Project Nightingale is the latter.

With this new Coachbuild Collection, Rolls-Royce has something that feels less like a product launch and more like aristocratic confidence: a vast, open two-seat electric grand tourer, shaped by Streamline Moderne, haunted by the marque’s 1920s experimental cars, and aimed squarely at the kind of client for whom “limited production” is the entire point of buying one.

Only 100 will be made. Access is by invitation. Deliveries begin in 2028.

Named after Le Rossignol, the house near Henry Royce’s winter home on the Côte d’Azur where designers and engineers once flocked, Project Nightingale is the opening chapter in a new Coachbuild Collection story. Rolls-Royce calls it a production concept, which in practice means the vision is already nearly complete, but a few details still require manufacturing methods that do not yet quite exist. A small inconvenience. But the company seems intent on solving it.

Not a convertible. A statement.

Project Nightingale is almost exactly the length of a Phantom, which tells you nearly everything you need to know about Rolls-Royce’s priorities. This is not a neat little roadster or some dainty Riviera toy. It is a full-scale motor car, devoted entirely to two people and their sense of occasion.

The proportions are gloriously excessive. Long hood. Tight cabin. Sweeping rear deck. The kind of silhouette that suggests speed, ceremony, and inherited money, all in equal measure.

Underneath sits Rolls-Royce’s aluminum Architecture of Luxury spaceframe and a fully electric drivetrain, a choice that is doing more here than merely keeping regulators happy. Electric propulsion is central to the car’s whole character. Without the cooling demands of a combustion engine, the designers were freed to create huge, uninterrupted surfaces across the front of the car. Without exhaust, the rear could be sculpted with extraordinary cleanliness. And without engine noise, open-top motoring becomes something close to serenity.

Rolls-Royce is not pitching Project Nightingale as some loud, extroverted hyper-EV for hedge fund adolescents. It is selling silence, poise, and presence. Or rather, silence, poise, and presence for people wealthy enough to be bored by everything else. Perhaps the only thing you’ll hear at 60 miles per hour is the ticking of the clock.

The ghosts of 16EX and 17EX

The design inspiration comes partly from Streamline Moderne, that late Art Deco discipline in which clean volume and controlled surfaces matter more than ornament. But Nightingale is also looking further back, to the company’s experimental “EX” cars of the late 1920s.

Those cars, especially 16EX and 17EX, were built at the height of the Jazz Age and wore lightweight aluminum bodies over powerful Phantom chassis in pursuit of greater speed. They were torpedo-shaped, ambitious, and a bit outrageous. Exactly the sort of thing a serious car company does when it wants to prove it still has a pulse.

Rolls-Royce has borrowed three key ideas from them.

First: upright to flowing: the formal verticality of the Pantheon grill melting into a long, tapering rear.

Second: central fuselage: one unbroken visual line running from front to back, like the hull of a yacht.

Third: flying wings: sculptural volumes that build tension into the body and draw the eye rearward.

The result is a car that carries Rolls-Royce DNA without looking trapped by it.

A front end with no need to shout

The front elevation is maybe the clearest sign that this is not merely another Rolls with the roof chopped off. Because there is no internal combustion engine to feed, the usual visual clutter of intakes and cooling apertures has been mostly erased. What remains is expanse. Discipline. Surface.

The Pantheon grill, almost a meter wide, looks as though it has been machined from a single block of stainless steel. Twenty-four deep-set vanes sit within it, while the Spirit of Ecstasy is integrated into the upper section in a way that makes the metal seem to flow backward around her, like water parting at speed. It is a theatrical touch that works.

Below, the lower structure widens and drops with geometric precision, supporting a projecting carbon-fiber apron edged in chrome. Rolls-Royce likens it to the structural base beneath the decorative crown of an Art Deco skyscraper, which is exactly the sort of comparison one expects from a company that understands its clients would rather hear about architecture than airflow.

At the outer edges sit perhaps the boldest detail of all: slim, vertically oriented headlamps, bracketed by polished stainless-steel bands that run the full length of the car to the tail lamps. It is a strong move. Maybe even the strongest on the car.

In profile, it becomes clear what the whole thing is about

Seen from the side, Project Nightingale stops pretending to be practical and becomes something more interesting.

The hood stretches on. The windshield is dramatically raked. The cabin is compact, intimate, almost tucked into the bodywork rather than placed on top of it. Behind the seats, the body rises in a protective sweep before the rear deck tapers away to an improbably low trailing edge.

It is, in effect, a giant electric torpedo with a leather-lined cockpit.

A single hull line begins at the sculpted front-wing “Pinnacles” and runs uninterrupted to the rear, deliberately set high to make those inside feel enveloped. Beneath it, the lower body is carved away to reinforce the sense of a central fuselage, balanced by a carbon-fiber sill that quietly nods to the running boards of Rolls-Royce’s older cars.

The details have been handled quite remarkably. Door handles incorporate hidden lock mechanisms and discreet indicator lamps. The usual Rolls-Royce badging is reduced to a polished stainless-steel Double R. Even the 24-inch wheels, the largest ever fitted to a Rolls-Royce, have been shaped with spirit of yacht propellers and wire wheels in motion.

This is not minimalism in the traditional sense. It is minimalism with private aviation money behind it.

The rear is where the confidence shows

Many luxury cars lose their nerve at the back. Designers become busy. Surfaces get messy. Features multiply.

Project Nightingale does not suffer from that problem.

The rear haunches swell with muscular intent, but the deck remains clean and horizontal. The taillamps are slim and sharply resolved, dropping from the upper surface almost at a right angle. A single longitudinal brake light runs down the centerline, a small but effective nod to the speed stripes of Streamline Moderne design.

Then there is the “Piano Boot,” which opens sideways on a cantilever. Rolls-Royce, being Rolls-Royce, cannot simply let the trunk open like an ordinary trunk. It must instead transform luggage access into a ceremonial event.

The rear diffuser, called the Aero Afterdeck, is formed as a single carbon-fiber piece. Because the electric drivetrain eliminates the need for exhaust, the company has been able to achieve high-speed stability without resorting to some vulgar spoiler that would interrupt the silhouette.

That matters. On a car like this, preserving the line is the whole game.

With the roof down, the silence becomes the feature

Most convertibles sell you noise. Wind. Engine. Exhaust. The sensory overload of being in something expensive and visible.

Project Nightingale goes in the opposite direction.

With the roof lowered, Rolls-Royce says the experience is closer to sailing than driving. With virtually no mechanical noise from the electric drivetrain and very little wind disturbance, what remains is not absence but environment. Ocean waves. Air moving through trees. The hush of countryside at speed.

That last detail became important.

During early prototype drives, Rolls-Royce designers noticed they could hear birds with unusual clarity. They began studying recordings of nightingales and analyzing the waveforms of their songs. This could, in less careful hands, have become unbearable nonsense. Instead, it led to one of the car’s most distinctive interior ideas.

Inside: a world for two, lit by birdsong

The interior’s centerpiece is called the Starlight Breeze suite, which sounds like a fragrance sold in Monaco but is actually a constellation of 10,500 tiny illuminated points arranged in patterns derived from nightingale song waves.

These lights wrap around the occupants from the doors and behind the seats, turning melody into ambient architecture. The effect is housed within what Rolls-Royce calls the “Horseshoe,” a sculptural form that rises behind the seats and frames the cabin in a protective embrace.

Yes, it all sounds impossibly mannered. Yes, it is probably magnificent in person.

Elsewhere, the cabin continues the same theme of tactile restraint. The door card leather is raised like a saddle. The center console carries a leather-covered saddle armrest split delicately into two sections. When the coach door opens, the armrest glides rearward to reveal the Spirit of Ecstasy rotary controller, finished in stainless steel with grooves inspired by haute joaillerie. The same jewelled treatment appears on the gear selector and the few remaining controls.

There are only five rotary controls in total, which is perhaps the most convincing evidence yet that true luxury lies in not having to look at too many buttons.

A concealed compartment appears at the touch of a button. Cupholders are machined from billet aluminum. There is even a hidden shelf behind the seats for hand luggage, because this is, we are repeatedly reminded, a motor car for long and unhurried journeys.

In other words, Riviera weekends, not school runs.

The car shown today is just one interpretation

The example revealed by Rolls-Royce is finished in Côte d’Azur Blue, a pale solid blue inspired by the 1928 17EX, though not directly copied from it. Subtle red flakes in the paint reference the red badges worn by the historic EX cars and now used on Project Nightingale to mark its status.

The interior takes its cues from the Côte d’Azur as well, blending Charles Blue, Grace White, Deep Navy, and small flashes of Peony Pink. Openpore Blackwood veneer is laid in an upward-opening V pattern to draw the eye skyward.

Which is all very elegant, very French Riviera, and exactly what one would hope from a car named after a songbird and a house on the Côte d’Azur.

The real point

Project Nightingale is not merely a new Rolls-Royce. It is Rolls-Royce making a broader argument about what its future clients want.

Not more horsepower figures. Not another oversized SUV. Not techno-brutalist gimmickry. Something rarer: a motor car in which design is the main event.

That is why entry is by invitation only. That is why the car is limited to 100 examples. That is why clients are already being drawn into a multi-year program of private events and curated experiences, not simply handed an order form and a paint chart.

This is less a sales process and more courtship.

And perhaps that is fitting. Project Nightingale is named for a bird, shaped like a yacht, inspired by 1920s speed machines, powered by electricity, and intended for people who believe beauty is not just something to own but something to drive.

Which, when you put it that way, sounds exactly like the kind of thing Rolls-Royce should be building.

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Let’s call it an Argentinian’s grudge, wrapped in Italian steel, powered by an American beast.

