Search Results

Forty years devoted to a brand representing Italian excellence in the sports car world. The stories of Valentino Balboni and Lamborghini have been entwined for a long time, in an extraordinary succession of coincidences and events Words Alessandro Giudice Photography Alessandro Barteletti Video Andrea Ruggeri Archive Courtesy of Valentino Balboni Archive Even if you live in the countryside, where perhaps doing the shopping, going to school or clearing snow from the road are more complicated, where when it rains everything floods and when it’s hot the air is filled with mosquitoes, not everything has to be troublesome. So, when Valentino Balboni – class of 1949, born and raised in Casumaro, a small farming town in the Po Plain just a stone’s throw from Cento, nestling in the Ferrara-Modena-Bologna triangle – finished technical school, the first thing he did was look for a job near home. No specific interests, no particular attraction for a given industrial sector, just a job that, in those days, meant that he could bring a bit of money home, contributing to the tight family budget. [click to watch the video]   When he heard that the car factory, set up by the tractor firm Lamborghini, was looking for staff, he turned up: not because he loved cars, not because he dreamed of becoming a mechanic, but simply because it was close to home and therefore convenient. But then for those who live in the countryside, convenience has a wholly different meaning: the 20 miles or so to Sant’Agata Bolognese didn’t seem far, even there and back on a bicycle or his father’s yellow Vespa, at dawn, in the spring sunshine or the winter frosts, in the fog and even the pouring rain. Anyway, he applied and they hired him. When do I start? Straight away!   And on 21 April 1968, his life changed radically. The department manager was explaining to him and another new colleague how the factory worked: “At one point, this very agitated guy comes into the office and starts shouting at the boss: “Get these young guys to work, stop wasting time.” “Why?” “Because we need people who work, not people who chat!”   It was Ferruccio Lamborghini and, far from daunted, the nineteen-year-old Valentino was charmed by the man’s force and determination, and this made him instantly feel an important part of this new company. A dynamic environment, squashed in the area between two legends, Ferrari and Maserati, yet full of the punch and vitality of its founder. And that’s how Balboni began, with a mechanic’s apprenticeship and the small tasks assigned to the new hires. Meanwhile, he, who didn't have a driving licence (“Doing the course was expensive and our family couldn’t afford it”) began to drive in the factory courtyard, in the only car available, used by the “experience” department to test new components. “I learned driving round the two sheds at the factory at the wheel of a Miura. Thinking back, it makes me shiver, but at the time there was nothing else and it was quite normal.”   The days passed, at the wheel he crunched the gears less and less and his driving became smoother. Also thanks to the advice of an exceptional tutor like Bob Wallace, the New Zealand engineer, tester and designer who had already worked with Maserati and Ferrari (he had been Phil Hill's chief mechanic in 1960, when the American driver won the F1 World Championship in the Ferrari single-seater) and who at the time was a key figure at Lamborghini.   In the meantime, Valentino Balboni became a mechanic, learning to work on all the car parts, from the engine to the transmission to the gearbox, following Wallace's guidance. And one day, on 5 September 1973, over five years after starting work, he was considered good enough to test the cars on the road, and for the first time, he left the factory at the wheel of a Lamborghini. “It was a black Miura SV, a masterpiece. I drove up to the entrance barrier, where the porter’s lodge was, and the porter, who years earlier had helped me to write my application, smiled at me. I was really, really scared. I thought I wouldn’t be able to hold the bends, or that I would go too fast, and in fact I drove really slowly for the first few miles. It was really embarrassing, and very tough. But then I fell in step with the Miura, and thankfully everything went fine, it was a thrill I will never forget.”   This marked the start of a new era in Valentino’s professional history, joining that exclusive club of the world’s most sought-after testers: “When I went out on a test drive, I often met colleagues from Maserati, Ferrari, De Tomaso. Near Sant’Agata, there was a place, an abandoned house with a huge tree in front that offered some lovely shade. Often, when I drove past, if a tester had parked there to check the vehicle, I would stop, and all the others did too. We would chat in the shade, and then set off again. Sometimes, out of curiosity, we would switch cars for the next three or four miles, and then of course everyone went back in their own car.”   