But the short story is that this was a significant racecar, and when the original body was thoroughly damaged, a fiberglass Devin body was mounted 46 years ago, and the Ferrari lineage was forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.
The seller bought it as a $200 project 15 years ago. It's a factory competition Ferrari, as the even numbered ones were, #0202 precisely. The car raced at the 24 Hours of Le Mans in 1952.
Luigi Chinetti bought it in 1953 and sold it to Ernie McAfee in Los Angeles.
Shaughnessy has the edge. "I already have a running engine, rear end, transmission, pedal box, radiator and oil cooler."
He even thinks he knows where the original V-12 engine is and hopes he might be able to persuade the owner to trade for his motor, which is close to the same number.
if restored, the Ferrari will look like the below photo
At the request of Volkswagen Managing Director Heinz Nordhoff, Hebmüller and Karmann would build cabriolets for Volkswagen, with as many Type 1 parts, such as chassis, engine, and body panels, as possible. Hebmüller was to build the 2+2 cabriolet, and Karmann the four-seat cabriolet. By contrast with the Karmann, the Heb was intended as a sporting model.
Both built in 1937, one was donated to the war effort and was rebodied to be a Ambulance, the other found it's way to Puerto Rico and became termite food
these won the people's choice award at the Art Center car show
The pilot arrived by cab, paid the driver, and then stepped into the pilot's lounge. He was an older man; his wavy hair was gray and tossed. It looked like it might have been combed, say, around the turn of the century. His flight jacket was checked, creased and worn - it smelled old and genuine. Old Glory was prominently sewn to its shoulders. He projected a quiet air of proficiency and pride devoid of arrogance. He filed a quick flight plan to Montreal (Expo-67, Air Show) then walked across the tarmac. After taking several minutes to perform his walk-around check the pilot returned to the flight lounge to ask if anyone would be available to stand by with fire extinguishers while he "flashed the old bird up, just to be safe." Though only 12 at the time I was allowed to stand by with an extinguisher after brief instruction on its use -- "If you see a fire, point, then pull this lever!" I later became a firefighter, but that's another story. The air around the exhaust manifolds shimmered like a mirror from fuel fumes as the huge prop started to rotate. One manifold, then another, and yet another barked -- I stepped back with the others. In moments the Packard-built Merlin engine came to life with a thunderous roar, blue flames knifed from her manifolds. I looked at the others' faces, there was no concern. I lowered the bell of my extinguisher. One of the guys signaled to walk back to the lounge. We did. Several minutes later we could hear the pilot doing his pre flight run-up. He'd taxied to the end of runway 19, out of sight. All went quiet for several seconds; we raced from the lounge to the second story deck to see if we could catch a glimpse of the P-51 as she started down the runway. We could not. There we stood, eyes fixed to a spot half way down 19. Then a roar ripped across the field, much louder than before, like a furious hell spawn set loose---something mighty this way was coming. "Listen to that thing!" said the controller. In seconds the Mustang burst into our line of sight. Its tail was already off and it was moving faster than anything I'd ever seen by that point on 19. Two-thirds the way down 19 the Mustang was airborne with her gear going up. The prop tips were supersonic; we clasped our ears as the Mustang climbed hellish fast into the circuit to be eaten up by the dog-day haze. We stood for a few moments in stunned silence trying to digest what we'd just seen. The radio controller rushed by me to the radio. "Kingston tower calling Mustang?" He looked back to us as he waited for an acknowledgment. The radio crackled, "Go ahead Kingston." "Roger Mustang. Kingston tower would like to advise the circuit is clear for a low level pass." I stood in shock because the controller had, more or less, just asked the pilot to return for an impromptu air show! The controller looked at us. "What?" He asked. "I can't let that guy go without asking. I couldn't forgive myself!" The radio crackled once again, Kingston, do I have permission for a low level pass, east to west, across the field?" "Roger Mustang, the circuit is clear for an east to west pass." "Roger, Kingston, I'm coming out of 3000 feet, stand by." We rushed back onto the second-story deck, eyes fixed toward the eastern haze. The sound was subtle at first, a high-pitched whine, a muffled screech, a distant scream. Moments later the P-51 burst through the haze. Her airframe straining against positive Gs and gravity, wing tips spilling contrails of condensed air, prop-tips again supersonic as the burnished bird blasted across the eastern margin of the field shredding and tearing the air. At about 500 mph and 150 yards from where we stood she passed with the old American pilot saluting. Imagine. A salute! I felt like laughing, I felt like crying, she glistened, she screamed, the building shook, my heart pounded. Then the old pilot pulled her up and rolled, and rolled, and rolled out of sight into the broken clouds and indelibly into my memory. I've never wanted to be an American more than on that day. It was a time when many nations in the world looked to America as their big brother, a steady and even-handed beacon of security who navigated difficult political water with grace and style; not unlike the pilot who'd just flown into my memory. He was proud, not arrogant, humble, not a braggart, old and honest, projecting an aura of America at its best. That America will return one day, I know it will. Until that time, I'll just send off this story; call it a reciprocal salute, to the old American pilot who wove a memory for a young Canadian that's lasted a lifetime.
Not open to the public, but located in DeSoto Kansas, the sign in the window says Grandpas Garage and Body Shop. Dean is a grassroots artist and retired 31 years ago, but he has been creating nearly a vehicle a year
you can possibly read the front license plate, 1912 Mercer raceabout, but it's a replica, and everything except the lights ,was handmade by Dean on the frame and drivetrain of a 1930 Pontiac. Only 20 originals exist.
1932 Buick model 66S 4 passenger special coupe - straight 8
the yellow boat tail once was a '47 chev truck hood