And it just might be the most dramatic car ever built.

Like many good stories, this one too, begins in failure. In Late 1964, Alejandro de Tomaso - the Argentine aristocrat, former racing driver, and industrialist - struck a deal with Carrol Shelby to build five P70 race cars for the Can-Am series. Shelby funds it, Pete (great name btw) Brock designs it. De Tomaso promises it, but doesn’t quite deliver.

It didn’t go well.

Ideas collided. Schedules slipped. No cars arrived. Shelby, fuming, packed up his shit and walked straight to the Ford GT40 program. Alejandro, as reports at the time politely put it, was “quite upset.

In less polite terms, he was super fucking pissed. And so, he did what any proud Latin racing driver would do.

He built a car. He named it “Mangusta.” Italian for mongoose.

I.e. the only animal that can kill a Cobra.

Yes. It was that kind of car.

Even in vengeance, Alejandro knew what he didn’t know. He needed beauty. The kind that sells posters and magazines.

So he went to the greatest stylist in Italy at the time: Giorgetto Giugiaro. Freshly escaped from Bertone, now sketching futures at Carrozzeria Ghia, Giugiaro spoke the language of architectural aggression.

What he created was a thing of beauty. Ultra-low, glassy, wedged. The haunches tense with American horsepower. And the rear, with its famous twin gull-wing panels lifting like a mechanical scorpion tail to reveal a Ford V8.

But was it truly beautiful, or dangerous looking, which is a different thing entirely.

The Mangusta was exotic in layout, shape, and temperament.

Mid-engine, rear-drive, American heart. A Ford 289 or 302 V8, routed through a ZF five-speed transaxle. Four-wheel Girling discs. Rack-and-pinion steering. Fully independent suspension. All on a steel backbone chassis borrowed from the abandoned P70 race car.

A top speed of 155 mph in 1967? Oh yes. It was fast.

Unfortunately the Mangusta wasn’t engineered to work. It was engineered to exist. And to exist solely out of spite.

And so, the flaws arrived early and often: Handling? Numb at low speed, evil at high speed. A 44/56 weight split meant tail-first enthusiasm in corners. Ergonomics? Claustrophobic. Off-center pedals. Steering column exactly where your knees wanted to be. Chassis? About as rigid as a French onion. The torque of the Ford V8 twisted it like linguine.

But many buyers didn’t care. They hadn’t bought a car. They’d bought a piece of rolling art.

Only 401 Mangustas were built. Most went to the U.S. under a federal waiver that said, in essence, “We don’t know what it is, but it seems important.”

When the waiver expired in 1969, De Tomaso simply did what Italian manufacturers always do when confronted by American federal law:

He gave the car pop-up headlights, shrugged, and kept building them by hand.

Only one Mangusta ever left the factory with a Chevrolet engine. It was built for GM Design Chief Bill Mitchell, because Mitchell insisted on not driving anything powered by Ford. A custom spacer was machined to mate the Chevy small-block to the ZF transmission. Mitchell drove it briefly, then handed it to designer Dick Ruzzin, who still owns it, 55 years later.

In a world of prototypes and show-cars, this one became a legend simply by surviving.

Ford was watching. Not because the Mangusta was fast, or good, or reliable. But because it made noise. Cultural noise.

This Argentine upstart was building American-powered Italian exotics that people actually wanted.

Ford took the bait.

They invested. They partnered. And from that unholy union came something better engineered, better built, and better selling:

The De Tomaso Pantera.

Think of it like a wild idea getting a second draft.

In the end, the Mangusta was never meant to be perfect. It was meant to provoke, meant to make Alejandro de Tomaso impossible to ignore.

And it worked.

It’s a reminder that sometimes, greatness doesn’t come from precision engineering.

Sometimes, it comes from spite.

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Economically, it is indefensible. Mechanically, it borders on heresy. Theologically, and Porsche ownership is largely a theological exercise, it is outright blasphemy. A classic 1980s 911, stripped of its air-cooled flat-six and G50 gearbox, and reborn as an electric car. That’s the burn in hell kind of blasphemy.

And yet, in August of 2024, after two years, six figures, and multiple moments that could be described as “character building,” legendary Wall Street asset manager Barry Ritholtz took delivery of a Lagoon Green Metallic 1987 Carrera that is now a 400+ horsepower, rear-motor, battery-fed, one-off electric 911.

This is the story of how it went down.

THE IDEA

Like most terrible financial decisions, this one began innocently.

Ritholtz had spent the pandemic doing what every enthusiast with means and a flexible definition of “need” did: finding unloved machines and making them right. A flood-salvage Wrangler Rubicon. An Audi R8 turned back to its Teutonic self after someone slathered it in orange stripes and fake carbon. A Colombian-restored 1978 Toyota FJ40 that required a tango with Miami customs.. Then a tired but rare factory M491 Porsche Cabriolet, brought sympathetically back to stock.

This wasn’t novelty. It was a pattern. He’d grown up around loud, front-engined American V8s — Mustangs, Camaros, Corvettes developing, over decades, the kind of dangerous confidence that comes from having endured enough mechanical pain to think the next one will be simple.

Then the itch changed.

Electrification of classics had crept from home garage science project to cottage industry. The pitch is seductively modern: take an older car with beautiful bones and questionable internals, and give it instant torque, reliability, and daily-driver usability. Keep the charm, lose the headaches. Purists clutched pearls. Engineers grinned. Investors did the mental math: classic looks plus EV drivability equals future money. Or money pit? Maybe the jury is still out?

Ritholtz wanted to build something that shouldn’t exist.

The target was obvious in retrospect: a Porsche 911, specifically something from 1973–1989. Those cars are now modern classics. They still have the slim hips and bright eyes of early 911s but the later ones carry just enough ‘80s menace.

That was the aesthetic he wanted. That, but electric.

There was, of course, the small matter of reality.

THE SHOP

The center of American resto-mod electrification right now isn’t Stuttgart or Silicon Valley. It’s Austin, Texas. Yee-haw!

Moment Motors, a boutique EV conversion outfit based there, had been quietly building a reputation for thoughtful, deeply engineered swaps. Not just “jam a forklift motor in a Beetle and pray,” but proper, integrated conversions. Battery management. Thermal management. Usability. Elegance.

Ritholtz spoke with them, looked at timelines, looked at cost, and did the only logical thing he could do: he sent them money. A deposit, June of 2022. That bought him something you cannot order from Porsche Classic. The wait? Twelve months before they even touch your car.

This lag was not a bug. It was oxygen. It meant he now had a year to a) choose the right 911, b) learn that 911’s ecosystem enough to be dangerous, and c) actually find a donor worth hacking apart.

Because here’s the dirty truth of EV-swapping a classic 911: you don’t start with a nice car.

A low-mileage, numbers-matching G50 Carrera is now a financial instrument. You don’t pull a healthy flat-six out of a museum-grade example. That’s vandalism, and wasteful, because you’re throwing away tens of thousands of dollars of engine and gearbox someone else will happily pay you for.

No, the perfect donor is cosmetically attractive, structurally honest, mechanically… negotiable. You want great paint, straight metal, decent interior bones, intact brakes and steering. Something that the concours crowd will sneer at, so you can violate it guilt-free.

That car eventually revealed itself. But first, there were false starts.

THE HUNT

In late 2022 and early 2023, he started searching inventory across the country. California. The Northeast. Dealer listings, private listings, Bring a Trailer, Cars & Bids, PCar Market. He’d fly in early for a work trip, detour to see a “clean, well-sorted” 911SC in person, and discover it was a rattle-can respray over rust and regret. The owner probably huffing the spray paint while doing the respray.

Photos lie. Mileage lies. Sellers lie to themselves. And to potential buyers.

He looked at a 1978 911SC and a 1983 car with a tolerable asking price but an uninspiring color combo. He was briefly smitten by a Cassis Red over Ivory 1987 G50, but that auction failed to meet reserve. He lusted after an RSR-style backdated ’73 and a surgically clean 1976 911S with a 3.2 swapped in, but both were too nice to butcher. If Barry is anything, he’s not a heathen.

The economics were clarifying. The right donor 911 was going to cost somewhere in the $50–60K range. The EV hardware; electric motor, controller, inverter, battery modules, chargers, thermal systems would cost nearly as much again. Add labor and custom engineering, and you were in the neighborhood of a well-optioned new 911 Carrera.

Why not just buy the new 911? Because Porsche builds about ten thousand internal-combustion 911s a year. An electrified, battery-fed G50 from the Reagan era? There is only one of those, and you will be sitting in it. “There can be only one!”

Still, “unique” doesn’t mean “available.” He bid on dozens of cars. Came in second. Came in first but missed reserve. Watched good cars spike out of budget. Watched bad cars get bid up by people with more optimism than brains.

Finally, one stuck.

THE DONOR

The car that would become the electric 911 began life in 1987 as a Carrera coupe with a five-speed G50 gearbox. By the time Ritholtz found it, it had lived.

It wore Lagoon Green Metallic. An unusual Porsche color that reads like a pale blue under most light. It was a “slicktop,” meaning factory sunroof delete, the holy grail for people who value chassis rigidity and hate leaks. It had a rear wiper, another odd but desirable option. It had clearly been loved, but also clearly been “personalized” in the way that screamed JC Whitney.

The odometer read 276,000 kilometers. The driver’s seat and steering wheel were ‘90s-era upgrades, not original. The mirrors were later teardrops, not period. The bumpers had been tweaked toward Turbo look. Carfax showed an impact to the right front in 2003. The doors had been refinished; their hue didn’t quite match the rest of the shell. Underneath, there were hints of rust in the usual 911 spots.

