| TMC: SOUTHEAST CHAPTER |
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Member Profile:
David Cox: Me and My Maserati
In 1998 I was minding my own business, amusing myself with the
occasional smokey burnout in my shiny Camaro, and being
generally contented to fulfill my automotive aspirations through
my model car business. This is important because it demonstrates
the first of several lessons that have been taught to me by my 1963
Maserati GTI. The First Lesson is that Maseratis—and this may apply
to other Italian cars with pretty shapes and magical names—Maseratis
tend to strike when one is least prepared. A second and corollary
lesson for me is that the less I know about a car, the more irresistible it
is. But that lesson is not unique to Maseratis, and this essay is about
my Maserati, not the Allard that I almost bought or the Fiat 500 that
made my heart ache, or even the Chrysler Airflow that was all original.
This list could go on, but you get the point: Weird is Wonderful, especially
when it comes to cars. Weird cars that jump out of the AutoTrader are
particularly dangerous.
I had no interest in Maseratis in the fall of 1998. I did have a fixated interest in the starting carburetor of the
PII Rolls-Royce, and in the One-Shot lubrication on a 540K Mercedes; how else does one make 1:8 replicas
of such devices if one does not thoroughly understand them? Maseratis, however, were of no particular
interest, because they were invisible, nowhere to be found, never seen on the road, rarely seen at a show,
and, in short, not a factor.
Second Lesson—Just as the deer’s survival is jeopardized by surprise, my rationality was undone by
shock. While I was innocently eating a Big Mac, I had found an exotic mid-sixties Italian car in the
AutoTrader. The shock of it produced the same fatal, frozen stare of the proverbial deer-caught-in-
headlights. I believe that it was in those nanoseconds between the wonder of seeing the smeary photo and
regaining my composure enough to wipe the special sauce from my chin that I was gob smacked. I thought I
was thinking, but the thinking part was already over. I was a victim of surprise. I did not know it then, but I
had become a Maserati guy, a tifosi, whatever that is, and soon I would be a guy with a Maserati hat and
garage shelves full of grubby car parts.
There were contributing factors—phrases like “runs but does not drive” and “always garaged”—that served
to seal the deal, but nothing had quite the same effect as the low price. A very low price. Which leads
directly into the Third Lesson: When shopping for old Italian cars with magical names, low prices are
anathema, the work of the Devil himself. Low prices are to the Maserati as the cloven hoof is to Beelzebub,
which is to say, a dead giveaway that danger lies ahead.
If I had grabbed up what remained of my French fries and made a run for the telephone, I would have been
just another rube caught in the glare of Cibie lights, just another dreamer smitten by a pretty shape and a
prestige name. In my defense, I turned the page, muttering something like “Who would think you could find
a Maserati in the AutoTrader?” and went on to my fruit pie. What, I wondered, would anyone do with that
money pit? Who in their right mind would take on a down-and-not-quite-out Italian exotic being sold in the
swamps of Florida? Go figure.
This is, of course, Lesson Number Four: Excessive thinking often leads to irrational behavior. The signs
are always the same. Things seem preposterous, questions are asked, theories develop, and the next
thing you know, you are driving to south Florida.
In my defense, I was heading to south Florida anyway, and what was the harm in stopping by “just to take a
look” at an old Maserati? After all, I could not remember ever having seen a 3500 in the flesh, so this would
be educational. Educational it truly was. Besides, the nice chap on the telephone was quite chatty, made
the car sound jim-dandy, and by the end of the conversation, dropped the price. See Lesson #3.
I am, regardless of all of these indications, shrewd. I planned my visit for a morning, so that I would be
pressured by the need to complete my journey to my partner’s house which lay several hours to the south.
In this way, nothing untoward could happen. After all, buying a car is not something one can do quickly or
without considerable planning. No matter how wonderful the car (and by this point I was pretty sure it would
be wonderful) one does not jump willy-nilly into such things.
There was a time when I took pride in the fact that I did not buy the car that day. I would think back on how
nice the car looked, and how smoothly it ran—hooked up to a Windex bottle of fuel, but that is another
story—and how it was so obviously an honest old crock that needed a caring owner. I took comfort in the
fact that I walked away, smiling knowingly as I assured the owner that it was just a matter of time before he
found exactly the right buyer for such a wonderful, though needy, work of art. See ya.
Of course, looking back, I now know that the car was mine at that moment. It took me another month to
realize that I would buy it, but such delays only enhance the exquisite anticipation. I immersed myself in
research and rationalizing and planning. Finally, I told myself that if it were still in the AutoTrader the
following month, I would look at it again, happily ignorant of the fact that in those days, Maseratis were often
advertised on an annual basis.
Another trip to South Florida for business was a repeat of the first, but this time I was walking the longest
mile. Sensing that he had a “live one” on the hook, the seller dropped the price. I was toast. There was
the phone call home to alert my wife that the car carrier would be arriving in the middle of the night, and
there were various details of consummating such a deal with an out-of-town check (my guess is that the guy
would have accepted a bag of rubles), but all of it was anticlimax, and I was merely playing a part.
Ten years later and I have the same seedy old crock of a Maserati sitting in my garage. Like its owner, it is
older and a bit lumpy and creaky and farty, but it has a certain dignity and style that still warms my heart.
