It wasn't a transaction as much as a seduction. I stood there defenseless, checkbook drawn, pen in hand. How do you say 'no' to this without claiming that the airline lost your soul with your baggage?

The car had me won long before I saw it. Dressed in Nero Metallico, carved by Pininfarina into a sliver of scoops, grilles and buttresses, it's one of the rare ones that needs no introduction. In fact it could do with its own press agent at every stoplight.

"Is that the Magnum car?"

It's not, of course, although the fellow in the Nissan next to me could be forgiven. The private investigator of television fame drove a red Ferrari 308, the predecessor to the faster 328, during the '80s. The 328 is the last iteration of the shape that personifies 'Ferrari' to the masses. Now that the Fates have made things right and my bank balance is much lighter, a 1987 Ferrari 328 GTS resides in my garage.

What kind of deliberation goes into the purchase of an ageing Ferrari, for which the triennial timing belt service sets you back US$3,000 and up, and which reputedly swallows expensive bits with regularity? None, actually, because while a Toyota is sold for its dependability and a Porsche for its Teutonic stance and track performance, a Ferrari is a Ferrari. If you have to ask inane questions such as "Will it leak oil?" or "Is the (insert any part name here) obscenely expensive?" then you may be too wise to realize your automotive dreams. I had long ago been smitten by this, what many consider to be the most graceful modern sports car ever made. I knew its faults.

I surrendered without a fight, wrote the check, and then arranged to have the car serviced at the selling dealership, Sport Auto/Lamborghini Carolinas, where it had been taken in on trade for a 1984 Ferrari 512BBi. If you haven't had a Ferrari serviced - and the 3.2 litre V8 is considered one of the easy ones - it's something of an eye-and wallet-opening experience. Nor should you expect the same-day service you might get for something as pedestrian as a Lexus or a Porsche ("pedestrian" in this case referring to marques which maintain a ready supply of parts). In fact, the timing belt service took a week or so, and with the strongly recommended hey-while-we're-in-there-anyway water pump rebuild the invoice came to a tidy $4,000. In the Ferrari world, however, your collection of service invoices is essential. A Ferrari with incomplete service records demands an even bigger fool to buy it than the fool who bought it last. And a Ferrari with an old timing belt that fails, and the resultant grenaded engine, is a story best saved for another time.

This particular 328 GTS, however, came with an excellent history, having been owned by the Ferrari Club of America's President of the U.S. Southeast Region, and had won multiple concours events. It had begun life as a trailer queen, and then passed to several owners who actually drove it. With 22,000 miles on the clock, it had accumulated low but not suspiciously low mileage during its 19-year life. A Ferrari that has served as garage sculpture for long spells is rarely a happy Ferrari, and an unhappy Ferrari will make itself known to your bank account.

After a few delays, the car arrived at my home in San Diego after its journey from North Carolina and rolled off the covered transport. Good Lord, I thought. This is the last car I'll ever buy.
(Yes, of course I've said this before, but this time I think I meant it. I don't know what could possibly come next. I sold a Porsche 911 to buy this.)

Standing a startling 44 inches from pavement to roof (about a foot shorter than a 911), the 328 has a permanent sort of shock-and-awe aura about it. While wedge shapes have given way to amoebas in automotive design, the 328 bears its dated design cues proudly, and somehow it all still hangs together properly. Around back, four round tail lights echo four politically incorrect tailpipes protruding from a black aluminum grille below the bumper. A chrome cavallino rampante emblem sums it all up for those Gen-Y Boxster drivers behind you. On the sides, scalloped air intakes trace a graceful path to the engine bay and, up front, the most sensual fender curves of the last 30 years drop down towards the door and tell you this is a naughty, low-cut kind of car. Hallmark five-pointed star wheels, centers graced with the black-on-yellow prancing horse, seem to fit this car about as well as the Vatican suits the Pope. This one's finished in a rare color (black metallic -- reportedly only 45 were painted in this color), with tan Connolly hides on the seats. And on the doors. And the center console. And the seatbelt retractor covers. And -- well, it's a Ferrari.

My first drive had to wait for license plates to arrive a day later, but it's an experience I'll remember for years. "My Ferrari" is the most satisfying phrase in the English language, even if it's only half English.

You slip into a 328 carefully. It's small inside, like the cockpit of a race car. That deliciously thick Momo steering wheel (handsome with no airbags) with its mean-business metal spokes holds your gaze as you wait for the car to warm up. Warm up? Well, a 1987 Ferrari isn't a 2006 Lexus. It takes a second for oil pressure to build. The chromed gear shift, standing over its lovely metal gate, states the purpose of the car. No cupholders. No vibrating power seats. No auto-manual transmission here. Orange on black gauges, a la 288 GTO, seem vaguely '80s, but the car quickly pulls you into its world. That gear shift wakes up slowly after the car is started, and you're reminded how temperamental these cars were, even by 1980s standards. Second gear is elusive until the gear oil starts to warm, but third is close.

After warm up, however, the Ferrari mystique returns in force. This one was fitted with an aftermarket Tubi exhaust (an eye-watering $2,500) and makes a marvelous snarl as you run through the gears, the targa top stowed behind the seats. My initial drive around the back roads of inland San Diego, with its rolling hills and light traffic, brings the car into its own. It's an unparalleled, visceral experience that makes your other perfectly competent car seem about as rousing as a good game of canasta.

I stop for gas at the Chevron station, topping up the thirsty (possible 11mpg, maybe 12mpg down a long hill) Ferrari with premium. But, it's a Ferrari. A young man, perhaps 18, comes up to me, beaming with excitement at being up close to a famous Ferrari. I pop the rear deck and we admire the magnificent engine together as the numbers flash upwards on the pump. Then I have to pull off and leave him, a new friend and fellow gearhead.

There are a lot of nice cars to be had for the price of a 1987 Ferrari 328 GTS, and nearly all of them make more sense by whatever measure you might apply. But none of them elicit the smiles and recognition of a 328.