Only a Ferrari could create these moments

Marriage proposals just part of ownership experience with 308 Then again, others would say `nice car. Is it your husband's?'

NIKA ROLCZEWSKI SPECIAL TO THE STAR

"Just think of it as sending your kid to camp," my friend said, trying to be helpful. I wouldn't know that feeling; I don't have children. Worst of all, my memories of camp were early mornings, lumpy oatmeal and enough mosquito bites that I resembled a Dalmatian. The thought of sending anyone or anything to camp was terrifying.

I had just spent my first summer with my dream car and was now faced with a new dilemma: winter was fast approaching. Thanks to home ownership in this fine city, I had a one-car, unheated garage; certainly not suitable for my "baby." He and his eight cylinders were going into storage for the long, cold winter season and I was heartbroken. Although sending him away was a necessity, I thought of it as a "spa" that he was departing to. Lube, oil and tune-up I'm sure resembled a manicure, facial and massage. Yes, my precious vehicle was off to somewhere and something I was familiar with.

There are many dynamics to owning an exotic car, but there are many more in being a female owner. The obvious is the looks of surprise, the stares and the grins aimed my way. Thanks to such movies as National Lampoon's Vacation and Gone In 60 Seconds, I became a novelty. Christy Brinkley's teasing drive next to Chevy Chase was far from the way I drove my car. While I don't resemble her in any sense of the imagination, owning an exotic car was better than a 12-pack in making me attractive.

The car's sound, scent and sight was the pheromone I wish I could have afforded in my prime. The marriage proposals, the flirtatious gestures made me wonder whether it was my mind they wanted me for. Somehow my simple SUV never drew this reaction.

My own family was shocked at my decision to own this unique automobile. I can still hear my aunt's accented voice ask: "Why you have such a fast car? Settle down! A husband is better." I would only tell her that between the two, the car was less trouble and much easier to sell if need be.

The more daring strangers would talk to me with "nice car" being the phrase of choice. Others have shown their manners or lack of, in asking "Is it your husband's car? Did you rent it?" or Lord forbid, "Is that a Corvette"? No, no and not on your life. My claws sharpened around the steering wheel as I tried to smile politely.

In other instances, I walked out and found cards and notes on my windshield. "Call me," was written on one I remember. Signed Brandi in child-like script and with a happy face - no one I knew. I realized she was mistaken in who she thought owned the car. I was not her type: the wealthy male.

I had always been a practical female - meant to drive a reliable car. Safety before performance was what I would regress to. I took for granted trunk space and good gas mileage. Now I watch the fuel gauge needle flicker with every rev of the engine. A tub of ice cream, probably the only thing that could fit in the trunk, would never make it home solid - no matter how fast I could drive.

Piloting my car suddenly took more attention. Mastering the heel/toe driving technique while actually wearing heels was my first accomplishment. I learned the hard way that dealing with Italian cars, a crash course in mechanics was a requirement.

My baby had moods. He was temperamental with idiosyncrasies specific to his marque. Shifting first to third until he warmed was the way to go. Premium fuel, premium oil and the premium prices made me envious of his treatment at times. But just one hour on an open road with the purr of the Quattrovalvole validated such decadence.

I broke a nail each time I took the roof off and grease found its way onto my clothing. But it didn't matter. I just wished for a warm sunny day. Now I wait for spring worse than any groundhog could.

The garage is swept, the car cover washed, the finest chamois is ready to polish him when he returns from his spa slumber. I'm suffering from cabin fever and have forgotten how driving can be such fun.

While I still believe I am a practical girl, my vice may be how owning a Ferrari has brought me moments of freedom, of accomplishment and of not living within the confines of the "norm." It's not man and machine in my case - it's woman. A woman that, after the snow shovel is put away and the tulips start to bloom, will be one happy car girl.

My baby's coming home.

Nika Rolczewski is the founder of http://www.racerchicks.com and the proud owner of "Mister Bumblebee," her 1985 Ferrari 308 GTS.