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[Denise McCluggage passed away on May 6th of this year. A great fan of VeloceToday, she contributed several articles; below is one of her best. We miss you, Denise.]

By Denise McCluggage

At the time whereof I write, the late 1950s, Modena was the real home of Ferrari. Maranello, a sleepy hill town, boasted the low, gated factory but little else. No test track, no museum, no shop. No tourists. No Il Cavallino, the posh ristorante opened in 1962 across from the factory on a slight rise set back from the road. Cavallino Bianco Bar, a working man’s bar of the type found in every Italian village, occupied the site.

Memory has me coming out of the factory gate and looking up at the bar. A few tables are topped with the ubiquitous Martini & Rossi umbrellas and scattered on the beaten earth before the dark entry. At the tables, singly and in pairs, sit somber working men in earth-brown coveralls. Some wear the odd pill-box-shaped hats common in a pre-baseball cap world. They wrap their hands around glasses of that clear stinging stuff called grappa. Or maybe a nearly purple Lambrusco, the local wine. There is nothing for tourists in this Maranello of the working man’s bar because there are no tourists. And that’s because there are very few of the tourist-spawning Ferraris; in 1958, if every Ferrari owner in the world chose to make the pilgrimage to the Emilia countryside where his car was built, the few hotels in Modena – down this winding road out of Maranello, down the long and lovely hillside – will likely have room for every one of them.