Ferrari 12 Cilindri | Test Drive

10 November 2025 Redazione News, Stories, Tested

You don’t buy a Ferrari just because it’s beautiful and fast. A Ferrari is an emotion. That prancing horse on a yellow background is a sentimental image that speaks of a romantic era. The 12 Cilindri fully embodies the grand touring adventurous spirit, yet it does so with the soul of a racing car.

Words Alessandro Marrone / Photos Alessio Becker

40 – That’s the temperature degrees that put to the test even the smallest movement away from air conditioning. In this moment, I’m wondering whether it might have been better to be poolside, with a cool drink in hand and the awareness that the greatest effort would be to tilt the umbrella by a few degrees. Then you arrive in front of that gate. Or rather, THE gate. The gates of Maranello are not where the town begins, but in the collective imagination of every enthusiast, they are where the barrier rises and you enter the world of the Prancing Horse.

I see red and my heart begins to beat faster, almost leaping out of my chest in search of the car waiting for me for a scorching test. In every sense. I always say it: every pilgrimage here is a special moment, to be savored like a vintage wine, one of those kept in the cellar only for great occasions. Every Ferrari is like that bottle you glance at knowingly, aware that when its moment comes, it will be something unforgettable — repaying the wait, the heat and the fact that, as the hours go by, it will inevitably come to an end. At least until the next time.

I pass through the entrance and my gaze is immediately captured as if by a huge magnet. Spotted among various 296 GTBs and GTSs, the 12 Cilindri is there waiting for me and finding myself in front of it for the first time only makes my heartbeat race even faster. With my backpack still on my shoulders and now indifferent to the sun reminding us it’s the same one that heats the Sahara Desert, I start circling it like a predator with its prey. The chatter of the many people around disappears and a bubble forms in which only she and I exist. This is not simply a new model — the replacement for the 812 Superfast — but the ultimate grand tourer. A definition often abused and one that requires respect for certain precise canons, best identified as a sleek line with a large cofango (that is, a front hood — of course — which also integrates the fenders), a rearward driving position and performance matched with such comfort as to allow long-distance travel in total peace of mind.

The 12 Cilindri — a car that once again flaunts an exceptional name that sounds as if it came straight out of Grand Theft Auto — is a hymn to glory. It is motoring ecstasy, both stylistically and mechanically. It’s a car that would take biblical lengths to explain technically, but for that very reason it’s simple to convey through a universal language: the 12 Cilindri is pure love. The lines penned by that poet Flavio Manzoni and his Centro Stile are sharp and vigorous. There are cuts that recall the legendary ’68 365 GTB/4 Daytona — a car I personally adore to madness — but there are also all those details recently introduced into the stylistic language with the Roma, the 296 and the Purosangue. But more than anything else, there exists an entity unto itself. The 12 Cilindri is the GT that sits atop the range, the one that knows no compromise and rewards its fortunate owners with a package that others can only dream of, drawing freely from what was developed in recent times with the extreme 812 Competizione.

No turbos, no hybrid. The name already says it all and it is precisely the desire to emphasize an engine with its days numbered that elevates its intrinsic value taking the form of that fateful light at the end of the tunnel. Ferrari has proven that cars capable of going against the masses can still exist, doing so with tremendous force and managing to stir emotion even with the engine switched off. Then you press the button and as the V12 comes to life, you awaken from a long sleep. The cabin is literally flooded and the 10,000-rpm redline is the prelude to something you can prepare yourself for as much as you want, but for which the human body and spirit can never be truly ready.

“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the soul.”

I leave the gates of Maranello behind and drive the first few kilometers, noticing right away how significant the dimensions of the 12 Cilindri are. After all, there’s a lot to carry along. In truth, finding the ideal driving position takes but a moment and after promptly deactivating Start&Stop (please, disable it by default!) and the ADAS systems, I head toward roads that, as much as possible, might give me a first taste of the car’s capabilities. It’s a matter of turning at the right moment, but we always plan this carefully. You wouldn’t want to spend time stuck in traffic outside Modena, much less waste liters and liters of fuel crawling behind boring columns of random hatchbacks.

I turn right at the right time and when the main road is no longer even visible in the rearview mirror, my eyes dart forward and I smile. I sigh in relief, but in reality it’s as if my body is filling up with oxygen. I flick the right paddle and the V12 shoots upward in revs and tone. I press down on the gas and find myself pinned to the seat with a violence experienced only a few times in life — let alone in a grand tourer of these proportions. It may be a Prancing Horse, but the 12 Cilindri behaves more like a Bengal tiger. Despite its weight — around 1,760 kg — it leaps like a feline and advances with disarming precision. It’s a predator, full stop. It hunts corners, leaving no margin for the slightest error, aware that survival lies in the determination of an object born to hunt. The thing is, I’m only halfway down on the pedal.