In other words: perfect. At least for this project.

This wasn’t a concours queen. This was a survivor. A frankencar. Valuable enough to respect but not so precious you’d feel bad about going all Dr. Frankenstein on it.

He negotiated. The seller was motivated. They split the difference at $59,000.

When the car arrived at his shop, it turned out to be better than the photos. Werks1, a Porsche specialist, went through it: brake lines, tires, basic electrical gremlins, a small rust bloom behind the battery tray. They handled the stuff you want sorted before you ship a car across the country.

Then came cosmetics. The car was detailed, paint-corrected, ceramic-coated. The shabby floor mats came out, the carpets were shampooed, and in a move equal parts SoCal outlaw and Martini Racing cosplay, went bold “Carrera” script and a pair of soft white racing stripes straight over the hood, roof, and decklid. The look wasn’t subtle. It also wasn’t apologizing.

The plan was now real. The donor existed. The slot in Austin was coming due.

The 911 was about to lose its soul but gain immortality.

THE SURGERY

August 2023: the Carrera, now affectionately “the little striped monster,” was loaded on a transporter bound for Texas. An AirTag in the glovebox tracked it as it crossed the country.

Moment Motors received the car, rolled it into the operating theater, and did the unthinkable: they pulled the heart.

Engine and gearbox out. Gone.

In their place would eventually live a Fellten electric drive unit and enough lithium to start a small fire. But first, there was metalwork.

Classic 911 people know about the battery tray. Porsche, in its wisdom, stuffed a 12-volt battery up against the inner fender at the left front corner of the “frunk,” just above the road. Thirty-plus years of moisture, acid, and indifferent maintenance can turn that area into swiss cheese.

On this car, it was worse than anyone expected. The corrosion had eaten its way into structural metal. And that mattered. Because the new EV battery modules, roughly 200 pounds of them, were meant to sit up front. Hanging a hundred kilos of chemistry off a compromised corner is how you end up on YouTube for the wrong reasons.

So the Austin crew cut. Fabricated. Welded. Refinished. Nine thousand dollars later, the nose of the car was stronger than when it had left Stuttgart.

Only then did the real fun begin.

The original plan, back when Ritholtz first wired his deposit in 2022, called for a Fellten Series I drive unit. That package would have given the car around 350 horsepower.

But technology moves. Fellten sunset the Series I and replaced it with the Series II. The newer motor/inverter package made 440 horsepower.

Four hundred and forty.

In a ~ 2,800 pound 911.

The Fellten kit didn’t just bring power. It brought integration. Cooling circuits. High-voltage routing. A proper vehicle control unit (VCU) to manage temperatures, protect the battery, and talk politely to the rest of the car. Moment Motors grafted in a new HVAC system, because if you’re going to daily an ‘80s 911 in the modern world, you want actual defrost and the possibility of not sweating through your shirt. They even fitted a period-correct Blaupunkt Bremen head unit. Bluetooth, yes, but with the upright, knurled-button vibe of proper Reagan-era German audio.

One of the small tragedies of most EV swaps is the death of the manual. The physics just don’t require a five-speed. Electric motors make torque everywhere, all at once. You could, in theory, bolt the motor directly to the axle and call it done.

But engagement matters. Memory matters.

So the Moment Motors team retained the 911’s floor-mounted stick. The pattern now selects Drive, Neutral, and Reverse rather than five forward gears, but from the driver’s hand, in motion, you are still doing the old 911 thing: right arm resting on the tunnel, wrist flicks, mechanical clicks. The form is the function. And in this case, the form is also the nostalgia.

They also repurposed the original fuel filler door as the charge port, because of course they did. Anything else would be uncivilized.

By April of 2024, the car was about 90 percent complete. The batteries were in. The motor was in. The wiring looms were routed and secured. The software was talking to the hardware. The car drove, and drove quickly at that.

But power is only half the equation. The other half is balance.

THE BALANCE

A stock Carrera of this era carries roughly 39 percent of its weight on the front and 61 percent on the rear. That is part of the 911’s charm and also part of its reputation for spinning into hedgerows.

The electrified car is different. Shifting heavy battery mass forward, reinforcing the nose, and hanging an electric drive unit out back with less reciprocating mass than the original flat-six changes the physics. The Moment Motors build ended up much closer to 50/50 weight distribution, and with that weight also sitting lower in the chassis.

Anyone who has ever trail-braked a 911 into a fast sweeper just sat up a little straighter. Never lift your foot off the gas. Ask me how I know?

Of course, perfection has a price to pay. You don’t add roughly 300 pounds of battery to a classic 911 without asking the suspension to carry that load. So the Austin crew upgraded the dampers and springs to keep the body controlled and the steering alive. The brakes, still essentially 1987-spec apart from regenerative assistance, now have to cope with a 400-horsepower car that weighs about ~ 2,800 pounds and arrives at corner entries with unholy urgency. Mild regen helps, but a future upgrade to later, larger Porsche calipers and rotors is already on the to-do list.

Then there’s traction. When you more than double output, the rear tires become suggestions rather than guarantees. Ritholtz is already thinking about “fatter rubber, especially out back,” which is the genteel way of saying, “I would prefer not to die.”

THE RESULT

August 2024. The converted 911 comes home.

It arrives in the middle of tropical storm chaos, rain blown sidelong. The car survives shipping, humidity, bureaucracy. It rolls into the garage under its own power. Silent except for fan whirr and tire noise. No idle burble. No oil smell. No mechanical shiver through the rear decklid. Just a hum, a glow of gauges, and a faint sense that the future has crawled into a past decade and made camp.

Something inside me died as I wrote that. I had an ‘88 3.2. Nothing was sweeter than the sound of the flat six creaking and cracking as it cooled down in your garage. But I get it. And I respect it.

On the road, the car is shockingly quick. In “Chill” mode, output is dialed back to around 300 horsepower, and range stretches into the 150-plus mile range. Toggle to “Sport,” and you’re looking at something like 400+ horsepower available more or less instantly. The shove is linear, relentless, deceptively calm. There is no torque hole, no cam changeover, no boost threshold. You press the go-peddle and it goes!

Steering feel survives. In fact, with the suspension sorted to account for the new mass, front-end bite is described as “surprisingly precise and lively.” There is a hint of understeer if you hamfist the throttle mid-corner. The old snap-oversteer demon seems to have been exorcised by lithium and geometry.

Not everything is perfect. The air conditioning is “not bad,” which is loosely translated as “better than stock but not German executive-sedan cold.” Cooling the motor and battery under full load needed more capacity than Fellten originally spec’d, so Moment Motors added a second cooling loop. Packaging that much heat management into a 40-year-old shell is not trivial. It works, but you can sense the effort.

The interior is, in Ritholtz’s words, “dowdy.” The light beige seats and carpets have all the excitement of a Boca Raton waiting room. That will change. The plan is to backdate the cabin visually: ‘70s-style tartan inserts in blues, greens, and blacks on the seat centers, door cards, and dash stripe. Think gentleman hooligan.

And the economics? By his rough math, all-in cost over two years lands somewhere around “walk into a Porsche dealer and buy yourself a nice new 911.” That sentence will make some people scoff and others nod. Both miss the point.

Because here’s what you cannot buy at a Porsche dealer, at any price: a factory-sunroof-delete, rear-wiper, Lagoon Green Metallic G50 911 with Carrera script and racing stripes, original shifter selecting DNR, custom analog EV gauges, ~50/50 weight balance, 440 electric horsepower, and provenance that includes a rust resurrection, a cross-country transplant, and a shop in Austin that had to invent parts of the process as it went.

There isn’t another one. You can’t option this car. You have to build it.

In 2022, this was a thought experiment. In 2023, it was a shell on a trailer. In April 2024, it was a mostly wired prototype on jack stands. In August 2024, it drove.

Call it sacrilege. Call it inevitable. Call it, if you like, the first EV 911 in New York. Eat your heart out Jerry Seinfeld.

Read more on Barry’s adventure here: https://ritholtz.com/2025/06/911-ev-update-10-months-in/

If you liked this story, you might like my book. Available on Amazon - Kindle or Paperback.

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It was also a requiem.

Origins Forged in Obsession

The story begins long before the 112i’s dramatic unveiling at the Frankfurt Motor Show in 1993. It starts in 1971, when a young Eberhard Schulz, armed with little more than stubborn ambition and a home-built sports car called the Erator GTE, presented himself to the gates of Porsche and Mercedes-Benz. His engineering credentials were negligible; his balls, giant. Eventually, Porsche relented—not because of his résumé, but because of the Erator itself. It was "a declaration of ability wrought in steel and fiberglass."

Working in Porsche’s design department, Schulz continued to sketch his dreams after hours. One such dream—the CW311—was envisioned as a spiritual successor to the Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing. With the support of tuning house B+B, a prototype was unveiled at the 1978 Frankfurt Motor Show, cheekily brandishing a Mercedes star on its snout, to which Mercedes turned a blind eye. After parting ways with B+B, Schulz founded his own shop in 1982—Isdera, short for Ingenieurbüro für Styling, DEsign und RAcing—with the goal of bringing the CW311 to life.

The resulting machine was the Imperator 108i, a low-volume, hand-built supercar powered by a Mercedes M117 5.0-litre V8. It was impressive for its time, boasting gullwing doors and an aerodynamic silhouette. But Schulz was not yet finished.

The world, however, was almost finished with him.

