Yes, the F50 is weird. It always has been. But it’s also brilliant. Brutally so. And now that it’s turned 30 years old — officially an antique in car years — it’s finally getting the respect it should have received all along.
But why did it take so long?
Well The trouble with being the sequel to the F40 is the same as trying to follow Freddie Mercury at karaoke. No matter how good you are, you’re still not that. The F40 was raw, angry, unapologetic and absurd. It was the car equivalent of being chased by a bear through an exploding fireworks factory. So when Ferrari announced the F50 in 1995, people wanted something just as savage. Instead, they got something different.
The TTAC Creators Series tells stories and amplifies creators from all corners of the car world, including culture, dealerships, collections, modified builds and more.
A transcript, cleaned up via AI and edited by a staffer, is below.
[Image: YouTube Screenshot]
Become a TTAC insider. Get the latest news, features, TTAC takes, and everything else that gets to the truth about cars first by subscribing to our newsletter.
If Ferrari’s flagship models were people at a dinner party, the F40 would be the chain-smoking war hero with explosive stories and a thousand-yard stare. The Enzo would be the sleek, overconfident tech billionaire who won’t shut up. The LaFerrari? That’s your eco-conscious yoga instructor who can still throw a punch like Tyson.
And then there’s the F50. The half-naked Formula 1 enthusiast who showed up drunk, insisted on doing push-ups in the hallway, and demanded everyone admire his legs.
Yes, the F50 is weird. It always has been. But it’s also brilliant—brutally so. Now that it’s turned 30 years old, officially an antique in car years, it’s finally getting the respect it should’ve received all along.
But why did it take so long?
Well, the trouble with being the sequel to the F40 is the same as trying to follow Freddie Mercury at karaoke. No matter how good you are, you’re still not that.
The F40 was raw, angry, unapologetic, and absurd—the car equivalent of being chased by a bear through an exploding fireworks factory.
So when Ferrari announced the F50 in 1995, people expected something just as savage. Instead, they got something different. The F50 was labeled as softer, less exciting, even a disappointment.
But that’s nonsense. Because the F50 wasn’t trying to be an F40. It was trying to be a Formula 1 car with number plates.
And that’s not hyperbole. The F50’s engine was taken directly from Ferrari’s 1990 Formula 1 car—not inspired by it, not styled after it—literally the same V12 racing engine, just tuned slightly so it wouldn’t explode on a grocery run.
While the F40 was a turbocharged cocaine addict with no creature comforts and a body made of lawn clippings, the F50 took a more scientific, thoroughbred approach. Ferrari started with a clean sheet—no hand-me-downs, no old blueprints from the 288 GTO or 348.
This was fresh, new, and unhinged.
At the core of the F50 was a carbon fiber monocoque tub that weighed as much as a really fat dog—just 102 kg. Onto this, Ferrari bolted the suspension and powertrain directly.
That’s right—the engine is a load-bearing member of the chassis. In simpler terms, Ferrari decided the best place to mount your rear suspension was directly onto your V12 engine.
As you might imagine, this meant you felt the engine. It was hard, aggressive, and not very civilized. But it wasn’t meant to be.
Speaking of uncivilized—there’s no ABS, no traction control, no power steering, no flappy paddles. Nothing. Just your hands, your feet, and 513 horsepower of Italian lunacy trying to shove you into the next corner.
But before we go further, we have to talk about the styling—which, like pineapple on pizza or Ed Sheeran’s music—tends to split people into violently opposed factions.
Yes, the F50 looks different. In photos, it can look like it was designed with a butter knife and Play-Doh. The rear wing seems like an afterthought, the front end looks too round, and there are gaping vents in strange places.
But you have to see it in person. Walk around it. Feel the proportions. See how wide it is, how low it is, how ridiculous it is. And suddenly, it all makes sense.
The F50 isn’t conventionally beautiful like the F355 or the 250 GTO. It’s muscular, purposeful—like a pit bull. You don’t want to date it. You want to follow it into battle.
Now, about that engine.
This is the part that should make you want to sell your house, your family, and your soul just to hear it scream once before you die.
It’s a 4.7L naturally aspirated 65-degree V12. It has five valves per cylinder, revs to 8,500 RPM, and makes noises that would excite a Formula 1 paddock.
It’s paired to a six-speed gated manual gearbox that looks and feels like it was forged in the fires of Mount Doom. The clack of the lever through its metal gate is the automotive equivalent of Beethoven’s Ninth.
When you put your foot down—assuming you have the space and the guts—the F50 doesn’t accelerate so much as warp. It screams, snarls, and goes completely berserk—all while you’re gripping a steering wheel that offers zero assistance.
Of course, being a 1990s Ferrari with an F1 chassis, it rides about as well as a shopping trolley full of anvils. Hit a pothole in an F50 and your fillings will rattle, your vision will blur, and you’ll probably start swearing in Italian.
But take it to a track or a smooth mountain pass and it comes alive. The steering talks to you, the suspension dances, and the engine sings.
It becomes a different car—one that rewards bravery, precision, and a complete disregard for your own hearing.
It doesn’t flatter you like a modern hypercar full of modes and buttons. The F50 just is. And if you want to get the best out of it, you’d better bring your A-game.
Only 349 F50s were made between 1995 and 1997. Ferrari could have built more—the orders were there—but in a rare moment of discipline, they didn’t.
And that turned out to be a brilliant decision. The F40 ended up with over 1,300 examples roaming the Earth, many of them red, all of them terrifying. But the F50 remained a unicorn—a strange, beautiful, unpredictable unicorn with a V12 heart.
When new, it cost about $480,000. Today, you’ll need more than $5 million to get one—if you can find someone mad enough to sell theirs.
In the end, the Enzo that followed was faster. The LaFerrari was cleverer. But neither was as pure as the F50. For all its quirks and flaws, it was the last truly analog Ferrari flagship.
The last one where everything you did—everything you felt—was real and mechanical.
It may not be perfect. It may not be the crowd favorite. But the F50 doesn’t care. It never did. It was too busy being an F1 car for the road. Too busy screaming its head off. Too busy terrifying and delighting its driver in equal measure.
And now, 30 years on, the world is finally catching up—finally realizing that maybe this strange, misunderstood red beast from Maranello was never trying to be the next F40. It was trying to be something else entirely.
And in that sense, it succeeded.
So, what did you think of the video? What’s your take on the Ferrari F50?
Personally, I don’t think it’s the most beautiful Ferrari ever made, and yes, I’ve heard it’s terrible to drive on a normal road. But it’s a supercar—or more accurately, an old-school hypercar. It was never meant to be comfortable.
The whole point was to take it to the track and have the fastest thing out there. I think a lot of the complaints about this car come from people using it wrong.
That’s just my opinion—let me know yours in the comments. If you enjoyed this video, leave a like and subscribe. You’ll probably enjoy my other content too, so check out the channel and see what grabs you.
Catch you in the next one. Cheers.