As the brand grew in popularity, Lamborghini caught the eye of some rich and even some rather eccentric customers. “I still remember the man with a white Diablo with white seats and steering wheel: he came to Sant’Agata dressed all in white, socks and shoes included, with a tamed parrot - white, of course - on his shoulder.” And then, those who wanted to show him how well they drove - “A few scares, but luckily we never had an accident,” - and those who, on the other hand, could drive really well, like Renè Arnoux, who had a beautiful Miura, or Nelson Piquet. “He wanted to buy a Countach, and took it for a test drive on the motorway, at a speed that I didn’t think possible.”   In the meantime, Wallace confirmed how precious his advice and working method were (he drove from 5.30 in the morning to 3 in the afternoon, and then reported back to the mechanics), and handed it all on to Balboni, passing him the baton. “Bob had incredible mechanical sensitivity and knowledge, a natural flair for understanding cars, ‘feeling’ them. In practice he passed that all on to me, and helped me develop this sensitivity.” “And what’s more, I was a mechanic, and the combination of the two things – mechanic and tester – gave me a huge advantage, immediately testing any changes and their impact on the car’s performance and behaviour.” And this is why, when Bob Wallace left Lamborghini to return to New Zealand, and from there on to Phoenix in the United States, Valentino Balboni became chief tester at Sant’Agata, a role he covered for forty more years, even during the most complex periods of the company history, which he also got through thanks to the awareness of the role he had acquired, having worked directly with the founder. Ferruccio always being there was a thrill, even if at times it was like a roller coaster, so many new ideas, sales strategies, mood swings that were sometimes tough to follow. A pragmatic, farming mentality, with his feet on the ground and full attention to the customer’s needs. Balboni tells, “I remember that Lamborghini often delivered cars to customers who came to collect them in Sant’Agata personally. While I did the final checks before getting the car on the road, he entertained the guests and, when they left the factory, we would accompany them all as far as the gate, which was (and still is) on a very long straight road: turn left for Modena, right for Bologna. The customer would drive off, and you could hear the engine roaring miles away". “Ferruccio Lamborghini counted the gear changes on his fingers, and when he heard fifth gear, he would say, ‘OK guys, we can go home now, it’s not going to break!’ He was an incredible character.” Balboni's alarm went off at 6.30 every morning, he would get to work early and his day began at 8. He and the other two testers waited for the cars to come off the assembly line, and personally oversaw the first checks, the set-up, the tyre pressure, topping up the oil, water and fuel before setting off on a road test. “The route was always the same, from Sant’Agata Bolognese to Altedo, at the motorway exit, and then back again, a 70-mile round trip, ideal for running in the brakes and checking the noise levels and vibrations, as well as any leaks.”    Compared to today, when simulations with virtual tests speed up the validation process, then there was a huge difference between testing and development, the former merely checking that everything on the car to be delivered was OK, while the latter was part of the design, the only way to check the actual product against what had been designed on paper. “It was great explaining the sensations and performance to the engineers. We didn't always agree, and I must say that often they were right, and all these situations helped me to grow and improve every day,” Valentino Balboni says today. The Sant’Agata models still have that spirit that drove Ferruccio to challenge the world of sports car manufacturers, first and foremost Enzo Ferrari, who had the nerve to treat him with disdain during their first and only meeting, when Lamborghini, already a wealthy industrialist thanks to his tractors, was a mere customer of Maranello (he and his wife had two Ferrari 250 Coupé Pininfarinas, one each).   