Forget, for a moment, that we are behind the wheel of a Ferrari, and possibly the best mid-engined road Ferrari in history at that. Forget the scenery, which is beautiful, and the road, which is slick with rain and therefore rather difficult to forget. Forget the speed, which is, frankly, excessive, and forget the Mustang ahead of you, swelling in your windshield at a that’s-no-moon-it’s-a-space-station pace. Take a moment and listen.

The sound directly behind you is a flat-crank, forty-valve, titanium-connecting-rod vee-eight spinning at over eight thousand revolutions per minute. It’s not a traditional V8 musclecar sound. Instead, you hear a doubled four-cylinder, overdubbed like an Eighties Iron Maiden record to the left and right. It isn’t smooth, and it isn’t melodious, but it is absolutely compelling. There is nothing else like it.

Other cars offer the look, the performance, even the prestige, but none offer the sound. You’re at redline now. Open your senses, let it all come rushing back—the unfettered thrill of operating this peerless car, on this day, at full throttle—and select fifth gear. Gone.

Performance Rentals Incorporated, based in New York and providing service as far as Boston and Washington, D.C., offers seven different fascinating vehicles for daily or weekly rental, including a 750-horsepower supercharged third-gen Viper which they bill as “The fastest car available for rent in North America.” Compared to that Viper, this Ferrari is merely quick, but against unmodified modern cars the decade-old F355 can still hold its own.

The quoted thirteen-seconds-flat quarter-mile time feels easily achievable in this particular example, and the engine revs with a light-flywheel willingness almost unknown in emissions-compliant automobiles. Compared to my Porsche 993, which hails from the same era, the Ferrari pulls with less authority from low revs but easily outpaces the Super Beetle once the tach swings past the “50” mark.

Inside, it’s a thin-pillar retro delight. The metal-gated shifter performs just as one would expect, adding a solid “clank” to each throw, while the steering and brakes are new-car tight and responsive. Visibility is surprisingly good, far better than what one would find in a Corvette or Viper. The fruits of Luca di Montezemolo’s famous dictate to “make this an everyday Ferrari” are evident everywhere, from the easy-to-understand climate controls to the superb amount of shoulder room.

While the F355 traces its stylistic roots to Pininfarina’s 308GTS, the driving position and view from the cockpit are actually far closer to what one would find in the Bertone 308GT4. There, as here, one has a slight sense of sitting at the very forward end of the car, perched over the front wheels and quite close to the road rushing by beneath. It’s the complete antithesis of a front-engined Ferrari and one quickly understands why individual tifosi are rarely fans of both the Dino descendants and Daytona successors.

Most car enthusiasts who have never driven a Ferrari in real life imagine the driving experience provided by the mid-engined Fezzas to be Corvetteish, but the reality is best expressed by the fact that the driver of an F355 cannot stick his left leg straight out without kicking the left front wheelwell. By comparison, a Boxster feels positively cab-backwards.

The majority of the F-car rentals in this country are either tired old 360 Modenas or hyper-expensive F430s, but PRI chose the F355 in keeping with their philosophy of offering “performance-tuned drivers’ cars.” A perforated “Challenge” rear grille hints at the upgraded suspension, brakes, and retuned engine mapping. Every bushing in the suspension is up to spec, every bit of interior trim is freshened to new-car standards, and a reasonably complete, iPod-compatible sound system has been installed.

To be fair, I don’t know if it works, because I didn’t bother to turn it on, and you wouldn’t, either.

The F355 is probably the “best” modern Ferrari in the same way that the Porsche 993 is the “best” modern Porsche. In both cases, technology, usability, and character combine to provide a driving experience which feels suitably flavorful without the annoyances of Bosch K-Jetronic or bias-ply tires.

There’s enough performance on tap here to thrill (or kill) you three times over, it’s so good-looking that it’s virtually impossible to walk away without an oh-so-stereotypical backwards glance, and there’s no SUPER-DSC-ATTESSA-HICAS to save the untalented from their own shortcomings. Really, this is the Ferrari you want to drive, should you drive just one.