Some of my neighbors think it is a Studebaker, there is at least one who itches to put a small block in it, but
to me it is a magical Italian classic. And after years of fixing and prodding and spending—lots of spending--I
am content to have learned the most important lesson of all: Sometimes the best decisions don’t have
much to do with reason
David Cox: Me and My Maserati
In 1998 I was minding my own business, amusing myself with the
occasional smokey burnout in my shiny Camaro, and being
generally contented to fulfill my automotive aspirations through
my model car business. This is important because it demonstrates
the first of several lessons that have been taught to me by my 1963
Maserati GTI. The First Lesson is that Maseratis—and this may apply
to other Italian cars with pretty shapes and magical names—Maseratis
tend to strike when one is least prepared. A second and corollary
lesson for me is that the less I know about a car, the more irresistible it
is. But that lesson is not unique to Maseratis, and this essay is about
my Maserati, not the Allard that I almost bought or the Fiat 500 that
made my heart ache, or even the Chrysler Airflow that was all original.
This list could go on, but you get the point: Weird is Wonderful, especially
when it comes to cars. Weird cars that jump out of the AutoTrader are
particularly dangerous.
I had no interest in Maseratis in the fall of 1998. I did have a fixated interest in the starting carburetor of the
PII Rolls-Royce, and in the One-Shot lubrication on a 540K Mercedes; how else does one make 1:8 replicas
of such devices if one does not thoroughly understand them? Maseratis, however, were of no particular
interest, because they were invisible, nowhere to be found, never seen on the road, rarely seen at a show,
and, in short, not a factor.
Second Lesson—Just as the deer’s survival is jeopardized by surprise, my rationality was undone by
shock. While I was innocently eating a Big Mac, I had found an exotic mid-sixties Italian car in the
AutoTrader. The shock of it produced the same fatal, frozen stare of the proverbial deer-caught-in-
headlights. I believe that it was in those nanoseconds between the wonder of seeing the smeary photo and
regaining my composure enough to wipe the special sauce from my chin that I was gob smacked. I thought I
was thinking, but the thinking part was already over. I was a victim of surprise. I did not know it then, but I
had become a Maserati guy, a tifosi, whatever that is, and soon I would be a guy with a Maserati hat and
garage shelves full of grubby car parts.
There were contributing factors—phrases like “runs but does not drive” and “always garaged”—that served
to seal the deal, but nothing had quite the same effect as the low price. A very low price. Which leads
directly into the Third Lesson: When shopping for old Italian cars with magical names, low prices are
anathema, the work of the Devil himself. Low prices are to the Maserati as the cloven hoof is to Beelzebub,
which is to say, a dead giveaway that danger lies ahead.
If I had grabbed up what remained of my French fries and made a run for the telephone, I would have been
just another rube caught in the glare of Cibie lights, just another dreamer smitten by a pretty shape and a
prestige name. In my defense, I turned the page, muttering something like “Who would think you could find
a Maserati in the AutoTrader?” and went on to my fruit pie. What, I wondered, would anyone do with that
money pit? Who in their right mind would take on a down-and-not-quite-out Italian exotic being sold in the
swamps of Florida? Go figure.
This is, of course, Lesson Number Four: Excessive thinking often leads to irrational behavior. The signs
are always the same. Things seem preposterous, questions are asked, theories develop, and the next
thing you know, you are driving to south Florida.
In my defense, I was heading to south Florida anyway, and what was the harm in stopping by “just to take a
look” at an old Maserati? After all, I could not remember ever having seen a 3500 in the flesh, so this would
be educational. Educational it truly was. Besides, the nice chap on the telephone was quite chatty, made
the car sound jim-dandy, and by the end of the conversation, dropped the price. See Lesson #3.
I am, regardless of all of these indications, shrewd. I planned my visit for a morning, so that I would be
pressured by the need to complete my journey to my partner’s house which lay several hours to the south.
In this way, nothing untoward could happen. After all, buying a car is not something one can do quickly or
without considerable planning. No matter how wonderful the car (and by this point I was pretty sure it would
be wonderful) one does not jump willy-nilly into such things.
There was a time when I took pride in the fact that I did not buy the car that day. I would think back on how
nice the car looked, and how smoothly it ran—hooked up to a Windex bottle of fuel, but that is another
story—and how it was so obviously an honest old crock that needed a caring owner. I took comfort in the
fact that I walked away, smiling knowingly as I assured the owner that it was just a matter of time before he
found exactly the right buyer for such a wonderful, though needy, work of art. See ya.
Of course, looking back, I now know that the car was mine at that moment. It took me another month to
realize that I would buy it, but such delays only enhance the exquisite anticipation. I immersed myself in
research and rationalizing and planning. Finally, I told myself that if it were still in the AutoTrader the
following month, I would look at it again, happily ignorant of the fact that in those days, Maseratis were often
advertised on an annual basis.
Another trip to South Florida for business was a repeat of the first, but this time I was walking the longest
mile. Sensing that he had a “live one” on the hook, the seller dropped the price. I was toast. There was
the phone call home to alert my wife that the car carrier would be arriving in the middle of the night, and
there were various details of consummating such a deal with an out-of-town check (my guess is that the guy
would have accepted a bag of rubles), but all of it was anticlimax, and I was merely playing a part.
Ten years later and I have the same seedy old crock of a Maserati sitting in my garage. Like its owner, it is
older and a bit lumpy and creaky and farty, but it has a certain dignity and style that still warms my heart.
Some of my neighbors think it is a Studebaker, there is at least one who itches to put a small block in it, but
to me it is a magical Italian classic. And after years of fixing and prodding and spending—lots of spending--I
am content to have learned the most important lesson of all: Sometimes the best decisions don’t have
much to do with reason