Birth of a Thoroughbred

In 1989, as the Imperator’s production was drawing to a close, Schulz began sketching a successor. By 1993, it emerged in the form of the Commendatore 112i—a machine he hoped would race at Le Mans, conquer autobahns, and shame Italy’s finest. At first glance, the 112i appeared otherworldly: a low, elongated shape with dramatic gullwing doors, matching engine cover, and the striking omission of traditional side mirrors. In their place sat a periscope—yes, a periscope—borrowed from its predecessor. Function followed form; Schulz had wind tunnel data to prove it.

Under its handcrafted fiberglass skin lay a Mercedes-Benz M120 6.0-litre V12, a twin-cam, all-aluminum jewel that, in other applications, powered dignified saloons and svelte supercars like the SL600 and Pagani Zonda. Yet Mercedes had never intended it for a manual gearbox. That didn’t deter Schulz. He commissioned a custom flywheel and bolted it to a modified 6-speed transaxle derived from a 5-speed unit by Ruf, Porsche’s “mad cousin”. The gearbox itself was a delicate fusion of ingenuity and desperation, its sixth gear added to help the car reach its target top speed of 340 km/h (211 mph).

The Commendatore’s chassis was a spaceframe construction, as serious as racing regulations would demand. The suspension was sourced from the Porsche 928 but heavily modified, with active height control developed with Bilstein and BBS. At speed, the car would hunker down by 76mm, slicing through the air with purpose. Its drag coefficient, verified in Mercedes-Benz’s wind tunnel, stood at Cd 0.306—a remarkable figure for the time and testimony to Schulz’s monastic devotion to aerodynamic cleanliness.

Despite its racing ambitions, the Commendatore was never merely a racer. It was a grand tourer in disguise, boasting a 120-litre fuel tank, an actively managed chassis, and even an electronically controlled airbrake that would rise vertically under deceleration like a mechanized parachute. It had no less drama than a McLaren F1, but more Germanic restraint.

Inside, the cabin was two-tone black and blue, upholstered in leather and fitted with RECARO sports seats. Mercedes gauges and switchgear provided familiarity, although the speedometer reaching 400 km/h hinted at untapped fury. The door sills, absurdly wide, housed dual fuel tanks—a decision born of both necessity and lunacy.

Collapse and Resurrection

Isdera’s plans for limited production—each car taking six months to handcraft—were ambitious but sincere. A second model was even promised, with a 6.9-litre V12 producing 548 bhp, according to Autocar. But the early 1990s proved unkind to idealists. The Japanese economic bubble burst in 1993, vaporizing Isdera’s primary investors and pushing the company into bankruptcy. The Commendatore, its creator’s magnum opus, remained a non-functional prototype.

Enter salvation: a Swiss consortium acquired Isdera’s remains and rescued the 112i, bringing it back to the 1999 Frankfurt show under a new moniker—the Silver Arrow. The periscope mirror was replaced with CLK GTR-style side mirrors, the BBS racing wheels swapped for more conventional five-spoke alloys. Purists frowned. Videogame fans, however, rejoiced: the car appeared in Need for Speed II, forever immortalizing it in pixelated glory.

Years later, Isdera re-acquired the original Commendatore and painstakingly restored it to 1993 specification. The process involved commissioning new BBS wheels, restoring the original Arctic Silver paint, and reinstalling the periscope mirror. Now wearing fewer than 10,500 kilometers, it is registered for road use in Germany—a unicorn not confined to museums but meant to roam.

A Second Shadow

Curiously, whispers tell of a second 112i. According to factory insiders, a spare subframe and the original moulds were sold to a private enthusiast. Over six years, with sporadic involvement from Schulz, the second car took shape—finished in Light Ivory with a light grey interior. It features side-exit exhausts, Porsche-sourced switchgear, and minor aesthetic changes that would later prompt Isdera to disown the car. It exists, but like a bastard heir, it remains outside the company’s official canon.

The Last Romantic

The Isdera Commendatore 112i stands today as a monument to what might have been—a one-off machine sculpted by a man whose ambition routinely outpaced his resources. It belongs in the rarefied air of 1990s boutique hypercars like the Koenigsegg CC8S or Pagani Zonda C12, but with none of their commercial backing or mass production. Unlike them, it was never about finding buyers. It was about proving something.

To drive the Commendatore is to commune with Schulz’s ideals: purity of purpose, reverence for mechanical craft, and a romanticism that borders on madness. It is not a car made by committee. It is not a car that bends to convention. It is, instead, a knight’s charge into a world no longer chivalrous.

And like all good myths, there was only ever one.

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Engineering and Design: A Formula 1 Connection

The Ferrari Enzo’s genesis was rooted in Formula 1 technology. Its carbon-fiber body, automated manual transmission, and ceramic composite disc brakes bore the DNA of Ferrari’s racing pedigree. Yet, the Enzo pushed beyond the confines of motorsport, incorporating technologies prohibited in Formula 1, such as active aerodynamics. The car generated astounding levels of downforce—343 kilograms at 200 km/h, rising to 775 kilograms at 300 km/h—thanks to its front underbody flaps, adjustable rear spoiler, and diffuser. These elements epitomized the interplay between engineering precision and aesthetic elegance.

Designed by Ken Okuyama, then head of Pininfarina, the Enzo’s bodywork resembled an open-wheel race car enveloped in a futuristic shell. Each panel, crafted from carbon fiber and Kevlar, was a testament to aerodynamic perfection. The chassis, a carbon-fiber and Nomex honeycomb tub weighing a mere 200 pounds, was paired with aluminum subframes to form a structure both rigid and lightweight.

The Heart of the Beast: The F140B V12 Engine

At the core of the Enzo was the F140B V12 engine, a marvel of engineering. This 65-degree naturally aspirated powerhouse displaced nearly six liters, producing 660 PS (651 hp) at 7,800 rpm and 657 Nm (485 lb-ft) of torque at 5,500 rpm. The engine was a masterclass in advanced materials and racing technology, featuring Nikasil-lined cylinders, titanium connecting rods, and a telescoping intake manifold designed to optimize torque. The result was a redline of 8,200 rpm and an unmistakable symphony of mechanical brilliance.

This engine was not merely a one-off triumph but a progenitor of future Ferrari icons. Variants of the F140 would power models such as the 599 GTB Fiorano, the F12 Berlinetta, and the hybrid LaFerrari, solidifying its legacy as one of Maranello’s greatest powerplants.

Performance Beyond Measure

The Enzo’s performance metrics were staggering. Accelerating from 0 to 60 mph in just 3.14 seconds and reaching a top speed of 355 km/h (221 mph), it set new benchmarks for production cars. A six-speed automated manual transmission with paddle shifters, developed by Graziano Trasmissioni, enabled lightning-fast gear changes in just 150 milliseconds. The advanced suspension, with push-rod-actuated shock absorbers adjustable from the cabin, and massive 15-inch Brembo carbon-ceramic brakes ensured that the Enzo’s power was matched by its control.

Limited Production, Unlimited Legacy

Initially limited to 399 units, the Enzo was offered exclusively to Ferrari’s most loyal clientele, particularly owners of the F40 and F50. Overwhelming demand led to the production of 498 cars, including a unit donated to the Vatican for charity. This exclusivity enshrined the Enzo’s status as both a collector’s wet dream and a technological marvel.

A Hypercar for the Ages

The Ferrari Enzo’s place in automotive history is unassailable. It bridged the gap between the raw performance of the F40 and the hybrid sophistication of the LaFerrari, embodying the essence of a millennial hypercar. With its cutting-edge engineering, breathtaking design, and unparalleled performance, the Enzo remains a defining achievement in Ferrari’s storied lineage, a car that continues to captivate enthusiasts and collectors alike.

The 2003 Ferrari Enzo in the photos will be crossing the block at RM Sotheby’s Miami 2025 auction on the 27th of February.

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A Legacy of Development

The 212 Export was not born in isolation but evolved from the earlier Ferrari 195 S. With an increased engine capacity and a reimagined chassis, it represented the cutting edge of racing technology for its time. The 212 Export carried the torch of Ferrari's dual-purpose philosophy—machines equally adept at competing on Sunday and thrilling the gentleman driver on Monday.

The "Export" moniker first appeared on the 166 Export Vignale Spyder, yet it was the 212 that cemented the term's association with Ferrari's racing pedigree. A mere 27 examples were constructed, each with a purpose as singular as the craftsmanship bestowed upon it.

Bodywork: A Coachbuilder’s Canvas

The 212 Export was, in essence, a work of art. The majority of the cars were clothed by Carrozzeria Touring, whose Barchetta and Berlinetta designs remain timeless icons. Yet diversity was a hallmark of the model—Vignale, Motto, and Fontana each contributed unique interpretations, with designs ranging from the aerodynamic to the eccentric.

Consider, for instance, Touring Barchetta s/n 0102E, whose journey took it from Hollywood's silver screen in The Racers to the hairpin bends of the Mille Miglia. Or Fontana's "carretto siciliano" creation, a study in audacity with its cycle fenders and utility-inspired silhouette. Each coachbuilder brought their own flair, ensuring no two Exports were alike, save for their shared lineage of excellence.

Engineering Excellence

At the heart of the 212 Export lay the Colombo V12 engine, a masterpiece of compact engineering; it was a testament to Ferrari's ability to balance power with reliability. The triple Weber carburetors fed the engine with precision, while a non-synchronized 5-speed gearbox allowed the driver to wrestle every ounce of performance from the car.

The chassis, a steel-tube construction later refined with a Tuboscocca trellis frame, provided both rigidity and a platform for innovation. Suspension systems were equally advanced, with independent front wishbones and a live rear axle supported by semi-elliptic springs.