PRI’s daily rate for the F355 is just slightly under a thousand dollars a day. I can think of a few other ways for a gearhead to spend that kind of money, from a one-day class at the Mid-Ohio school to a set of Hoosier R6 tires for one’s track car, but the moment the Ferrari’s tach shows eight grand, you’ll forget there were any other choices.

The California is a bit like my first girlfriend: pretty from the front, but a little frumpy at the rear, especially in the wrong clothes (sorry Sarah). This is Ferrari’s softer side. Huh? How can you mess with the classic GT recipe? Sorry Ferrari but the California is the best definition of Ugly Betty with four wheels. If you were hoping for a Dino successor, then you’ll be disappointed. This is a fresh GT with a new clientele in mind.

Hoping for a warm welcome party, my blue press car just didn’t look right under the brilliant Sicilian sunshine– even though I skipped the offer of a blood-red California, which I thought would dispel the miss-matched lines and kindergarten crayon-like sketches. Like the 612 Scaglietti, the latest front-engined Ferrari has no Maranello designer-DNA-flair whatsoever. Sure, the front is OK, but the rear looks like a F430 that’s been backed into a brick wall. And then we have the Lexus cosmetic card trick: fake exhaust tail pipes. The horrendous back door abomination was designed to incorporate the folding metal roof. With every supercar manufacturer fitting an origami roof to just about anything that moves, the boys in Italy wanted to target more conservative customers (namely female, but you didn’t hear me say that).

The buggy seats behind the front chairs are useless for any human larger than Verne Troyer. And? They are perfectly suitable for those owners who wish to fold them to accommodate your tailored Ferrari luggage or McLaren golf bags. While it’s all very Ferrari inside, there are two small issues that need addressing. First, the heater control pane is ridiculously small. I know owners live in salubrious climates, but really. Second, the aluminium covered centre console looks like a particularly uncomfortable sex toy. The sexy, red Start button and Manettino switch (Ferrari’s traction and stability control), return us to the world of more traditional sexual orientation. Both controls must tweaked and caressed like a lover’s nipple to get the desired effect. Ahem. Moving on…

Facing killjoy CO2 regs, Ferrari had to clean up their act. To satisfy the politicians, Maranello has introduced direct-injection technology to their famous V8. Although positioned over the front axle, the new 4.3-litre flat-plane-crank V8 knocks-out 454bhp and 357 lb feet of gut-busting torque. The Calfornia drop top nails the zero to 62mph sprint in around four seconds and cracks 194mph V-max. Not bad for a car that’s carrying 1735 kg’s.

Whether  you’re nailing your favourite back road or performing a brief overtaking manoeuvre whilst kicking back on the boulevard, the California V8 delivers the same sorts of aural delights enjoyed by F430 drivers. Ferrari’s dialed down the bass and treble, but with the roof stowed, hunting the red-line is equally tempting. The new seven speed twin-clutch transmission swaps gears quicker than the F430 Scuderia, which is like saying an F-22 is a bit quicker than an F-15. Porsche’s PDK may have set the benchmark, but they forgot about Ferrari’s F1 technology. This is Transformers for grown-ups.

The Manettino switch on the steering wheel offers a choice of Comfort, Sport or CST-off mode. Comfort is the default choice with relatively low intervention thresholds; the Sport setting raises the bar and allows for a good degree of tail swapping and tire mashing. The CST mode turns off all of the driving aids and reveals the California’s hidden side: beautiful balance on the limit behaviour.

This is where the buttons ping off your shirt and you start to turn green. The combination of engine, handling and hidden Ferrari DNA bursts out more alarmingly than the alien in John Hurt’s chest. The steering is quick but grip levels are less communicative through the steering wheel. Where the California really shines: its ride. With the optional $6k magnetic dampers, the Fezza delivers sensational body control and accuracy, without destroying ride comfort.

So, where does the new California fit within the Ferrari canon/cannon? At a not inconsiderable $244k, it’s got to fend off a raft of competition, including Lamborghini’s cheaper Gallardo Spyder ($224K). Why have Ugly Betty when you can choose Beyonce Knowles? Because it’s a Ferrari. A Ferrari convertible. And even though it’s a kindler gentler example of the breed, that’s enough.

