READING Triumph in Maranello
In 1943, as part of the Italian government’s decentralization efforts to protect wartime manufacturing from bombing, Enzo Ferrari was instructed to move his company, then called Auto Avio Costruzioni (AAC), out of the city of Modena, located in the Emilia-Romagna region.
Ferrari didn’t go far. He moved the company to Maranello, a small town 10 miles to the south. It is said that during the war, Ferrari would commute to the plant by bicycle from his home in Modena, which he refused to leave behind.
I think of Ferrari’s daily trek when — with the sunlight fading — my bus out of Modena crests a final highway overpass before plunging into a sprawling industrial complex. The gleaming factories, security checkpoints, and swarms of workers in rosso corsa (racing red) stand out in stark contrast to the fields and villages that have been flying past my window for the last hour.
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A bus shuttles eager tourists to the Ferrari Museum in Maranello.
I’ve taken a plane, to a train, to a bus to reach this small town at the beating heart of Ferrari, all in the hope of witnessing something remarkable: a Ferrari win at its home race in Monza. I reach for my camera, turn it on, and lift it to my eye, hoping to capture the complex. But, before I get the chance to release the shutter, my bus crosses some invisible boundary and I am again enveloped in small town normalcy.
A few minutes later, in the waning, blue light of early evening, I step out onto Maranello’s central Piazza Libertà. A squat civic building and a parking lot dominate the far side. To the left and right are a few humble trattorias, cafes, bars and the kind of kebab shop that’s been copied and pasted onto street corners all over Europe.
Behind me stands a pale yellow neoclassical building, modestly adorned with dark double doors. “Auditorium Enzo Ferrari” is emblazoned on the frieze. This is where Maranello’s residents gather every Sunday for Grand Prix screenings. It’s free, open to the public, and where I plan to watch the race this weekend. I set out to find my accommodation, passing quaint old houses, new developments, parking lots, a pizzeria, and a bus stop onto which someone has slapped a Michael Schumacher sticker. Of the dozens of rosso-clad Ferrari employees I’d seen leaving work mere minutes earlier, just one now crosses my path, zipping by me on an electric scooter. The streets are quiet. Life apparently winds down early here, even on Fridays.
My lodgings for the weekend are in a nondescript apartment building on the outskirts of town. It has air conditioning, which is a relief. The weekend’s forecast warns of dangerously high temperatures. From my bedroom window, all I see is an empty field and an old farmhouse. But from the kitchen window, I can just make out the gates of Fiorano Circuit, Ferrari’s private test track, lying dormant in the dark. As I drift off, I can’t help feeling bemused. Compared to the pulsing factories just up the road, Maranello seems almost disorientingly normal. This is the home of Ferrari after all, shouldn’t there be a bit more … extravagance?
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The original entrance to Ferrari's factory, adorned with the flags of victory.
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True dedication peeks out from under a Ferrari jersey.
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Tourists take a break from the heat under the awning of a souvenir shop.
The next morning, I wake up to the faint whine of engines on track and hit the streets and soon find myself in Maranello’s tourist zone: a horizontal strip that forms a buffer between Ferrari and ‘civilian’ Maranello. Since Enzo Ferrari’s arrival halfway through the Second World War, Maranello has become the unlikely headquarters of one of the world’s most legendary brands, and, as these things go, something like a little Disneyland for gearheads. The streets are lined with souvenir shops, restaurants, and supercar rentals where patrons happily fork over a few hundred euros to test drive Ferraris and Lamborghinis for half an hour. The sidewalks are painted Ferrari red, as are the buses zooming to and fro, transporting merchandise-clad tourists from one attraction to the next. By noon, the heat is punishing. No one stays outside for long, except for the salesmen who eagerly offer me a test drive.
My next stop is just north of the tourist zone, an overpass with a clear view of the test track. During his time with Ferrari, Schumacher used to test his car here nearly every day, before a change in FIA regulations deemed the practice unfair (not all teams, after all, have their own track). I’m told tifosi like to gather here to catch a glimpse of true speed. But today, the heat rules over everything. Onlookers come and go in a steady trickle, but no one is committed enough to stay for long.
Eventually the heat catches up with me as well, forcing me to return to the sanctuary of my air-conditioned flat. I emerge that evening for a bite to eat and find myself at Baratie Maranello on the piazza, where people are congregating on the patio enjoying the relative luxury of the evening breeze. Over the rim of my old-fashioned, I see the Auditorium Enzo Ferrari across the street, patiently awaiting what tomorrow has in store.
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A family of onlookers marvel at a Ferrari on the Fiorano Circuit.