A Collector’s Dream

The Ferrari 212 Export occupies a rarified space in the annals of automotive history, revered as much for its racing pedigree as for its exclusivity. Auction records tell a tale of ever-rising values, with the most exquisite examples fetching millions. From the CHF 3.8 million estimate of a Motto Spyder to the €6.72 million sale of Touring Barchetta s/n 0158ED, these machines are coveted not merely as cars but as rolling pieces of history.

To own a 212 Export is to hold a ticket to the most exclusive rallies and races. It is an opportunity to live vicariously through the exploits of legends who once held the same wooden-rimmed steering wheel. And above all, it is to possess a fragment of Ferrari's soul—a soul forged in the heat of competition and cooled only by the wind of victory.

In the Ferrari 212 Export, past, present, and future converged. It was not merely a car; it was a promise of what was to come, a harbinger of Ferrari's dominance, and a reminder that sometimes, the most fleeting creations leave the deepest impressions.

This 1951 Ferrari 212/225 Export by Vignale is coming to RM Sotheby’s Paris 2025 auction and will cross the block on Wednesday, 5 February 2025:

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Challenge accepted. An incensed Lamborghini went about building his own 'supercar.'

Former Ferrari man, Giotto Bizzarrini, built the V12 and Bertone designer Franco Scaglione styled the body, which was built by Carrozzeria Sargiotto in Turin.

Ferruccio Lamborghini's 350 GTV was released to the world at the 1963 Turin Auto Show. Rumor has it the car attended the show without the engine. Mr. Lamborghini simply explained the hood couldn't be opened because he forgot the key.

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At its heart lay the venerable Buick 3800 V6 engine, a transverse arrangement that channeled its modest 165–170 horsepower to the front wheels—a configuration that said pragmatism more than passion. Nevertheless, with its fully independent suspension and four-wheel disc brakes (with ABS), the Reatta offered a driving experience that was as competent as it was uninspired, achieving its electronically limited 125 mph with a businesslike demeanor.

A Halo Car Built by Hand, Sort Of

Manufactured in what Buick grandly termed the "Reatta Craft Center" in Lansing, Michigan, the car's assembly process eschewed the traditional conveyor belt in favor of robotic choreography. Teams of artisans—though the term stretches credulity—labored over their assigned stations, a nod to the boutique craftsmanship associated with finer European marques. PPG Industries performed the paintwork under contract, ensuring that the Reatta gleamed with the promise of sophistication, even if eventually failed to deliver.

Features: Luxurious Details Amid the Mundane

The Reatta's interior presented an earnest, if not slightly confused attempt at opulence. Twin bucket seats offered more lumbar support than lateral bolstering, while the lockable bins and access hatch behind them betrayed a whiff of practicality. Early models included an avant-garde touchscreen, the Electronic Control Center (ECC), which ambitiously controlled everything from the radio to diagnostic systems—a bold innovation that proved too clever by half. Later iterations reverted to tactile buttons, tacitly acknowledging that the future had arrived prematurely.

Optional 16-way power seats and keyless entry rounded out a spec sheet that straddled the line between luxury and necessity. And for those nostalgic for idiosyncrasy, the Reatta held the distinction of being Buick's only car with pop-up headlamps—a curious choice that lent an otherwise subdued design a faint glimmer of intrigue.

Convertible and Special Editions: Limited Aspirations

The convertible variant, introduced belatedly in 1990, added a touch of romance to the Reatta's restrained ethos. Crafted by ASC, its manually operated top—later upgraded with power pull-down assistance—hid beneath a rigid tonneau cover when stowed. Though elegant in concept, the convertible's execution highlighted the Reatta's perennial struggle with identity: neither fully luxurious nor sporty.

Special editions, such as the "Select Sixties" models, attempted to inject exclusivity into the lineup. These cars, produced in limited numbers, featured unique color schemes and emblems—trinkets that attempted to elevate the Reatta into collectible territory. Yet, like many such exercises, these efforts felt more like gilding the lily than burnishing a masterpiece.

A Noble Failure

The Reatta’s production—just over 21,000 units in its four-year run—speaks less to exclusivity and more to tepid market reception. Intended as a halo car for Buick, it instead became a footnote, overshadowed by more cohesive offerings such as the Cadillac Allanté. Its demise in 1991 was both inevitable and unremarkable, though its brief existence remains a testament to the peculiar optimism of American automaking in the late 20th century.

Legacy: An Anomaly Worth Remembering

In hindsight, the Buick Reatta occupies a curious niche. It is neither a monument to engineering nor a cautionary tale of hubris, but rather a quiet example of ambition constrained by pragmatism. Its innovations—the touchscreen ECC, the boutique assembly process—hinted at a more daring future that never quite materialized. Today, the Reatta stands as a relic of what might have been: a symphonic divergence, albeit played in a minor key.

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Engineering Prowess

At the heart of the Speedtail lies a profoundly reimagined iteration of the M840T twin-turbocharged V8, an engine that already commanded reverence in the 720S. Here, however, it is elevated to new heights, delivering an awe-inspiring 746 horsepower and 590 lb-ft of torque. This mechanical opus is joined by an electric hybrid system contributing an additional 308 horsepower, summoning a combined force of 1,036 horsepower and 848 lb-ft of torque. The result is nothing short of apocalyptic: a machine capable of 250 mph (403 km/h), accelerating from 0 to 186 mph (299 km/h) in a mere 12.8 seconds. Such figures are not merely numbers; they are declarations of intent.

The chassis, a monocoque hewn from carbon fiber, integrates the seats into its very structure, a testament to McLaren’s pursuit of absolute coherence between form and function. The dihedral doors, a hallmark of the marque, open not merely to permit entry but to evoke ceremony, even pageantry.

Aesthetic and Aerodynamic Mastery

The Speedtail’s silhouette evokes the teardrop, nature’s own symbol of aerodynamic perfection. McLaren’s engineers have sculpted this shape with meticulous care, foregoing conventional rear spoilers for flexible carbon fiber active surfaces seamlessly integrated into the rear clamshell. Static wheel covers on the front further minimize turbulence, while electrochromic glass eliminates the need for sun visors, an elegant solution to a mundane problem.

One might pause to admire the retractable HD cameras that supplant traditional mirrors. These are not gimmicks but functional elements that retract in "Velocity mode," where every aspect of the car is honed for peak performance. The Speedtail is not content to reduce drag; it is determined to obliterate it.

The Interior: A Study in Purpose and Luxury

Inside, the Speedtail reimagines the iconic three-seat layout of the McLaren F1, positioning the driver at the epicenter of control. This is more than just homage; it is ergonomic enlightenment. The seats are cloaked in "directional leather," a material as tactile as it is innovative, designed to facilitate entry while anchoring the drive during spirited driving.

Here, McLaren’s obsession with detail reaches its zenith. Titanium deposition carbon fiber and Thin-Ply Technology Carbon Fiber (TPT) demonstrate a mastery of materials science, blending strength with aesthetic purity. Even the bespoke luggage—echoing the tradition set by the F1—becomes a statement of exclusivity.

Production: Precision Meets Exclusivity

Testing of the Speedtail was conducted at the Kennedy Space Center’s shuttle landing runway, a stage worthy of its aspirations. With prototypes repeatedly attaining their terminal velocity of 250 mph, McLaren proved not only the car’s capability but its endurance.

Production, limited to 106 units, commenced in late 2019. At a price of £2.1 million, ownership is clearly reserved for those who can afford it. However, due to its non-compliance with U.S. Federal Motor Vehicle Safety Standards, many of the Speedtails destined for American buyers must navigate the labyrinthine “Show or Display” law, a fitting challenge for such an extraordinary machine. Sad, if I’m honest.

The McLaren Speedtail is not merely a car; it is a statement. It rejects the notion that speed must sacrifice elegance, that luxury cannot coexist with uncompromising performance.

The 2020 McLaren Speedtail pictured here sold at RM Sotheby’s in 2023 for $2,315,000 USD

• The 72nd of 106 individually specified examples produced

• Finished in the stunning and unique color combination of Athera Grey over Rich Brown and Tan Semi-Aniline leather upholstery

• Original MSRP of £1.836 million (~$2.326 million); £86,000 (~$107,363) in bespoke, optional equipment from McLaren Special Operations

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A More Democratic Bull

Conceived as a successor to the Silhouette, the Jalpa aimed to democratize Lamborghini ownership. It was an "entry-level" alternative to the Countach, a description that belies its innate sophistication. The design, penned by the maestros at Bertone, retained the wedge-shaped bravado characteristic of the era but softened its edges for broader appeal. Under the guidance of Giulio Alfieri, Lamborghini’s chief engineer, the Jalpa was crafted to offer civility alongside its visceral thrills. Compared to the Countach, it was eminently drivable—an exotic car suited not just for the open road but for urban environments as well. Yet, this accessibility came with trade-offs: the Jalpa’s steering was weighty, and its acceleration, while respectable, lacked the ferocity of its V12 sibling.

A Noble Name

True to tradition, the Jalpa bore a name steeped in bullfighting heritage—"Jalpa Kandachia" being a celebrated breed of fighting bulls. Lamborghini’s adherence to this convention lent the car an aura of untamed elegance, a nod to the primal forces that underpin it.

Heart of a Rebel

Beneath its angular hood lay a transverse 3.5-liter V8 engine, an evolution of the Silhouette's L353 unit. This compact powerhouse delivered 255 hp (190 kW) in European specification, alongside a robust 225 lb-ft of torque, making it a spirited performer by contemporary standards. U.S.-bound models, slightly detuned to 250 hp (186 kW), shared the same quartet of Weber 42 DCNF carburetors, ensuring a soundtrack as intoxicating as the performance.

