If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel. If ever a car looked absolutely right in all respects, then it is the Ferrari GTO. The plunging valley between those humpy front wings, the little mouth pouting at the tip of its bonnet, the subtle flip-up on the boot. Never mind that the nose is long and the tail short and never mind that there are vents and slots and flaps everywhere to break up the sculptured smoothness of the body. The car still looks perfectly balanced in every respect. Prise open the flimsy door with its little handle - which, like most of the minor fittings, looks ready to snap off in the hand rather than trip any mechanism - and slide into the clasp of a welcoming bucket seat whose black leather surface has been polished by nearly 35 years of competition.
Two things immediately demand your attention inside. The gear lever, which sticks up like some mystic sword from a transmission tunnel high enough to rest your elbow on, sports a polished aluminium knob the size of a tennis ball. In neutral, it lies at exactly the same height as the steering wheel's centre. From its centre, spokes polished bright enough to dazzle support a thin wooden rim and if you simply let go of this and keep the arms bent, your hand falls instantly to the gear knob. It's more than natural. Further down and just to the left of the gate which guides the metal mast beneath your shifting hand, there's a huge speedometer in a plastic-covered cardboard box. Only road legality demands its presence; the all-important rev counter with its wide plastic needle and bold but pale white numbers is dead ahead in the main instrument panel.
