I am however pleased to report that, in a literal sense, Ferrari got that wrong. When I first drove one it added nothing to my dry cleaning bill. What it did do was make me gasp and gibber, my passenger shriek and scream. And I bet it still would today.
The truth is the F40 had something that has never been recaptured by any manufacturer, not even the F1. The McLaren was so much faster there was no sensible comparison to make, but because it was also so civilised, practical and usable it lacked the Ferrari’s singularity of focus. Gordon Murray was a genuine fan of the F40 but his vision was for a car that was not just incredible to drive, but one that would be easy to live with too.
Ferrari took the opposing view, ignoring any meaningful provision of luggage space, ripping out the sound deadening and all extraneous equipment until the cabin was left as a hollowed out carbon-clad shell, with a felt dash, simple dials and cables in place of the door handles.
It was everything I ever wanted a Ferrari to be. I have no need for an Aston Martin or Porsche to be brutal and intimidating but had the F40 proven to be anything less, I’d have been disappointed. This was a Ferrari after all, Enzo’s last laugh, a car designed without compromise.