Lamborghini’s official figures suggested a 0–100 km/h (62 mph) sprint in 6.0 seconds, with a top speed of 249 km/h (155 mph). Independent tests offered slightly varied results, with Classic & Sports Car recording 6.8 seconds to 97 km/h (60 mph), while Car and Driver managed a brisker 5.8 seconds. Regardless of the precise figures, the Jalpa was poised as a worthy rival to the Ferrari 328, embodying Lamborghini’s ethos in a smaller, more manageable package.

Evolution and Elegy

Early Jalpas featured black plastic accents—a utilitarian touch that contrasted with their flamboyant purpose. By 1984, these components were replaced with body-colored elements, and round taillights supplanted the angular remnants of the Silhouette. The optional rear wing, a nod to the Countach’s visual theatrics, completed the picture of a car at once refined and unapologetically bold.

The 1984 Jalpa pictured below crossed the block at RM Sotheby’s in 2020 for $99,000.00

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A Name Resurrected

The "Interceptor" moniker was not a novelty for Jensen Motors. It had graced a more modest offering from their Carters Green workshops in the 1950s. By the 1960s, however, the company sought to abandon its flirtation with glass-reinforced plastic—a material that had served them well in preceding decades—in favor of a robust steel body that promised substance to match its style. For the design, Jensen turned to Carrozzeria Touring of Milan, a gesture of aesthetic aspiration befitting an international stage.

Early examples of the Interceptor were coach-built in Italy by Vignale, imbuing the car with an unmistakable Mediterranean flair. But production soon moved to West Bromwich, where Jensen engineers began adding their own distinctive refinements, ensuring that the Interceptor was as much an artifact of British craftsmanship as a beneficiary of foreign inspiration.

Beneath the Bonnet: American Thunder

Power came courtesy of Chrysler V8 engines, with the initial offering being the venerable 383 cubic inch (6.3-litre) unit. By the 1970s, as horsepower wars raged across continents, Jensen upped the ante with the larger 440 cubic inch (7.2-litre) engine. This leviathan produced 305 SAE net horsepower in its four-barrel guise and an astonishing 330 SAE net horsepower in the mythical "Six Pack" configuration, the latter exclusive to the 1971 Jensen SP variant. With its Learjet 8-track stereo and vinyl roof, the SP was a high-performance concerto, equal parts rock and refinement.

Not content to rest on brute power alone, Jensen equipped the Interceptor with a host of then-modern luxuries: electric windows, reclining seats, power steering, and air conditioning. These were not mere indulgences but declarations of the Interceptor’s grand touring intent—a car meant not only to sprint but also to soothe.

A Rear Window to the Future

Arguably, the Interceptor’s pièce de résistance was its signature wrap-around rear window, a design flourish that doubled as a tailgate. This glass expanse was both elegant and practical, imbuing the car with a sense of lightness and innovation. While it drew comparisons to Brazil’s Brasinca Uirapuru, the Interceptor’s execution of this feature was uniquely Jensen—a distillation of sophistication and audacity.

Mark II, III, and Beyond: Evolution Under Pressure

The Interceptor evolved through three main iterations. The Mark II of 1969 introduced subtle aesthetic updates and greater compliance with American safety regulations, while the Mark III of 1971 refined the formula further, standardizing air conditioning and offering GKN alloy wheels. Yet, beneath the surface, the winds of change were growing ominously brisk.

Jensen Motors, buoyed by the ambition of producing the ill-fated Jensen-Healey, succumbed to financial strain by 1975. While production limped into 1976, the Interceptor was ultimately a victim of its time—an oil crisis, a global recession, and the tightening noose of emissions regulations left little room for such extravagant machinery.

The Phoenix Rises

Despite its demise, the Interceptor proved too charismatic to languish in obscurity. A brief revival in the 1980s under Jensen Cars Limited introduced the Series 4, an updated iteration with a downsized Chrysler 360 cubic inch (5.9-litre) engine and modernized appointments. Though admirable, this venture was short-lived.

The Interceptor's most compelling modern chapter emerged in the 21st century, courtesy of Jensen International Automotive (JIA). JIA reimagines original Interceptors with contemporary General Motors LS engines, advanced transmissions, and meticulous restorations. The result is a symphony of heritage and modernity—proof that the Interceptor's essence and appeal remains undiminished by the passage of time.

Legacy in Steel and Glass

The Jensen Interceptor is more than a car; it is an artifact of optimism and excess, a vehicle born of an age when style and performance were pursued with unrelenting fervor. Its blend of Italian artistry, American horsepower, and British craftsmanship places it among the pantheon of grand tourers—a machine as capable of thrilling the open road as it is of conjuring nostalgia for an era when the automobile was an unchallenged icon of freedom.

Today, the Interceptor stands not merely as a relic, but as an enduring testament to Jensen Motors' audacity, ambition, and occasional folly. In its steel curves and glass expanses, one can still hear the echo of a bygone symphony, played in the key of speed, luxury, and irrepressible charm.

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The Mexico owes its origins to an accident—a damaged 5000 GT chassis that was reborn as a stunning 2+2 coupé, draped in a prototype body by Virginio Vairo for Vignale's display at the 1965 Salone di Torino. The car’s commanding proportions, subtle chrome detailing, and balanced stance captured the imagination of onlookers and Maserati alike. Its subsequent sale to Mexican President Adolfo López Mateos lent the car its evocative name. By a stroke of serendipity, John Surtees's victory at the Mexican Grand Prix in a Cooper-Maserati T81 the following year cemented the model's nomenclature as more than a passing glance.

Design and Debut: A Vignale Vision Realized

The production Mexico, revealed at the 20°Concorso internazionale di eleganza per auto in Rimini in August 1966 and subsequently at the Paris Motor Show in October, was no less captivating. It borrowed the unibody chassis of the first-generation Quattroporte, shortened by 4.3 inches, to create a tauter and more dynamic profile. Styling cues included quad headlights framed in chrome shrouds, subtle fender vents, and round side markers, all offset by a flowing roofline and balanced proportions that exuded understated sophistication. Chrome rocker panel trim and bumper overriders added touches of 1960s glamor.

Inside, the Mexico set a new benchmark for opulence. Rich leather upholstery wrapped seating for four adults, while a wooden dashboard, iodine headlights, and air conditioning came as standard, embodying Maserati's ethos of luxury without compromise. Options like automatic transmission, power steering, and a radio catered to discerning clientele who demanded bespoke amenities.

Performance and Engineering: A Dual-Engine Offering

Under the hood, the Mexico delivered the choice of two V8 engines, both masterpieces of Maserati engineering. The 4.7-litre V8, fed by four twin-choke Weber 38 DCNL5 carburetors, produced 290 horsepower, propelling the car to a top speed of 240–250 km/h (149–155 mph). In a departure from Maserati tradition, a smaller 4.2-litre V8 engine became available in 1969, offering a slightly more accessible yet no less thrilling entry into Mexico ownership. Both versions came equipped with servo-assisted ventilated disc brakes—a first for a production Maserati.

Further underscoring its exclusivity, the Mexico left the factory fitted with Pirelli Cinturato 205VR15 CN72 tires, while 4.7-litre models sported Borrani chrome wire wheels and the 4.2-litre variants rolled on steel disc wheels.

Legacy: An Underappreciated Masterpiece

Over six years of production, Maserati built 485 Mexicos, with 175 powered by the 4.7-litre engine and 305 by the 4.2-litre. Despite its modest production numbers, the Mexico remains a pivotal chapter in Maserati's storied history—a car born of circumstance but refined into an icon. In the Mexico, Vignale's design, Maserati's engineering, and the era's unrelenting pursuit of beauty converged, leaving behind a legacy that, while understated, remains unmistakably grand.

Most recently, a 1970 Maserati Mexico 4.2 crossed the block on Bring a Trailer, bid up to $87,000, but unfortunately didn’t sell. And that’s a good thing. The right one, in the right condition, is easily a six figure car. 

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A Beast Tamed in Metal Skin

At the heart of the V600 lies an engine of such singular fury that it crowned the car as the world’s most powerful production model upon its release. Beneath its hood was a 5.3-liter V8—bolstered by twin Eaton superchargers, delivering an apocalyptic 600 horsepower and 605 lb-ft of torque. In the age of supercars, the V600 was capable of launching from 0 to 60 mph in a mere 3.9 seconds, with a top speed that breached the 200 mph mark. But to simply consider the V600 in terms of numbers would be to miss its more profound narrative—this was not just another hyper-powered machine, it was an automobile steeped in heritage and legacy..

The engineering behind the V600 was no mere academic exercise. Each bolt, each curve, was sculpted with intent. The side vents echoing the DBR1 that claimed victory at Le Mans, were not ornamental, but a homage to a racing lineage that demanded reverence.

Handmade, With Love

For all its firepower, the V600’s true value lay in its construction. Only 40 of these machines were hand-built at the Newport Pagnell factory. Each was a labor of exquisite precision. To see one today is to glimpse a disappearing world of automotive artisanship—bespoke, considered, and unburdened by the rush of mass production. The V600 was not simply made, it was conceived and birthed through sheer human tenacity.

Only 40 Vantage Le Mans V600s were hand-built between December 1999 and October 2000, making them one of the rarest models ever produced. Each car was meticulously assembled with attention to every detail, embodying the epitome of British craftsmanship. Of the 40 examples, only 18 were configured in right-hand drive, adding to their exclusivity.

Brutal, but Honest

To the uninitiated, the V600 may have seemed brutish, unwieldy—a behemoth ill-suited for any road but the straightest of highways. But therein lay the V600’s challenge: it was never a machine for the faint of heart. Its immense size and considerable weight demanded skill and patience. It was a mechanical wrestle with physics that separated drivers from occupants. Steve Waddingham, one of the stalwarts behind its creation, remembered a tiny engineering team, handcrafting the future with little more than grit and determination, an effort that made the V600 all the more exceptional, but also a touch raw. 

