2005 Ford GT

Forty years after the GT40, Ford brought it back as a road car. Not a track weapon. Not a homologation special. A road car. One you could drive to work, park at Whole Foods, and take on a cross-country trip without a support vehicle.

Carroll Shelby consulted on the project. By 2003, he was 80 years old with a transplanted heart, but his instinct for what made a car feel right hadn't faded. He sat in the prototype, drove it, and told Ford's engineers what needed to change. Most of what he said involved making it louder.

The Supercharger That Converts Atheists

A 5.4-litre supercharged V8 making 550 HP with a proper six-speed manual gearbox. Not a sequential. Not a dual-clutch. A manual. Three pedals. A stick. A physical connection between your right hand and the rear wheels that no software can replicate.

The supercharger whine alone could convert atheists. At full throttle in third gear, the car makes a noise somewhere between a tornado and a standing ovation. The Lysholm twin-screw blower sits on top of the V8 like a crown, and when it spools it adds a high-pitched scream to the V8's basso roar that is, without exaggeration, one of the top five sounds in automotive history.

It was fast enough to embarrass contemporary Ferraris. The 360 Modena made 400 HP. The Ford GT made 550. For significantly less money. With a warranty. Europeans did not enjoy this comparison.

The Magic Trick

It was reliable enough to daily drive. That's the sentence that separates the Ford GT from every other mid-engine supercar of its era.

Ferraris of this period required maintenance schedules that read like hospital discharge papers. Lamborghinis needed a personal relationship with a mechanic. The Ford GT needed an oil change every 5,000 miles and nothing else. The engine was based on a production truck block. The supercharger was industrial. The transmission was proven. Ford built it to be bulletproof, and it was.

A mid-engine American supercar you could actually take to the shops without calling a flatbed. In 2005, that was a magic trick.

The Compromises

The cabin was cramped enough to make a submarine feel spacious. The sills are wide. The doors are heavy. Getting in requires a specific technique that involves sitting on the sill, swinging your legs in, and lowering yourself into the seat like you're entering a bathtub. With dignity? Unlikely.

The doors required yoga certification to enter gracefully. The roof was low. The A-pillars were thick. Visibility was adequate in the way that a periscope provides adequate visibility. You could see ahead. Mostly. Reversing required either a camera (it didn't have one) or a co-pilot.

And at 3,351 lbs, the raw edge of the GT40 had been filed down into something liveable. The GT40 weighed 2,000 lbs and wanted to kill you. The Ford GT weighed 3,351 lbs and wanted to keep you alive long enough to enjoy it.

The numbers that embarrassed Ferrari. Again.

Today they trade for four times the sticker price. The people who bought them in 2005 and actually drove them are heroes. The people who bought them and sealed them in climate-controlled garages are investors. Both made the right choice for different reasons.

The 2005 Ford GT sits at the perfect intersection of the bloodline. The GT40 was too dangerous. The 2017 GT would be too refined. The 2005 is the Goldilocks car. Fast enough to terrify you. Civilized enough to let you enjoy it. Loud enough to remind you that Carroll Shelby was in the room when they built it.

He would have wanted it louder. He always wanted it louder.