Transcription
[Music] [Applause] [Music]
You know, I've always said the Ferrari F12 is Ferrari's version of the C7 Corvette. And when the A12 replaced the F12, I said the A12 Superfast is Ferrari's version of the Dodge Viper. And to the people that don't agree, kiss my eyes. So what?
Before the A12, I spent a lot of time in an F12 that I loved. Then I came across this higher mileage A12 spec to perfection because Ferrari drivers treat mileage like an automotive STD. I was able to experience this A12 at a steal when Tactical Fleet had it on the floor and let me drive it for a few days. I swear Ferrari owner sensitivity to miles driven is so gay.
Oh, see you can't say that.
Not homosexual gay, but you were born before the '9s and you called everything gay that had nothing to do with sexual preference. A lot of Ferrari drivers are like sneaker heads who buy Jordans just to never wear them only to open the box years later and realize their holy grails have dry rotted. If it's not an automotive version with two miles on the clock, they want no parts of it. And like I said, it's okay. But I digress because clearly I was born in the 80s.
To my eyes, the A12 is the most beautiful high production Ferrari ever made. Second only to the A12 GTS. You see the pattern? It is stunning. The perfect balance of toxic masculinity and toxic femininity. The silhouette is borderline phallic with the curves that rival that girl I dated in college whose nickname was Big Booty Britney. True story.
There are no bad angles on this car, but what blows me away is how modern it feels while still being so analog. The door handle feels like the latch on a farm door. The leather on the steering wheel feels like the grip of an old war axe. The interior is delightfully cavernous, like a classic Cadillac, just without the back seats. The throttle response on this car feels like your foot is individually pulling each of the 48 valves by hand. I know that doesn't make any sense, but it makes total sense.
Kiss my eyes. So what?
The way the tires and suspension communicate every undulation in the road is both reassuring and slightly unnerving. It makes the car feel a little on edge in the best worst way possible. With nearly 800 horsepower going to the rear wheels, it demands your respect, but it also excites you. In its most docile setting, it is surprisingly calm, relaxing even. But the second I start pushing it, the rear tires look at me like, "You sure about that? You sure about that? You sure about that?"
And if the tires are warm and I stomp on it, the acceleration is blissfully violent. It turns into something angry, like someone just hit it in a parking lot and it's chasing the offender down the freeway. This is a big car and it never lets you forget that. But it also moves like a car with body dysmorphia, darting into turns like it has no idea how wide its hips are.
One thing about the 812, you're surrounded by a dizzying array of buttons and switches. There's a learning curve. Nothing is intuitive. I can never remember where the front lift button is. Somewhere behind the steering wheel, I guess. Navigating the screens is a headache. They're too small. And again, nothing about the internal menu system is intuitive. But weirdly, that's part of the charm. It makes the car feel special. It gives you this odd sense of superiority, like you're the only one who truly knows how to operate it. Not ideal, but it does make the experience personal. Think how the Black Widow tames the Hulk. And the longer you spin with it, the more you fall into sync with it.
Driving this car is like riding a horse. At first, it is brash. It is wild. But over time, you start to get it, and it starts to get you, and the two of you fall into this rhythm that only comes with time and respect. Take that analogy with a grain of salt though. I've only ridden a horse once and refuse to do it again because I don't trust them and I know they can sense that. So everything I know about riding a horse I learned from movies.
Everything was blacked out and the soft glow of light sneaking through the edge buttons creating this intimate atmosphere. Even though the cabin itself feels like you're sitting in a movie theater, it's wide and open and yet it still feels incredibly sexy.
Real quick, I want to thank Tactical Fleet for letting me spend the time that I have with this A12, almost making it feel like it was mine. On paper, yeah, they're a dealership, but if you ask me, Tactical Fleet is basically a modern supercar museum that just happens to sell cars on display. I'm not kidding. The variety of exotics they have at any given moment is insane. I've lost hours just walking their showroom, drooling over what I like to call mechanical art. And unlike an actual museum, the art here constantly rotates. You can visit one week, come back the next, and it's like an entirely new exhibit of automotive temptation. They've got locations in Charlotte and right here in Dallas. So, if you want to see some of the most jaw-dropping modern supercars in one place, go check them out. The name Tactical Fleet. Yeah, I know. It fits perfect, doesn't it? If you know, you know.
Menine cars are cool as hell. But there's nothing nothing sexier than a big front engine GT with a monstrous V12. That combination of raw power, classic proportions, and just enough comfort that is sublime. This car has so much personality, it's almost creepy. It feels alive. Not AI sentient. I mean organically sentient. Like it breathes and has a soul.
Where this car thrives, at least for me, is those late night drives. Maybe after a dinner, maybe after a long meeting. You've got a 20 to 30 minute highway drive in front of you. Not just a straight shot, something with sweeping curves. You've got the right song on. Your mind's a little quiet. You're in your own world. And the car doesn't get out of the way. It joins the moment. It talks to you through the steering fill, the engine note, the throttle, the brakes. Everything becomes personal. And I miss that. I really miss that. I miss those drives. I miss this car and that feeling of being understood by 800 screaming Italian horses under a long elegant hood. I had my reasons, but I'll always regret getting rid of this car. This particular 812 is for me the car that got away.