I answered the siren song of the Simeone Foundation Museum in part because of this car. Like most car enthusiasts I have an appreciation for the greats, the iconic tools of speed that have acted as mile markers in the evolution of the automobile, and the 250 GTO is about as great as they get. It was one of the last sports racers to be livable on the road, the only place I'd ever glimpsed one before.
During a trip to Washington DC in 2008 I was out sightseeing with my wife and my father when in the distance I saw two gleaming, gloriously red cars in a crawling river of beige turds. I squinted to see and refused to believe what I saw: a 250 GTO stuck in traffic, being followed by a 575 Superamerica. Not possible.
I sprinted toward the cars, leaving my wife and father shaking their heads (and commenting how they'd never seen my fat ass move so quickly), and ran for the cars. Traffic was slow enough, and I was excited enough, that I waded right onto an active roadway with my camera at the ready. I got a couple of decent shots, including the one below. I thought I would never see a 250 GTO again until years later when I heard about the Simeone Museum on Jay Leno's Garage.
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| A unicorn in the wild: Ferrari 250 GTO in Washington DC traffic, 2008. |
I felt as though I was trying to be in awe, rather than actually being in awe. I understood just how rare and valuable the cars in front of me are and trying to do the mental math of just how valuable the collection currently is made me dizzy. But something was missing. Eventually I realized two things: first, that race cars at rest are boring to me; and second, that I believe they are boring at rest because of how my love for cars manifests itself.
Now, keep in mind that the museum, which is a wonderful place for any enthusiast, realizes that these cars are better seen running, and their demonstration days are always packed with automotive pilgrims. They fire up a handful of the cars and run them around the three-acre parking lot behind the museum and they have a garage on site to maintain the collection. They are unique in this regard and I'm thankful for what Dr. Fred Simeone has done with his collection. I didn't go on a demonstration day though and in some ways I'm glad I didn't; I'm not sure I would have learned as much about the nature of my passion for cars.
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| The Simeone Museum's 250 GTO. |
When I stopped at the GTO I remember thinking, "It's so... small. And quiet." It was as still and quiet a thing as I think I've ever seen and it was made quieter by the fact that when running it makes as glorious a sound as any car ever has. To use that horrible cliche, the silence was deafening.
I was disappointed, but I wasn't sure why. It is beautifully designed, historically significant and handsome in its blue and white paint scheme. At first I thought that my brief encounter in DC was a fluke, that my excitement had been generated by the unexpected sighting more than the car itself. Was Simeone's GTO somehow less exciting to me because I'm older now and more jaded about cars? No, that wasn't it: I still turn off the radio in my car and roll the windows down when I see a ferrari or McLaren blasting up behind me. I'm still giddy for cars. So what was it?
I didn't fully realize why I felt disappointed until days later, when I put some serious thought into why exactly I love cars. I realized that cars to me are the result of an impossible alchemy, living beings created from inanimate objects. These inanimate objects--engines, wheels, sheet metal--are disparate things until they are animated by fuel, air and spark. Once they are running and moving, they become so much more than "art" in the museum sense. They are alive.
To really appreciate a car, I need to see it and hear it in action. I need to hear it scream and watch it slide around corners. I need to be shown rather than told why they are spectacular. I realized that like a plane sitting on the ground with its engines off, or a bird trapped by the nets in an aviary, the 250 GTO in the Simeone Museum cannot truly shine for me until I see it move and hear it breathe.
Of the two, sound or motion, sound is far more important to me. Given the choice between seeing a Lamborghini Gallardo sitting in a parking lot or hearing its V10 screaming in the distance, and never seeing the car, I'll take the sound any day.
As a child I would try and identify cars solely by their sounds and I still do. When I hear a car on full song, it is as if the sound waves travel through me, altering my cells in the way that dopamine does. My mood is elevated and I'm connected to the car as though I were driving it.
Sound and motion are as crucial to how I experience cars as touch is to a blind man. Without them a car isn't whole. I can appreciate the craftsmanship that goes into each great car, and I understand their static beauty from an intellectual standpoint, but it's not enough. I actually felt sad seeing these beautiful machines sitting silent. It was like watching an aging athlete limp into a room looking small and withered when all you've ever known of him is the footage of his youthful accomplishments.
I learned a lot about my love of cars at the Simeone Museum and I plan on returning for a demonstration day so that the awe I hoped to feel can be realized. I know that hearing those great cars will mean more to me than seeing them ever could have.
