Ferrari like a peach out of season in Georgia

Testarossa provides characterful experience

NIKA ROLCZEWSKI SPECIAL TO THE STAR

But 16-year-old car still makes impact on locals

My friends thought of it as a suicide mission: driving in a beautiful Ferrari Testarossa through the back hills of Georgia. I thought of it as a challenge.

My knowledge of the South admittedly comes from my addiction to the television show The Dukes Of Hazzard. And I thought there wasn't much difference between the General Lee, a 1969 Dodge Charger, and my Confederate flag-free titanium-coloured Testarossa.

I've been called a testa-dura (hardhead) before, so I wasn't put off the idea that cruising Georgia in a Ferrari would be like bringing a canoe to the desert — I'll make it work.

You see, any chance to bond with this car, whether back roads or city streets, and I'm there faster than you can say "Georgia peach." Instead of hanging out in the big city of Atlanta, the car's owner and I decided to go for a few thrills in the hills of Georgia.

My ride is the famous "redhead" named for its crackle-red cam covers. Myself, I got my nickname ... well ... that'll have to wait until another time.

Typical of the Testarossa (and myself) was the puff of smoke at start-up — the car, because of the oil build-up in the cams after the car was shut off; me, because I was rusty at long drives. No need to worry — it's a quirk of the marque.

The engine's configuration means that some oil cannot drain back and will be left and pulled through the valve guides at the next start-up.

The vegetable of the day, according to the waiter, was "bold Oprah." I sat there with my eyes wide. "Ohhh, you mean boiled okra. I think I'll pass."

That was our lunch stop. Afterward, our destination would be the following: curvy roads up to Cleveland, Ga., the birthplace of the Cabbage Patch Doll; up to the highest peak in the state at Brasstown Bald and down to the genuine "imitation" alpine village named Helen.

The 1987 Ferrari Testarossa purred effortlessly thanks to an aluminum alloy, four-valve flat 12. Peak power for the redhead is 390 hp at 6300 rpm with acceleration of 0 to 100 km/h at approximately 5.6 seconds.

Being one of the heaviest Ferraris of the time, its four colossal 26.4 cm molybdenum cast iron brake discs are needed to bring the car back to reality. It's a beefy independent suspension with an extra two shock absorbers (six in total) for the rear wheels for extra cornering ability at high speeds.

Right from the start I thought the car was trying to tell me something. The seat belts were the "mouse belts" (as they are nicknamed) — the passive restraint system that was required in the United States in the '80s. I latched my lap belt then watched the shoulder belt try to strangle me.

Only after my struggle with this not-so-passive system was I told that an actual recall of this is in the works at Ferrari North America and the mechanized track of the belt is not possessed by Robert E. Lee after all. I am relieved that I am not going to travel in Stephen King's Christine after all.

Refusing to start after a hard drive, the car had to get some good old-fashioned Ferrari work done on it — beginning with the hammer.  An oddity known to many owners is the need for a quick strike of the starter to somehow make the solenoid un-stick! There is no real scientific explanation to it, but it works so I dare not question it.

My Prancing Horse must think it's queer to stop without high octane near.....

Robert Frost would have shuddered that I thought of "Stopping By The Woods On A Georgia Evening" while parking the Testarossa for a refill.

The car is fast and remarkably nimble through the twists and turns. Although the maximum speed of 290 km/h is never achieved, the thrill of acceleration is present at every rare straightaway. Locals are kind and curious, commenting on the remarkably wide rear end. I only hope they do indeed mean the car ...

My first stop is an out-of-the-way gem shop/general store. The proprietors of the famous Home of the White Bat are a wonderful, personable couple by the name of Rick and Mary McGee. They showed me their live rat snake, Sneaky; I showed them an Italian Horse, which had a more redeeming quality in my eyes.

I passed on gold panning, gem mining and the beautiful mineral shop. But I did have a chance to chat about the world, the locals and the strange car parked in front.

"Fuuuurrari you say? We don't get many of them vehicles around here. Y'all not from close by, huh?"

Brasstown Bald is Georgia's highest peak, at 1,458 metres, in the group of mountains known as Wolfpen Ridge. The 1.6 km trek to the observation area was a welcome break to stretch my legs. The Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forests is harder to say than drive. The 16-year-old car gracefully held the road and reassured me that it's far more sophisticated than I thought.

Helen's imitation alpine village is beyond explanation. It is a big tourist area and a favourite for bikers as well — sort of a cross between a Hells Angels' hangout and lederhosen. Two things I never thought possible to mesh.

"Kudzu," the local said.  "Gesundheit," I replied. "No," he said. "It's the name for the vines that hang in the trees."

It was closing in on evening. I sat on the patio of the local hangout, having my wiener schnitzel. I watched the firefly glows at regular intervals. It reminded me of the Testarossa's air conditioning system, reverting from extreme cold to tropical heat.

The concept of the firefly is clear: Glow to attract the female. Many think the same of a Ferrari. But the concept of the Ferrari's air conditioning system seems simple until you ask it to work — then again, we are dealing with an import.

Any Testarossa owner knows it fails miserably and will overcompensate too drastically, leaving the temperature out of sync with the environment.

So, taking a refined Italian automobile out of its environment and up into the hills of north Georgia may not be the norm, but it was certainly a fun adventure.

No need to take a pickup truck, Confederate flag or even a great sweet potato recipe with you — all you need is a genuine smile, an appreciation of boiled peanuts, red clay and great people.

Now if only I could still fit into my Daisy Duke shorts. Darn!