FANCY A 308?
Know your 308s
The GTB launched in 1975 with a dry-sump V8 and a glassfibre body, though structural elements are steel (so rust still very much an issue…) and bonnet aluminium. Ferrari switches to steel in ’76, adding weight. GTS is the Spider, from ’77, and fuel injection comes in from ’80, though power actually drops. Italy and New Zealand get the tax-dodging 1990cc V8.
Don’t get hung up on an early glassfibre car
Yes, they’re ‘pure’ and rare, but the steel underneath can still corrode and the glassfibre gelcoat can craze which isn’t a cheap fix. The later 308 QV is better value, and its steel body is easy to repair. The most a ordable 308 is the GTSi at around £60k.
Be prepared to spend… Servicing, while not cheap, is comparable to other thoroughbred classics like the Jaguar E-Type. Budget £2k-3k a year. The engine’s tough but clutches aren’t – they last around 30,000 miles – and you’ll need to replace the cambelt every four years.
people were going to blow the money on Lamborghinis? Well, I went out and bought a Ferrari.’
Yes, John seized the day, splashed the cash and fulfilled his life-long ambition by buying this gorgeous 1984 308 GTS QV, finished in classic Rosso Corsa with a ‘creme’ interior. The first thing that strikes me is how absolutely tiny it is. All cars have become bloated over the last 40 years, but at just 1.1 metres high, the 308 looks like a two-thirds scale model when you’re looking in through the open roof.
This was a problem while shooting Magnum P.I. – Selleck is 6ft 4in tall, and the production team had to pull the foam out of the driver’s seat and bolt it as far back as it would go, to allow him to fit. His head still stuck up above the windscreen, which is why it was rare to see him driving with the roof panel on. At only 6ft tall, this shouldn’t be a problem for me. And frankly, now I’ve got this far, I’ll chop my legs off at the ankles if I have to.
The door handle is a tiny black pull, hidden in the window frame. The door swings open, revealing Italian interior heaven. The flat leather cushions are firm and supportive. Simple and functional, this interior is a shrine to the Ferrari religion, full of symbols and icons that any true believer would recognise: the toggle switches and dials that fill the centre console; the steering wheel, jutting out, that logo glowing vibrant yellow like a stained-glass miniature; and as your left hand gently rests on the black ball on top of the gearlever, you gentle nudge it, side to side, clack-clack-clack in the metal gate. Man and machine meet in Holy Communion.
The V8 starts with a twist of key and stab of throttle. There is no American muscle-car burble, just a throaty exhaust rasp and a multi-valve sewing-machine whirr. The clutch is light. Snick that gearlever over to the left and back, for that classic dogleg first, and we’re off. Without a Magnum-style tail-slide slew across the grass, I hasten to add, though the thought did cross my mind.
John’s car is one of 233 right-hand-drive examples, out of a total of 3042 GTS QVs (give or take – Ferrari production numbers are always opaque). Its right-handedness makes it easy to acclimatise: the driving position is better than I expected, and apart from little quirks like not engaging second until it’s warmed through, it feels more MX-5 than Murciélago in its mellow, generous nature.
You sit wonderfully low and laid-back, and the steering, unassisted and stiff at parking speeds, soon lightens beautifully, without losing any of its feedback. It’s a reminder to anyone living on a modern diet of electric power steering just what we’re missing. It’s so accurate, so alive, so connected. Even at lower speeds, it’s a thrill to steer it.
And then, if you press on, the magic really begins. The throttle response has a satisfying immediacy at lower revs, but by today’s standards this isn’t a fast car. The engine reacts, but there’s no slam of acceleration – the revs climb eagerly, but the 0-62mph time is still over six seconds (6.1 or 6.4sec, depends on your source). A modern Golf R would stomp on it.
But when you get to the sweet spot, between 5000 and 7000rpm, there’s no denying the incredible urgency and intensity of this 36-year-old car. In gear at higher revs it is fast, and the noise becomes much more raucous, climbing to a momentary howl before you shift up.
And driving like this, the gearchange becomes absolutely central to the whole experience – it’s the punctuation in the sentence. The gearstick is long, but you can tell the engineers that developed the 308 were real enthusiasts, just the way that black snooker ball falls to hand so naturally, the way the gearing is so perfectly matched to engine speed, to maintain your high-revving, high-voltage momentum. It just flows – despite the gearchange being so slow compared to a modern paddleshift. There’s a tug-release-jam sensation with every gear, as you pull it out of a cog, through the gate and wedge it into the next gear. It’s mechanical but fluid, rubbery yet also metallic. Basically I could have revved it up and down that gearbox all day long. All. Day. Long.
I can’t tell you, the relie¨! I didn’t want my memories ruined. Before embarking on this story, I rewatched a load of Magnum P.I. episodes on Amazon Prime, and I was so pleased it hadn’t lost its charm, its humour or its quality. And thankfully the 308 GTS didn’t disappoint either. It’s still an amazingly engaging car, so emotional compared to today’s fast but sterile supercars. I couldn’t help thinking, surely there’s still room for a car like this in Ferrari’s line-up? A lightweight, 250bhp sports car: manual, analogue, unassisted, with lots of little toggle switches?
In the end, only my moustache let the side down. What moustache? Exactly.
I COULD HAVE REVVED IT UP AND DOWN THAT GEARBOX ALL DAY LONG. ALL. DAY. LONG