[Ferrari provided the vehicle, insurance, and fuel]

What are you nuts? One look at Ferrari F430 and it tattoos the word “supercar” on your retinas. While taller and hunkier than previous Dino-descended mid-engined mounts, the F430’s Pininfarina-penned lines possesses the kind of purity of line associated with High Renaissance art. Unlike its in-house stable mates and Bologna-born competition, the F430’s mid-engine proportions and curvilinear contours are quintessentially Italian, quintessentially super. 

I didn’t need to tell you that. But the F430’s interior is something of a shock, a radical departure from Enzo’s philosophy of selling his customers an engine and throwing the car in for free. It's a sacred place, blessed with first-class materials arranged with minimalist purity. Credit is due to the optional “carbon fiber driving zone” and its F1-inspired tiller. Though silly at first, the little red hash at the twelve o’ clock position provides entirely useful Pavlovian conditioning (for a mere five grand).  

Yes there are elegant details, but the stunning gauges are all, as befits a cockpit that places the pleasure of driving in the premier position. Taken as a whole, the F430’s sumptuous leather-wrapped interior feels like a stripped down racer. The engine-under-glass effect underlines the point. The branded induction system is the automotive equivalent of a brace of elephant guns gleaming in Hemingway’s weapons case: immaculately oiled, ready for action.

Firing-up the F430’s 4.3-liter V8 is like watching the opening scene of a James Bond movie: predictably ridiculous, yet giddy-making in its promise of extreme violence. Engage the F1-style gearbox and you’re away. A. Long. Way. Away. Calling the F430 fast is like calling Miss America determined. Zero to sixty is a sub-four second experience of mammoth, manic intensity; it’s like being shot of a cannon into a black hole. The dual-stage exhaust goes from a martini-soaked Frank Sinatra to a cocaine-crazed Richard Patrick in less time than it takes to crank a stereo knob.

The F360 Modena was a high-revving beast whose blood curdling howls were the mother of adrenal acceleration. The F430 is a different animal entirely, endowed with Corvette-worthy low-end grunt. Those eight little Italian cylinders stump-up 343 ft-lbs of truck-like torque, taking the sauce all the way to 483hp, at a [still] preposterous 8500 rpm. Trundle around town? Si, we do that too. Bend time? That too.

The Ferrari’s F1 transmission is proof that racing improves the breed. The original system was a herky jerky joke. By now, the paddle shift transmission is as good as if not better than VW’s DSG. The F430’s manumatic engages the clutch with balletic grace– or NHL savagery. The F430 gently whisked me from the daily grind and gawking SUV owners. If Jimi Hendrix was reincarnated as a gearbox, I’d be standing next to his Fire.

That’s because the F430 is a Little Wing on four massive 19” wheels. Thanks to an impeccably tuned suspension, meticulously selected ratios and Satan’s own powerband, the pace is fervid, the progress distraction-free. A little seat time quickly confirms Lamborghini’s German intervention was the wrong move. Without question.

The Italian F430 is opera to the Gallardo's heavy metal. The Gallardo is a weapon, but the F430 is the pinnacle of pistonhead performance pleasure. Even with rapid steering inputs, the G-forces build gently, effortlessly pushing you against its retro-Daytona seats. The steering feedback is so honest you’d think Simon Cowell is behind the headlights. This Detroit-fettled enthusiast will never forget that wonderful Saturday afternoon; the F430’s effortless rush makes exiting any bend a wake-up call for geographically biased automotive snobs.

Hell, even the Italian's electronic nannies have a unique, Ferrari themed persona. Never isolating and nebulous, the handling interferenza is as customer savvy as a concierge at the Waldorf-Astoria. That said, the F430's [optional] ceramic brakes' linear stopping and progressive punch leaves little need for computerized intervention.

I have never been so hardwired to a machine before; if Ferrari had an online dating service, Match.com would be screwed (so to speak). Yes, there are faster cars. Certainly, there are more luxurious cars. Reliable? Ha! But provided it’s not in the shop, the Ferrari F430 always delights, with its sublime handling, perfect mid-corner power and a roar that echoes in your mind for the rest of your years. 