Its handling may have lacked the digital refinement of the era’s budding hypercars, but that was its charm. This was a car from a different time—a rolling anachronism of analogue power amidst a world rushing toward the digital future. The V600’s muscle was tethered to a chassis that would not flinch at speed but required care when navigating tight bends—some might say a feature, not a bug.

An End of an Era

By 2000, regulations were tightening and the V8 Vantage was to be no more. Yet, even as new rules threatened its existence, Aston Martin would not be cowed. Each V600 was recalled post-delivery, their engines massaged to a further 604 horsepower, with torque surging to 820 Nm. A sterling silver key holder and a map from Newport Pagnell to Le Mans accompanied each car. 

It was truly the last of a breed, a ‘brute in a suit,’ carrying with it both the ferocity of its power and the dignity of its lineage.

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Origins and Design

Alejandro de Tomaso, a man born into the privileged halls of Argentina’s aristocracy but driven by a racing driver’s hunger, founded his eponymous marque in 1959. By the time the 1972 Turin Motor Show came around, De Tomaso was already a figure of intrigue, a man who had long since transitioned from circuits to the road. He infused each car with the same controlled aggression that marked his racing career. The Longchamp, unveiled that year, carried forward this peculiar blend of high society and high speed.

Derived from the Deauville saloon, the Longchamp was, on paper, a conventional 2+2 coupé. Yet, there was nothing conventional about its design. Penned by Tom Tjaarda under the Ghia banner, gone were the sinuous lines of yore; in their place, a muscular angularity reigned supreme. The car's sharp edges were punctuated by a long, almost imperious bonnet, a clear sign that what lay beneath was no six-cylinder but a brutish American heart. The Ford-sourced 351-ci Cleveland V8 sat there like a defiant peasant, daring the refined sensibilities of Europe to question its right to exist. And yet, this contrast worked, even if the Longchamp’s aesthetic unsettled those who preferred their grand tourers with more curves than corners.

Power and Performance

The beauty of the Longchamp, if it could be said to reside anywhere, was in its engine. The 5.8-liter V8 was not the work of some artisan; it was industrial might, a product of Detroit's muscle car era, pushing out an impressive 330 horsepower in its earliest guise. This power enabled the car to reach speeds of nearly 150 mph, figures that positioned it in a class above the mere pretenders of its era. However, as the decade progressed and the stifling hand of emissions regulations tightened its grip, that power was curbed, dropping to 266 hp—a neutering, if you will, of the beast’s full glory.

The V8 remained a symbol of something deeper: a refusal to conform to the refined manners of its contemporaries. The Longchamp did not strive to be all things to all drivers; it demanded a certain understanding, a willingness to accept its brute strength alongside its less sophisticated aspects. With independent suspension and vented disc brakes on all four corners, it was a grand tourer that could deliver both speed and grace, but always with the unmistakable rumble of American iron.

Interior and Luxury

Step inside, and the Longchamp presented a curious mix of opulence and ordinariness. Leather seats, wood trim, and chrome touches suggested it was worthy of any aristocrat’s drive through the hills of Tuscany. But then your eye might catch the steering wheel, sourced from Ford’s parts bin, and you would be reminded of the compromises that were made.

Evolution and Variants

The Longchamp, like many De Tomaso creations, evolved slowly. By 1980, the Series 2 was introduced with minor updates, but it was the GTS variant that truly embodied the car’s potential. Flared fenders, wider wheels and tires gave it a more aggressive stance. The suspension was stiffened to match the additional grip. For those few lucky enough to experience it, the GTS was the ultimate expression of the Longchamp ethos—unabashedly muscular, yet still capable of refinement.

Even more exclusive was the Spyder variant, a convertible crafted by Carrozzeria Pavesi. With only 14 ever made, the Spyder added a wind-swept romance to the Longchamp's already unique character.

Legacy and Cult Status

The De Tomaso Longchamp never posed a serious threat to the established order of European grand tourers. Its numbers were always limited—just 409 were ever built—it was too much the outsider to truly take on the likes of Mercedes or Jaguar at the time. De Tomaso himself was distracted, his attention shifting towards Maserati and other ventures, leaving the Longchamp to carve out its own legacy.

The Longchamp was never intended for the masses. It is a relic of an era when cars were not homogenized into soulless appliances. It stands as a testament to the ambition of Alejandro de Tomaso, a man who dared to dream of a car that could combine the brute force of American muscle with the refinement of Italian craftsmanship.

In the end, the Longchamp is a car that refuses to be forgotten, if only because it represents something we so often lose in the relentless march of progress: individuality. It is a living reminder from a time when cars had personalities, flaws, and contradictions—a grand tourer not defined by perfection, but by character.

Rev up your passion for automotive art! Everyday Driven is an affiliate of Limited100, the brand turning British craftsmanship into stunning, must-have pieces of art for car lovers worldwide. 

Plus, by using our affiliate links, you’ll be supporting Everyday Driven without any ads or subscriptions. Every purchase helps keep our content free and rolling. Check out their site now and find your next favorite piece! Explore their collection and bring home art that speaks to your love for cars.

And you know what would look good on your wall? Lamborghini Wall Art from Limited100!

For Lamborghini enthusiasts, the highlight of the auction will be the three restorable examples of the Miura. The iconic supercar designed by Bertone and powered by a V-12 engine is often credited as the world’s first true supercar, however, each of these cars will require significant restoration, because they have been neglected for decades.

The first Miura on offer, lot No. 303, is a 1968 P400, believed to have been originally owned by Lamborghini engineer and test driver Claudio Zampolli—who later founded the supercar marque Cizeta. Klein acquired the vehicle in 1978, but it has since sat untouched for 46 years, slowly deteriorating in his yard. The car retains its original matching-numbers V-12 engine.

The second Miura, lot No. 300, is a 1969 P400 S with chassis No. 4070. Klein bought the car after it was involved in a traffic accident, and it remains damaged to this day, missing its distinctive clamshell hood and rocker panels. Despite this, RM Sotheby’s has set its estimate at $700,000, reflecting its rarity and desirability.

Perhaps the rarest of the trio is lot No. 306, a red 1967 P400, the 53rd Miura ever built and one of the coveted “thin chassis” examples, constructed from thinner 0.9 mm steel. Highly prized by collectors, this “thin chassis” boasts lighter construction and a purer design. After being imported to California in 1979, a major mechanical issue left the car abandoned in Klein’s yard just a year later. Unfortunately, it is missing both its engine and transmission, which explains its lower estimated value of $350,000 to $450,000.

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Plus, by using our affiliate links, you’ll be supporting Everyday Driven without any ads or subscriptions. Every purchase helps keep our content free and rolling. Check out their site now and find your next favorite piece! Explore their collection and bring home art that speaks to your love for cars.

And you know what would look good on your wall? Lamborghini Wall Art from Limited100!

Valour is more than a car; it is a celebration, an ode to 110 years of Aston Martin’s unyielding devotion to the front-engined sports car. In an era where the human is often relegated to no more than a passenger, it restores to the driver the role of conductor—directing the symphony of combustion, power, and torque with nothing more than a bespoke six-speed manual transmission, a pair of hands, and a foot on the throttle. It is no stretch to say the Valour evoke a time when sports cars were built, not for the needs of accountants and regulators, but for the sheer thrill of driving.

At its heart lies a twin-turbocharged 5.2-litre V12, producing 715PS and 753Nm of torque. In an era when automatics and paddle-shift transmissions are ubiquitous, Aston Martin’s decision to pair this colossus of an engine with a manual gearbox is nothing short of defiant. And yet, it is in this defiance that Valour finds its purpose. For in a world where ‘efficiency’ and ‘convenience’ have become watchwords, the Valour asks: Where is the passion?

This car was born of heritage, inspired by legends like the V8 Vantage of the 1970s and the fearsome ‘Muncher’ Le Mans racer. The connection is more than superficial. Valour's brawn is a direct descendent of the monstrous 1990s V600 Vantage, which at the time held the title of the world’s most powerful production car. But, the Valour’s DNA is not just a relic of the past. Its construction is informed by the exquisite precision of the One-77 and the bespoke engineering of the Victor. In every sinew and muscle of its carbon fiber body, you can trace the evolution of Aston Martin’s art and engineering prowess.

Production is limited to a mere 110 units—the number coincides with the marque’s milestone anniversary—making it a rare and coveted machine among Aston’s famous front-engined sports cars. Yes it is more than a collector’s item to be sealed away in a climate-controlled garage; it is meant to be driven! Inviting its driver to dance on the edge of adhesion, to balance throttle and steering with the delicacy of a ballerina. 

Its suspension geometry is honed for precision and poise, delivering a driving experience that is taut, precise, and exquisitely balanced. The car’s body structure, with its reinforced shear panels and suspension tower strut brace, maximizes torsional rigidity. The feedback from the steering wheel is as pure as you can hope for in an era of electronic assistance. Though Aston Martin’s engineers, in their wisdom, have not banished modernity altogether; rather, they have harnessed it, deploying technology in service of the driver, not in place of it.

Then there are the brakes. Carbon Ceramic Brakes, of course. They ensure, not just formidable stopping power, but a 23kg reduction in unsprung mass. Technical details like this may be lost on the casual observer. But the true aficionado understands it is in the reduction of weight and the precise tuning that makes a car transcend the mere sum of its parts.

