Riding Sideways in an F40 Changed My Life
The upward pull of a horizontally-mounted level releases the composite door with a muffled, hollow click, startling you with its lightness as you pull it back with a measured force learned from a lifetime of opening doors that weigh significantly more than what feels like a hinged Styrofoam cooler lid. With a bit of contortion and momentarily suspended dignity, you climb over the massive, nearly foot-tall sills and slide your feet along a bare carbon floor with joints seemingly sealed with green bathtub caulk by a disinterested plumber in a hurry. Your feet are heavily offset to the right, resting on drilled alloy pedals, your right knee partially obscuring an open-gated, dogleg five speed mounted atop a felt-covered center console—the dash is covered with the stuff, too. It’s gray, fuzzy, and looks like it belongs at the bottom of a skill crane in the shape of a plush elephant. It’s littered randomly with cheap, insubstantial Fiat switchgear, as if someone stuffed the contents of a Ritmo production line bin into a shotgun shell and blasted them in the general direction of the front bulkhead.