[Thanks to Dr. Robert Scholl for providing the vehicle reviewed]

Benny Caiola Jr. is no fool. Saying that, would you lend your Ferrari Enzo to a stranger? Before you answer, consider this: the New York property developer owns two of them. And an F40, F40LM, F50, 333SP, 512BB, 575M, 456, 355, Dino, four 360s, a Lamborghini Diablo and Murcielago, Pagani Zonda, Porsche GT2 and Aston Martin Vanquish. So even if a visiting journalist somehow carved his place in automotive infamy, Benny wouldn't be taking the bus…

Anyway, as I approach Benny's Enzo, I respect the man's taste. With the exception of its round tail lights and the prancing horse emblem embedded in the rear mesh, the Enzo doesn't share a single design cue with its predecessors. Yet it's unmistakably Ferrari. The F1-style nose gets all the press, but it's the Enzo's blend of exquisite details and balanced proportions that creates its brand-specific charisma. To say the end result is aesthetically appealing is like saying Enrico Caruso could carry a tune.

The Enzo's melody starts with a ferocious bark. Ferrari's largest ever V12 (in a passenger car) quickly settles into an idle with so much low frequency bass you'd swear an alien mother ship was hovering overhead. The cockpit's eight steering wheel-mounted buttons, seven rev lights, oversized analogue speedo and tachometer, glowing digital display, traditional column stalks and bat-eared paddle shifts present a formidable challenge to a human operator. Fortunately, the carbon fibre seats provide a comfortable perch from which to sort it all out.

Even before I leave Benny's drive, I'm surprised by the Enzo's delicate responses. The slightest touch on the left pedal and 15" carbon ceramic brakes threaten to hurl me through the windshield. The smallest input on the wheel and we're headed in a different direction. Clearly, thankfully, the days when driving a Ferrari meant wrestling with recalcitrant mechanicals in the world's fastest sauna ended with the passing of the Enzo's namesake. Ferrari's latest and greatest is a finely balanced precision instrument that doesn't make you pay [anything except money] for the privilege.

In fact, the Enzo proves itself as happy trundling around town as a big-engined Beemer. With 485 ft. lbs. of torque on tap, there's never any question of bunny hopping or hunting for the right gear. Parallel parking is a bitch, and luggage space is restricted to what you can put in your pockets, but the Enzo's user-friendly dynamics at sub-warp speeds make it a viable – if astounding – daily driver. When Benny points at the Hutchinson River Parkway onramp, the look on his face tells me ambling time is over…

The moment I give the Enzo's go-pedal a shove, the 660hp two-seater surges ahead with all the genetic imperative of a race horse bolting from the starting gate. The thrust is so explosive I struggle to judge my exact role in the proceedings. Instinct tells me to tap her into third gear before the 48-valve engine blows up, and avoid solid objects. Five seconds later, I've managed to calm things down to a subjectively sedate 150mph.

As I get used to driving in hyperspace, the traffic ahead can't get out of my way fast enough – literally. By the time a driver clocks the Enzo's yellow prow in their rear view mirror, I'm already waiting for them to move over. As a result, I'm driving the Enzo in a series of full-bore sprints that bring new meaning to the words "in gear acceleration". While the engine note is nowhere near as loud as an F50's, neither is an F14's. Let's just say what the Enzo's soundtrack lacks in volume it makes up in drama. Perhaps you'd like to know how a Ferrari Enzo handles in the corners. So would I. When I ask Benny to direct me to an appropriately twisty road, he invites me for lunch. Oh well. Suffice it to say, nothing "the Hutch" could throw at the Enzo – off camber bends, broken pavement, lunatic SUV drivers – could disturb the car's sure-footed poise, at speeds that defy both law and logic. It feels light, tight and right.

As we head back to Villa Caiola, I try to make sense of what just happened. I'm elated to have scored major seat time in an Enzo. But more than that, I'm relieved that the supercar lived up to my every expectation. The Ferrari Enzo is both beauty and the beast.