
re-run in underground cinemas until the VCR was born, and then it was immortalized
on
videotape -- to be passed on to succeeding generations of speed-hungry French
people,
who crave the scent of high-octane racing fuel and burnt oil, just as les gastronomiques
long for crusty white French bread, rich ripe Camembert cheese, and fine red
Burgundy
wine. The French are a most passionate people. Now, when I reminisce about my
brief "
speed affair" with the two strangers on the road to Monaco, I no longer feel
velocity-challenged.
With so much at stake, I never had a chance!
---MARK
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