OK, sorry, Kevin (and Jim), but here's yet another off-topic post.
But it touches on a lot of those off-topics we've drifted into here.
At Cars and Coffee this morning, here was one of those '$ no object' cars that any red-blooded car guy will, by nature, lust after - a 1959 Ferrari Testarossa.
Except it probably wasn't really, because I didn't see any Brinks guards stationed around it and we lumpenproletariat were allowed to belly up and spill our morning coffees on it.
But damn, somebody had done a pretty bang-up job of recreating a mofo Testarossa. Frame tubes, body panels, instrumentation, perspex windscreen, open-gated gearchange. Under the hood was a gen-u-whine Colombohmygod V-12, with the requisite surfeit of velocity stacks and Weber carburetion.
This would definitely be more motivating to drive than my little, ersatz Speedy.
But the question lingers. What the devil would I do with this thing if it were parked in my garage - let alone a real Testarossa? Take it to coffee Sunday morning?
As cool a machine and arguably as much a work of art as it is, there's that butthole factor looming large here. Would I have to wear a bag over my head every time I took it out? I know my wife wouldn't be caught dead within mille miglia of the thing.
I'm thinking maybe it's best to let the legends lie. I can be Juan Fangio or Hans Herrmann in my dreams. But on the roads I drive, I need more earthly wheels.