Would Ferruccio like today’s Lamborghinis? “I think so. In my opinion, they still embody his spirit, his idea. Today, though, things have changed. In my day, people who drove this type of car had to develop a certain kind of sensitivity, but today electronics control their behaviour and reactions, so anyone who drives a Lamborghini can focus more on enjoying its performance, without so much manual effort.” In all these years, were you ever tempted to switch sides? “In the early ’70s I had some high-level contacts with our cousins on the other side of the river (Balboni never mentions Ferrari by name, but alludes to the river Panaro, which separates Sant’Agata Bolognese from Maranello), but I got the impression that rather than wanting me with them, they were more interested in stealing me from the other team, and at that time we were developing the Countach. So I decided to stay where I was, and I stayed there my whole life, the best decision I ever made.”   Lamborghini repaid this loyalty in its own way. “One day, the technical director Maurizio Reggiani called me and told me I had six months, an engineer and three mechanics to develop a Gallardo with rear drive rather than four-wheel drive and a manual gearbox. I tried to tell him I didn’t agree, that it was a step back compared to our exceptional four-wheel drive and very sophisticated technology, but he wouldn't budge. Then, in 2009, they asked me to do a few signatures, and they would choose the best one. ‘But why?’ I asked, and they replied: ‘To put on the Gallardo LP550-2 Valentino Balboni Limited Edition’. I was gob-smacked, amazed, and it’s hard to believe still today.”   Hundreds of thousands of miles at the wheel of dream cars, an infinite number of contacts with customers and enthusiasts around the world who called him for advice, events and restorations have not changed Valentino Balboni, who still lives in Casumaro, in the Po Plain where he was born, with all the habits and rhythms of the farming world. Regrets? “None, I would do it all over again, perhaps correcting just a few details.” But then he stops for a moment, and adds: “In fact, with hindsight, I should have bought a Miura, perhaps with a few knocks and scratches, to keep in the garage and do up at leisure.”

From the early 1970s to 2005 at Pininfarina—where he served for 17 years as Managing Director—Lorenzo Ramaciotti concluded his brilliant career as Head of Style for the FCA Group brands. This is the portrait of an engineer with a classical education and a profoundly global vision of automotive design—not merely in geographic terms. From prototypes to mass production, from one-offs to popular models, his philosophy of automotive form and design has shaped decades of Italian and international car culture. Words Marco Visani Photography Leonardo Perugini Video Andrea Ruggeri Archive photo courtesy of the Lorenzo Ramaciotti Archive He never says “I did,” “I designed,” or “I came up with it.” What strikes you most when speaking with Lorenzo Ramaciotti is how rarely he uses the first person. He never says “I did,” “I designed,” or “I came up with it.” And yet he could—given the hundreds of ideas and creations drawn from his hat over a long career, first as a designer and later as head of styling. [click to watch the video] Designing cars is a profession that easily feeds the ego: watered daily, it can grow luxuriant, inviting admiration—especially self-admiration. With Ramaciotti, instead, this was one of the least narcissistic conversations imaginable with someone whose résumé is so formidable. Even when he picks up one of the self-published volumes collecting memories from his long working life, he deflects praise: “It’s just a printed notebook. I didn’t have such an adventurous life to justify anything more.” Perhaps because, had it been up to him, Lorenzo Ramaciotti would not even have become a car designer. As a teenager, he had one ambition only: to do any job that would keep him close to automobiles. When he completed his classical high-school diploma in 1967, the only realistic option was mechanical engineering. Automotive engineering as we know it today did not yet exist, nor did modern design schools. Like many of his generation—raised on bread and Quattroruote magazine—he passed dull literature classes sketching car profiles in the margins of textbooks. We all shared that now-romantic idea that the automobile was the ultimate material aspiration: perhaps second only to housing, but far more attainable. That emotional foundation, grafted onto a rigorous technical education, shaped the engineer Ramaciotti into a rational thinker with a wide-angle view of both his own work and that of others—grounded in realism and immune to vanity. His character also reflects a dual “citizenship”: Emilian by birth—born in Modena, in the heart of Italy’s Motor Valley—and Turinese by adoption, having moved to Turin to study at the Politecnico. He never left. Even today, in retirement, he lives in the hills overlooking the