Words by Andre Palma
Everything began with a phone call. It must have been 1999, and I was looking for go faster parts for a B16A. You know, the kind of engine a punk sticks into a tiny, made-for-grocery-runs Honda to turn it into a street fighter. The guy I was talking to seemed to know what he was talking about but sounded surprised I knew what I was talking about. His suspicion was that obvious. Why the wariness, you may ask?
Difficult as it may seem, talking cars is easy. Anyone can do it. Heck, monkeys can be trained to talk via flashcards, right? Speaking about cars with a hint of passion is a little more difficult but not impossible. Actually being devoted (and I don’t use that word loosely) to the automobile, savoring every nuance of that sickness, well that is quite rare.
Suffice it to say; I think Ferman picked that up from the first time we talked. I was, have been, and will always be sick in the head with cars. Apparently, so is he.