Race day begins like any other Sunday. People go to church, chat in cafes, children play in parks before the day gets too hot. I spend the morning photographing the Ferrari Museum. It’s a low, modern building with a tall glass entrance. The air conditioning inside has attracted the largest crowd I have seen all weekend. Visitors wander through a series of exhibitions dedicated to Ferrari’s storied history and most iconic machines. The exhibitions are impressive and sleek. People gasp and pose eagerly for selfies with their dream cars. On one hand, the museum is a delight. On the other, there’s something painful about seeing these glorious machines, displayed on stationary pedestals like stuffed animals, stripped of the one thing for which they were brought into this world: speed.
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A young tifoso poses proudly next to a Ferrari LaFerrari in the Ferrari Museum.
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A Ferrari 288 GTO on display in the Ferrari Museum.
I leave the museum and feel a shift: Maranello is beginning to buzz. It’s subtle, but suddenly a sense of anticipation cuts through the mugginess. I arrive at the auditorium 45 minutes before start time, and there’s already a line of about 100 people waiting. Everyone files in when the door opens a few minutes later, calmly finding their seats. The auditorium’s interior matches the exterior. Dignified, but surprisingly ordinary. Even the one notable detail, the Ferrari red seats, doesn’t immediately stand out given that red is basically the standard color for theater seating. I find a spot and crane my head to take in the surroundings. The crowd is relatively diverse. All ages are represented. There are some tourists in attendance, but the audience is mostly local.
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Three laps to go ... victory is within reach.
My neighbor notices my camera and asks where I’m from. We get to talking. Emmanuel is in his late 20s, with an unruly beard and a big smile. He grew up in Maranello and seems genuinely pleased that I’ve come here to cover the race atmosphere. He informs me that this year’s race is special, since it’s the first on ‘Monza Nuovo.’ Since January, the entire circuit has been dug up and resurfaced to upgrade track geometry and drainage. A mammoth effort, finished just in time.
When the time comes, the lights are dimmed and a hush settles over the crowd, just like in the movies. It’s a fantastic race. After a masterful start, McLaren’s Oscar Piastri dominates the first half, but Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc takes the lead with about 20 laps to go after Piastri is forced to change tires. Excitement mounts once Piastri fights his way back to 2nd place with just ten laps left. The gap to 1st is 11 seconds. Piastri has fresh tires, while Leclerc’s are aging rapidly. Can Piastri find a way to close the gap, or will Leclerc hold him off?
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When Leclerc wins, the crowd explodes with joy.
Tension in the theater builds. Hushed discussions begin, people glance around nervously, palms begin to sweat. The gap shrinks and shrinks. Piastri is fast. Very fast. But with about 5 laps to go, it becomes clear that he’s not fast enough. Now all Leclerc has to do is keep from spinning out on ragged tires, and the win will be his. People start yelling, clapping, and urging their beloved driver on.
The place erupts when Leclerc crosses the line. People stand, shout, and jump for joy. The theater doors open and white hot sunlight streams through as a large group of young Ferrari fans bursts in to join the celebration. The atmosphere is electric. The race coverage occasionally shows fans in Monza streaming onto the track, gathering in a massive crowd, and lifting what looks like a football stadium-sized Ferrari flag in unison. Whenever this happens, the tifosi in the auditorium cheer even louder, their excitement augmented by the sight of their compatriots. When the Italian anthem is played during the award ceremony, everyone joins in, the youths in the back arm in arm.
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Young tifosi, arm in arm, sing along in front of the screen as the Italian national anthem is played in Monza.
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Sheer elation on the streets of Maranello.
After the ceremony, everyone spills onto the street. Residents have already started driving their cars around the piazza, revving engines, hanging out of windows, waving Ferrari hats, flags, and jerseys. Actual Ferraris start emerging from the neighborhoods around the piazza. What better time for those lucky enough to own the real thing to show off their steeds? I spot a couple 458s, a few Testarossas, and even an F40. A crowd of onlookers takes over the sidewalk in front of the auditorium, cheering the drivers as they race by, occasionally slowing down for high fives or to take someone from the crowd onboard for a spin.
I step away from the crowd for a moment, and suddenly Emmanuel rolls up next to me. Leaning over the passenger seat, he beckons for me to get in. We trade a few excited words, and then he’s off, tearing around town as if it were ‘Monza Nuovo’ itself, pushing his little Golf GTI to its limits. Everyone we pass cheers and shouts with glee, unphased by Emmanuel’s driving. We fly past the entrance to the Ferrari Factory, where the flags of victory are being raised. As we tear by, a team of about 25 Ferrari employees, all dressed in red uniforms, poses for a group photo under the flags. After a few laps, Emmanuel returns me to the main square, and I continue to photograph the madness until something close to stillness settles over Maranello.
Just as abruptly as it began, it’s all over again.