city. Emilian warmth and creativity blend with Piedmontese logic, courtesy, and restraint—ingredients that seem hard to reconcile, yet yield extraordinary results when properly combined. Ramaciotti’s first paid job after graduating was at Pininfarina—the first to respond to his CV. He would stay there for almost his entire career, rising to Managing Director and Head of Styling from 1988 to 2005. Then came the call from Sergio Marchionne and a leap into a different but adjacent world: Director of Design for all FCA brands. Few designers have worked across such extremes—from Ferrari and Maserati to Fiat. Fewer still can claim both the Ferrari 456 and the Fiat Panda among their credits. Yet “designing” is reductive: Ramaciotti’s true role was directing those who designed—conducting an orchestra rather than holding the pencil. Even before that first job, there was a prologue. As a student, he entered the Grifo d’Oro competition launched by Nuccio Bertone. He presented a GT coupé model—still in his studio today. Seen sixty years later, its modernity is striking: taut lines, balanced curves, and low-profile tyres well ahead of their time. A clear sign of precocious talent. Design entered his life almost by chance. His true automotive idol was Colin Chapman—the man who made Lotus fast by making it light. Italy, he thought, focused too much on engines; Britain mastered handling. Why not do the same at home? That early international outlook would later define his career, even as his “less is more” philosophy found expression in exterior form—the first driver of desire in a car. At Pininfarina, Ramaciotti worked primarily with elite manufacturers and niche vehicles rather than mass-market dynamics. He directed the design of ten Ferraris, beginning with the Mythos concept of 1989, unveiled in Tokyo—a strategic move to assert Italian relevance in a design landscape increasingly dominated by Japan. The same logic guided projects like the Honda Argento Vivo of 1995, with its bold use of contrasting materials. Every car has its logic. The Peugeot 406 Coupé, for example, was born from manufacturing necessity, yet became an icon thanks to its elegance—enhanced by Ramaciotti’s insistence on preserving its proportions. This ability to maintain a strong, recognisable identity across countless designers is the Pininfarina miracle, sustained by just three heads of styling in over fifty years. Ramaciotti cites Touring Superleggera, Bertone, Giugiaro, and independent masters such as Mario Revelli de Beaumont, Franco Scaglione, and Giovanni Michelotti as pillars of Italian design. On the role of clients, he is clear: designers are not independent artists. True originality emerges not from isolation, but from dialogue—preferably with clients who love cars without believing they know better. Design today? He rejects claims that all modern cars look alike, noting an unprecedented diversity of styles. His eternal muse remains the Ferrari 250 SWB, alongside legends like the Alfa Romeo 8C 2900 and Bugatti Type 57 SC Atlantic. Above all, two figures shaped his professional life: Sergio Pininfarina and Sergio Marchionne—very different men, united by vision and relentless work ethic. Before Marchionne’s arrival, Ramaciotti fulfilled a lifelong dream: designing a Maserati. His Quattroporte V became the official car of President Carlo Azeglio Ciampi. Later came its successor and the Ghibli. As for Turin’s decline as an automotive capital, Ramaciotti offers no nostalgia: history moves forward, guided by reason, not sentiment. On AI, his view is measured: artificial intelligence can recombine existing forms efficiently, but true originality—for now—remains human. For how long, he does not yet know. About the author, Marco Visani.    Born in Imola in 1967, he has been a journalist since 1986. After beginning his career as a reporter for Il Resto del Carlino and other local newspapers, he has been writing about automobiles since 1992. He has worked with magazines such as Quattroruote, Ruoteclassiche, TopGear, Youngtimer, Auto Italiana, Auto, AM, Sprint, InterAutoNews, and EpocAuto; with TG2 television; the portal Veloce.it ; and with the English publisher Redwood Publishing, active in the field of customer magazines. He is currently the Italian correspondent for the French classic-car magazine Gazoline, editor-in-chief of the bimonthly ZeroA, and contributor to L’automobileclassica, Youngclassic, Quadrifoglio, and Tutto Porsche. He also manages heritage communication for Volvo Car Italia. His writings have appeared in Corriere dello Sport-Stadio, Avvenire, Tecnologie Meccaniche, Rétroviseur (France), and Top Auto (Spain). He has published and co-authored several books for Giorgio Nada Editore and other publishers from 2016.