I’m so focused and grateful for the intervention of traction controls operating in Sport mode that I don’t even realize I haven’t floored the throttle. The 40 degrees in the shade of the hills outside Maranello are not the only absurd number. The 6.5-liter V12 delivers 830 horsepower at 9,250 rpm, but the crazy part is that similar figures usually feel filtered by electronics, or by weight and dimensions. Not in this case, because if you’ve had the luck to drive the Purosangue, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The power delivery is absolute. The naturally aspirated masterpiece has a torque curve such that the slightest pressure on the throttle lets you begin the climb through the most unbelievable 9,500 rpm of your life, provided you find a road long enough to let the V12 stretch its legs properly. Shifting by ear, you risk mistakenly reach the paddle at “only” 8,000 rpm. There’s still time as the needle climbs and a whole unexplored world opens up before you.

For now, I have to ease off; otherwise, I’d find myself helping the farmer struggling with his tractor in one of the many fields crossed by the narrow ribbon of asphalt outside Pavullo. The steering is another aspect that makes the driving experience surgical, aided by rear-wheel steering. The faster you go, the more you realize how the 12 Cilindri dives into and is pulled out of corners. It almost feels like cheating, because all of this makes sporty driving easier, if one can even speak of “easiness” with such power and a base price brushing four hundred thousand Euros.

One of the most difficult qualities to describe, however, is something that has nothing to do with the 12 Cilindri’s incredible power. You actually realize its “glove effect” the moment you find enough courage – and space on the road — to push beyond what was the first step of your conscious limits of the day. You pick up the pace and she complies with disarming ease. When you stomp down firmly, it’s as if the seats hug you, almost saying: “Relax, we’ve got you — just keep your foot down.” The front end has an otherworldly precision, and you’re no longer aware of the size you’re carrying with you.

The road widens. There’s not a soul around. It’s time to indulge the child within me. Because let’s be honest — one doesn’t buy a Ferrari just because it’s beautiful and fast. A Ferrari is an emotion. That prancing horse on a yellow background is a goal, a sentimental image that tells of a romantic era when motoring had nothing to do with what it is today. Enzo would be proud of the 12 Cilindri, because it fully embodies the adventurous spirit of a grand tourer, yet does so with the nature of a racing car capable of performance more suited to NASA than to a Sunday drive.

“Everyone wants the view, but no one wants the climb.” I don’t know who said that, but it’s damn true. Not in my case, since the uphill kilometers I’m about to tackle will be the ultimate consecration of a day of motoring ecstasy, one I personally consider difficult to replicate in the future, precisely because cars like this should not be seen as a new hope, but rather as a celebration of having reached the highest expression in motoring.

Passo dell’Abetone. If only these curves could speak. Who knows how many stories those trees have witnessed. The V12 screams. Loudly. So much so that I almost fear someone might be waiting for me a few kilometers ahead, unflinching before any possible — though implausible — justification of mine. This is the moment when emotions take over, the instant when you want to see that needle pass beyond 9,000 rpm. The acceleration of the 12 Cilindri feels capable of making you travel through time and getting you to your destination before you even set off. Beautiful words, sure, we know it. But I truly mean it when I say that I fear I may not find the right words to describe what it means to experience – firsthand – that moment when the tachometer passes 5,500 or 6,000 rpm and then keeps climbing, inexorably.

An infernal soundtrack, as if it were the end of the world foretold, only much louder. All of this with something diametrically opposite: the absurd precision with which the 12 Cilindri climbs the Abetone, a road that has seen many Ferraris pass. The air outside is cooler; a few motorcyclists pull over, others give up and providentially we reach the famous pyramid, stopping in the main square and letting the mechanical ticking fill the silence of a surprisingly solitary mountain pass. I turn off the engine, stretch my neck and back and step out of the car. When that happens, because you must stop for fuel and to visit the restroom, you lose yourself admiring it. You live for it, now that it has become an extension of you and you try to clear your mind, wondering whether perhaps you’ve been swept away by the moment.

Of course, the prestige of that badge, the absolute value of such an engine and the perfect union of all the factors extracted from your personal nirvana heighten the emotion, but not everyone can make it possible. Beneath you, millions of things are happening, things I’ve chosen not to dwell upon for a simple reason: the 12 Cilindri is an object of historical importance, an epoch-making event in the automotive world and there’s no doubt about it. If you want a sterile technical sheet or a list of the thousand systems that make it possible to harness its power without becoming part of the landscape, read elsewhere. We’re among those who still want to see goosebumps on their arms. We do all of this to tell you about the emotions this car can convey. It’s the way it translates its mechanical excellence that goes beyond any simple explanation. The 12 Cilindri does something more and this, ladies and gentlemen, is something I did not expect. Certainly not at such a level. It arrives at just the right time and it does so in the guise of the only model that can truly assume the role of the last of its kind. If we must say farewell to naturally aspirated V12s, this is the only worthy way for doing it. But while we’re at it, give us one last “special” edition of the 12 Cilindri. Then, by all means, we can close the book.