Visually, Valour commands attention. Not through the brashness of contemporary design, but through a carefully considered homage to Aston Martin’s history. The body is rendered in carbon fiber. There are design cues that echo the aggressive stance of the 1970s V8 Vantage. The clamshell bonnet, adorned with twin NACA ducts and a bold ‘horseshoe’ vent, hints at the power lurking beneath the beast. The rear, with its triple exhaust and dramatic Kamm tail, completes a look that is as aggressive as it is purposeful.

In the cabin, simplicity reigns. The gear lever, with its exposed shift mechanism and choice of materials, is the centerpiece of a cockpit designed to seduce through both touch and sight. The use of materials, from woolen tweed to carbon fiber, speaks to a tradition of craftsmanship that Aston Martin has long championed. For those who wish to personalize their Valour further, the Aston Martin offers the opportunity to create something truly unique.

Ultimately, the Valour is a car that defies the future by embracing the past. It is a celebration not just of 110 years of Aston Martin, but of a philosophy of driving that values engagement over isolation, passion over efficiency, and the sheer joy of mechanical complexity over modern automation. And for that, the Valour deserves its name. Even if our British cousins can’t quite figure out how to spell Valor.

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Plus, by using our affiliate links, you’ll be supporting Everyday Driven without any ads or subscriptions. Every purchase helps keep our content free and rolling. Check out their site now and find your next favorite piece! Explore their collection and bring home art that speaks to your love for cars.

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A Dutchman's Dream and Pininfarina's Vision

Necessity is the mother of invention, but in this instance, it was pure desire that begot this creation. The story begins with a Dutch lithographer, driven by a passion for a motorcar that was neither altogether German nor wholly Italian, but a glorious symphony of both. The standard Mercedes 300 SEL 6.3—a formidable piece of engineering by any measure, renowned for its prodigious power, generous accommodations, and technical ingenuity—was, to this gentleman's mind, insufficiently exotic. He begged Mercedes-Benz for a more intimate coupe or convertible version, but was met with indifference, perhaps even disdain. But where Stuttgart demurred, Turin was willing to entertain his dream, thanks to his persistence.

Pininfarina, of course, was no stranger to the task of giving machinery a soul. Their reluctance, initially sparked by concerns over the Mercedes' huge chassis and ungainly stiffness, was overcome by that peculiarly Italian genius for transforming the improbable into the breathtaking. And what was wrought was nothing less than a transformation of the sedan's form into one of the most elegant 2+2 coupes ever. Gone were the formal, upright lines of the W109, replaced by an extended, flowing silhouette that retained its Teutonic dignity but was imbued with an unmistakable Italian panache.

Form Follows Performance

Beneath this newfound elegance, the heart of the machine remained Mercedes. The 300 SEL’s towering M100 6.3-litre V8, originally conceived for the Mercedes 600, was the epitome of unrelenting power. Here was an engine that did not merely accelerate but announced its intentions with the authority of a Wagnerian overture.

The air suspension system was marvel of automotive technology that balanced supple comfort with steadfast control. Here was a car that could glide through city streets as if on a cushion of air, yet summon enough ferocity to remind the sports car drivers of the era of their inferiority. It was a grand tourer in the truest sense.

This car, then, is not merely a vehicle; it is an artifact, a piece of living history. It stands as a testament to the art of the possible, when patience, passion, and the right partnerships converge. It is a car that defies classification—neither wholly Mercedes nor fully Pininfarina, but the perfect distillation of both. It embodies the ethos of an era when cars were not only built to transport but to inspire, to provoke, to seduce.

The car last sold for $350,000.00 at the 18 August 2023 Bonhams Quail Auction, Carmel, Quail Lodge & Golf Club.

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My new friend Simon Wright is one of those people. Simon is the founder of Limited100.co.uk, an East Midlands-based luxury car prints business. His online-only direct-to-consumer store is a hit with petrolheads worldwide. A car enthusiast and marketing professional, Simon conceived the automotive home décor business back in 2020.

It all started after Simon moved into his first home: “I was searching online for some artwork of a Lamborghini Miura, which I regard as the most beautiful car of all time,” he said. “I couldn’t find anything of super high-quality that was handmade, so I decided to create a company of my own that celebrates the handbuilt artisanship that Britain is so synonymous with.

Simon began working with a carefully curated group of award-winning photographers, and to ensure exclusivity, he limited each print to 100 units. The edition numbers are random for each order, unless a customer reaches out for something specific. For example, edition 8/100 is popular with his Japanese customers. And he recently had an order for someone’s 50th birthday, so as a thank you, Simon gave them edition 50/100. 

Proudly Made in Britain

“In 2020 I applied for Made in Britain status, and eligibility requirements included manufacturing and assembling a physical product in the UK, and that 80% of our value chain is in the UK.” Simon said, “Because our printing and framing are completed in Nottingham from UK-sourced materials, our application was approved and we now display the Made in Britain logo on our website, the backs of our frames, and certificates of authenticity.”

 Limited100’s client base is diverse, and ranges from interior designers to home gift buyers, to supercar dealers, and even James Bond enthusiasts. Their automotive wall art is available in a range of sizes, from A3 all the way up to 5 meters wide. And the formats include print-only, framed, canvas, aluminum composite and acrylic glass. They’re fully bespoke, and can print in any style a customer requests. 

Celebrating Limited100’s 400th Customer

Simon’s 400th customer was an employee from Portugal, who bought a Ferrari F40 print for their CEO’s 40th birthday.

I’m delighted to have made a new friend who’s maybe even more passionate about cars than I am. As an entrepreneur, I love his business model. And you, as a reader of Everyday Driven, are just as passionate about cars as we are, so do yourself a favor and check out Simon’s company, Limited100. You’ll be glad you did. 

The 612 Scaglietti is a stunner, with an elegant yet aggressive design. Pininfarina waved their magic wand, creating sleek, aerodynamic lines that make the car look fast even parked. The long wheelbase and distinctive front add to its commanding presence, while the aluminum bodywork doesn't just make it gorgeous—it makes it light and nimble too.

And this GT 2+2 comfortably seats four. No worries finding a babysitter, you can take the kids along on that Sunday drive. Just no one, and I mean no one, eats in this car. You hear me? 

Pop the hood open and underneath lies a naturally aspirated 5.7L V12. The roaring beast produces 533 horsepower and 434 lb-ft of torque, rocketing you to 60 mph in just 4.2 seconds and reaching a top speed of 199 mph. Fun fact: The 612 Scaglietti shares its engine with the 575 Superamerica.

The V12 is paired with Ferrari's F1-style electrohydraulic manual transmission. The advanced adaptive suspension ensures a smooth and stable ride, even when pushing the envelope. And thanks to adaptive damping, the car’s ride height adjusts itself based on driving conditions. 

Stepping inside the 612 is like entering a world of rich Italian luxury and craftsmanship. High-quality leather, carbon fiber accents, and aluminum adorn the cabin. There’s plenty of headroom and legroom for all passengers, make the 612 the penultimate grand-tourer for eating up large swaths of road in luxury and comfort. 

The 612 is a nod to Ferrari's rich heritage. During its production run, the 612l received rave reviews for its blend of performance, luxury, and practicality. It delivers a thrilling driving experience that maintains the comfort expected of a true grand tourer.

All in all, the Ferrari 612 Scaglietti is a masterpiece. Its aesthetic design, powerful V12, and luxurious interior make it a standout GT. It seamlessly blends high-performance with the comfort and practicality of a grand tourer. It is a testament to Ferrari's commitment to excellence and continues to be celebrated as one of the greats by collectors and enthusiasts alike. 

Rev up your passion for automotive art! Everyday Driven is an affiliate of Limited100, the brand turning British craftsmanship into stunning, must-have pieces of art for car lovers worldwide. 

Plus, by using our affiliate links, you’ll be supporting Everyday Driven without any ads or subscriptions. Every purchase helps keep our content free and rolling. Check out their site now and find your next favorite piece! Explore their collection and bring home art that speaks to your love for cars.

And you know what would look good on your wall? Ferrari Wall Art from Limited100!

Only 56 of these magnificent machines were crafted between 1960 and 1963 in Modena, Italy. But this one? This one is the crown jewel. Under the hood lies a competition-spec Tipo 168 3-liter V-12 engine.

The Ferrari  250 GT SWB California Spider coming to Monterey this summer made its debut as the factory show car at the 1960 Geneva Motor Show. Imagine it – the first of its kind, gleaming under the show lights, making grown men gape in awe. It's been certified by Ferrari Classiche, which means it still has its original ‘numbers matching’ engine, gearbox, rear axle, and bodywork. It's as genuine as they come.

It’s only had five owners since new, with three of them holding onto it for dear life over the past 60 years. And for the first time in 16 years, it’s up for grabs. If you’ve got a spare few million lying around, this is your chance to own a slice of automotive royalty.

So what will the first Ferrari 250 GT California Spider set you back? RM Sotheby’s is throwing out a high estimate of $16,000,000 to $18,000,000. Yes, that’s a lot of zeros, but for a car this special, chump change. Others speculate it might go for a bit less, somewhere between $9.5 million to $11.5 million. Regardless, this is history, speed, and beauty all rolled into one. Don’t a few million stop you from owning pure, unadulterated automotive perfection. And if you’re a regular reader, how about giving me a ride?

Rev up your passion for automotive art! Everyday Driven is an affiliate of Limited100, the brand turning British craftsmanship into stunning, must-have pieces of art for car lovers worldwide. 

Plus, by using our affiliate links, you’ll be supporting Everyday Driven without any ads or subscriptions. Every purchase helps keep our content free and rolling. Check out their site now and find your next favorite piece! Explore their collection and bring home art that speaks to your love for cars.

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And you know what would look good on your wall? Ferrari Wall Art from Limited100!