The incredible lifeof an extraordinary man,a skilled racing driverand a courageous entrepreneur,who lost his “revolution”but turned his dream,Cisitalia, into a legend. Words: Mario Simoni Photos Mario Simoni Archive Eighty years ago, two men were about to change the history of the automobile. The first, destined to become one of the most famous figures in the world, was in those immediate post-war months building in Maranello the first car to bear his own name: Ferrari. The other, Piero Dusio—equally talented, courageous and visionary, himself an accomplished driver, a successful entrepreneur, a manufacturer, team owner and president of Juventus in the 1940s—has instead been largely forgotten by history. Today he is known only to classic-car enthusiasts, and in particular to admirers of one marque, Cisitalia, and one model, the 202, conceived by two great designers just months after the end of the Second World War. Yet although his story has faded from public memory, Piero Dusio genuinely changed the automotive world. Without his desire to dream and to build, Abarth would never have existed, and the histories of Porsche, Pininfarina, Fiat, Alfa Romeo and celebrated coachbuilders such as Ghia and Vignale would have been very different. In the space of just three years, thanks to his ideas and boundless enthusiasm, Piero Dusio succeeded in bringing together at Cisitalia figures who were—or would become—the greatest designers in the world: Dante Giacosa, father of the Topolino and the Cinquecento; Giovanni Savonuzzi, creator of the most aerodynamically advanced cars of his time; Ferdinand Porsche and the entire technical team that gave birth to Porsche; Rudolf Hruska, father of the Alfasud and of many Alfa Romeo models; Carlo Abarth, founder of the House of the Scorpion; and, among many others, Piero Taruffi, Pinin Farina and Aldo Brovarone. With such talent at his disposal, it would seem that any goal was within reach—and yet… It is worth reliving the almost novel-like story of this man who started from nothing. In the 1920s he played for the Juventus first team (alongside Boniperti he remains the only individual to have been both a player and president of the club), then in the 1930s became Italy’s leading seller and producer of oilcloth, to the point of being described as the richest man in Turin after the Agnellis, of course. So much so that, passing through Piazza San Carlo—the city’s “drawing room”—people would say, with a mix of envy and admiration: “You see, this half belongs to Agnelli, and that half to Dusio.” A fine footballer, he might have enjoyed a great sporting future had a knee injury not ended his career at just 24. He was also an outstanding racing driver, crowned Italian amateur speed champion in 1934, going on to compete in Grands Prix and finishing third overall in the 1938 Mille Miglia. During the war years, Piero Dusio was therefore one of the most influential and respected men in Turin. Despite the countless hardships brought about by the conflict, he certainly did not stand idle. He “never bowed his head” and on several occasions helped the partisans, while at the same time maintaining relations—linked to military supplies—with the Italian authorities and the Germans. Thanks precisely to these contacts, moving heaven and earth, it is said that he accomplished one of the most difficult feats of his life: freeing his son Carlo from the clutches of the Gestapo, after he had already been loaded onto a “one-way” train bound for Germany. This episode alone is enough to reveal his character: his tenacity, his refusal ever to give up, and his courage in confronting any obstacle. These very qualities, far from common, were what lifted Cisitalia to such heights—and with equal speed sent it plunging down again. In 1945, at the end of the war, Piero Dusio was one of the few prominent figures in Turin with the credentials, the resources and the courage to become president of Juventus, a club whose leadership he had already joined during the conflict, when the team had taken to the field under the name Juventus–Cisitalia. That very name and marque would, less than two years later, become famous throughout Italy—not in football, but in the automotive arena—thanks to the success of the cars built in the Turin factory that had sprung from nothing in those same months. While most Italians in the grim years of war were simply trying to survive, in the autumn of 1944 Piero Dusio decided to hire the finest Italian engineer of the period, Dante Giacosa, to design a small single-seater racing car, followed immediately by a new sports car. As bombs destroyed Fiat’s factories, Giacosa, in the rooms of Dusio’s Turin villa, was designing a revolutionary single-seater, the D46: the first car in the world to feature a tubular chassis, a technical concept borrowed from aircraft construction that would dominate motor racing for the next twenty years. This car later became famous for one of the most iconic photographs in racing history: Nuvolari captured throwing the steering wheel to the mechanics and continuing the race regardless. The occasion was the D46’s debut, the Coppa Brezzi on the Valentino circuit, won by Piero Dusio himself in “his” single-seater, ahead of drivers of the calibre of Taruffi, Cortese and Chiron. The true jewel of Dusio’s career as a constructor, however, was the 202: a two-seater, also featuring a tubular chassis, which made the Cisitalia name famous worldwide. It was the unforgettable protagonist, once again with Nuvolari, of the 1947 Mille Miglia, where it came tantalisingly close to victory despite the clearly inferior power—just over 60 bhp—from its 1.1-litre four-cylinder engine compared with the far more powerful Maseratis, Alfa Romeos and Ferraris. Yet those months of 1947 were a whirlwind of extraordinary events, all centred on Piero Dusio. While his automotive industry was being created from nothing, employing hundreds of workers, engineer Savonuzzi was designing the beautiful 202 coupé, styled and built by Pinin Farina. Chosen for MoMA’s landmark 1951 ‘Eight Automobiles’ exhibition and celebrated as the supreme expression of automotive design, it soon became the preferred choice of figures such as Roberto Rossellini, Carlo Ponti, Henry Ford II and Prince Rainier of Monaco. But this was still not enough for the volcanic patron of Cisitalia. In those very months he was offered the chance to acquire Alfa Romeo, then in serious difficulty after the damage inflicted by the war. He turned down this tempting proposal, also because his “big coup” was already taking shape: the purchase of a series of highly advanced projects from Porsche, at that time little more than a design studio, whose head, Ferdinand Porsche—the “father” of the Beetle—was still imprisoned in France on charges of collaboration with the Nazi regime. For a sum equivalent to several million euros today, in 1947 Dusio acquired the project for the most sophisticated and revolutionary Grand Prix car ever conceived: the Type 360, with four-wheel drive and a supercharged 400 bhp flat-12 engine. The same package also included the designs for the Type 370 coupé, with rear-mounted six- or eight-cylinder engines, which anticipated the concept of future Porsche sports cars, as well as a tractor—later produced by the Stuttgart firm—and the famous synchromesh gearbox. What seemed a brilliant deal for Piero Dusio in reality marked his downfall and, at the same time, the birth of Porsche, which thanks to those resources was able to take its first steps as an automotive manufacturer. To develop these projects, and in particular the 360 Grand Prix, two technicians who would leave an indelible mark on automotive history arrived in Turin: Carlo Abarth, who, after inheriting much Cisitalia material—including exhaust manifolds and the famous silencers—founded his own car company; and engineer Hruska, who would later become one of Alfa Romeo’s leading designers and above all the “father” of the Alfasud. While in 1947 and 1948 Cisitalias were defeating Ferraris on the track and the 202 was conquering the Italian sports-car market and preparing to enter the United States, work began in Turin on the 360 Grand Prix, which day by day absorbed ever greater portions of Cisitalia’s finite resources. The project, conceived before the outbreak of the Second World War for Auto Union, would have been difficult to realise even for a major automotive manufacturer with dozens of experienced engineers, and was in reality almost impossible to complete in Turin at that time. Thus the debut of the 360 Grand Prix, planned for 1948 and then announced the following year with an exceptional driver such as Tazio Nuvolari, never actually took place. If in 1947 Piero Dusio appeared to be the undisputed star of the Italian automotive industry, with a brilliance that seemed set to eclipse Ferrari’s, less than two years later Cisitalia was on the brink of bankruptcy. The reasons lay in the production problems and costs of the 202, the endless resources swallowed by the Grand Prix programme, the suspension of the Type 370 coupé project, and something “mysterious” that occurred in those months in Turin. It is said that Dusio attempted a “raid” on Fiat, immediately blocked by chief executive Vittorio Valletta, who cut off supplies and financially isolated Cisitalia. Dusio’s final gamble was an agreement with Argentine president Perón to transfer Cisitalia production to South America. Thus, in 1950, Argentina’s first automotive industry was born: Autoar. The 360 Grand Prix was shipped to Buenos Aires, where, years later, it managed to cover only a few dozen kilometres. In Argentina ended both his career as an entrepreneur and, in 1975, the life of Piero Dusio—a man who feared nothing, as demonstrated by the famous remark he once made to his technical director Giovanni Savonuzzi: “Engineer, I may ruin myself, but I will build the Grand Prix!” And indeed… This was the swashbuckling life of Piero Dusio as an entrepreneur. As a man, he was no less remarkable: father of seven children, with two families—one in Turin and, in his later years, one in Argentina. “Always on the move and ready to face new challenges, an incredibly dynamic and charismatic personality,” recalls his daughter Carolina. “My father was a practical idealist; he knew how to turn dreams into reality. He was a kind of alchemist, able to transform raw materials into gold. Giving up was never in his nature. He was an entrepreneur fascinated by every challenge, but also a man of exceptional charisma, with a great sense of humour and an extraordinary musical talent.” In the life of Piero Dusio and in the history of Cisitalia, nothing was ever banal, ordinary or predictable—and even his decline, or one might say his shipwreck, was dramatic. His “dream” truly deserved to be told. Born in Imola in 1954, Mario Simoni has been immersed in the world of cars and racing since childhood. Growing up close to racing circuits, Simoni nurtured a deep passion for engines, which led him to a brief career as a driver in the Renault 5 Alpine Cup. However, he soon decided to leave the racetrack to pursue "real" professions, without ever straying far from his love for automobiles. Determined to combine his passion with journalism, Simoni began by publishing articles for a minor magazine. The turning point in his career came when he had the opportunity to collaborate with Autosprint, Italy's most prestigious motorsport weekly. In 1985, Simoni became part of the editorial team that launched the magazine Auto, a monthly reference for enthusiasts, where he became head of the service. In parallel, he continued writing for Autosprint, AM magazine, and contributed to the TV show Tg2 Motori on RAI. In 2001, Simoni encountered the legendary Cisitalia, a meeting that marked a turning point in his career. Fascinated by the numerous aspects of this historic car manufacturer, he dedicated himself to uncovering the brand’s still-hidden secrets, culminating in the publication of his book "Un sogno chiamato Cisitalia", an important work that sheds new light on the history of one of Italy’s most iconic car manufacturers.

On the eve of its 60th anniversary, Lamborghini engineer Luigi Marmiroli retraces the technical, human and cultural forces that gave birth to the Miura and forever changed the meaning of performance cars. Words Luigi Marmiroli Photography Jeroen Vink for SpeedHolics, Lamborghini Archive, holders untraced Illustrations Luigi Marmiroli Archive The Lamborghini Miura represents one of the most beautiful and decisive chapters in the history of sports motoring. As its 60th anniversary approaches in 2026, I feel compelled, as an engineer who lived through that era, to pay tribute to a car that did not merely mark a milestone but changed the very nature of the automobile. I will do so in an unusual way, by placing the birth of the Miura within the “primordial broth” of the early 1960s, a period shaped above all by the Modenese sports-car industry. It was an environment populated by manufacturers, designers and technicians in constant motion, generating what I like to call, half jokingly, a true “ballet of engineers”. Many of these figures moved from one company to another, carrying with them experience, intuition and technical knowledge, creating a shared network of ideas that proved fundamental to the birth of the modern supercar. The first conclusion that clearly emerges from this analysis is that 1963 was the pivotal year. It was the moment when all the conditions for the supercar converged. Ferrari was enjoying an extremely positive phase, continuing the legendary 250 family, one of the most admired and successful sports-car series of all time. On the racing side, Ferrari dominated both sports prototypes and Formula One. Henry Ford II, convinced that motorsport was the most powerful advertising tool, watched his American cars repeatedly defeated on international circuits by what he regarded as a small manufacturer from Maranello. When he failed to beat Ferrari on track, he decided to buy the company outright and turn it into Ford’s racing division. He was encouraged by his right-hand man, the Italian-American Lee Iacocca, who would later acquire Lamborghini Automobili for Chrysler some twenty-five years later. The plan collapsed when Enzo Ferrari realised that the deal would strip him of sporting autonomy. He rejected the generous offer without hesitation. That decision soon led to new shareholders and, just as importantly, to the departure of eight technicians and managers who could no longer tolerate internal interference. Thus began the “ballet of engineers”. Among those leaving Ferrari were Giotto Bizzarrini and Carlo Chiti, who founded ATS with the explicit aim of making Enzo Ferrari regret their departure by challenging him first in Formula One and later in the supercar arena. Bizzarrini would soon reappear as an external consultant, designing Lamborghini’s first and famous V12 engine. Replacing him at Ferrari was a young Gianpaolo Dallara, destined to become Lamborghini’s technical director. From the left: Giotto Bizzarrini, Ferruccio Lamborghini, Gianpaolo Dallara. In the same period, Ferruccio Lamborghini also clashed with Enzo Ferrari and would soon demonstrate his capabilities with the 350 GTV and, above all, with the Miura. A curious footnote links ATS to Lamborghini even further, as the ATS road car was styled by Franco Scaglione, who had been responsible for the design of Lamborghini’s very first prototype. Giotto Bizzarrini Around them, the Modenese scene was extraordinarily fertile. Iso Rivolta marketed a luxurious coupé designed by Giugiaro, with a chassis by Giulio Alfieri and American Chevrolet power, unveiling the Iso Grifo in Turin in 1963 under the technical guidance of Bizzarrini. Alejandro De Tomaso Maserati presented the first Quattroporte, a high-performance luxury saloon that inaugurated a lineage still alive today. Alejandro de Tomaso, newly arrived in Modena, presented his first road car at the 1963 Turin Motor Show, the Vallelunga, a pioneering central-engined design with a structural engine, aluminium backbone chassis and fibreglass body, closely aligned with contemporary racing practice. Stanguellini continued its Formula Junior production, a category created to introduce young drivers to competition, and in 1963 these cars returned to the “all-rear” layout, with rear engine and rear-wheel drive, confirming how rapidly technical paradigms were shifting. Ferruccio Lamborghini Against this backdrop appear the fathers of the Miura, beginning with Ferruccio Lamborghini, who entered the scene forcefully in 1963. Of rural origin, with limited formal education but exceptional mechanical instinct, he had refined his skills during the war while stationed in Rhodes as head of a military repair workshop. After the conflict, he travelled across Italy recovering abandoned military vehicles and transforming them into agricultural machines. He then built a successful industrial empire in tractors, hydraulics and burners, contributing directly to the economic boom of Emilia-Romagna. A lover of fine living and beautiful cars, after owning a Morgan and a Jaguar he purchased a Ferrari 250. According to his biographers, he complained to Enzo Ferrari about the car’s problems and was dismissed with the suggestion that he should stick to tractors. That slight fuelled his determination to build cars more beautiful and more capable than those of the “Lord of Maranello”, as he liked to call him. In May 1963, against the advice of his managers, Ferruccio founded Automobili Lamborghini. In the fields of Sant’Agata Bolognese he built a factory in record time and developed the refined 350 GTV. Most importantly, he hired two engineers who would prove decisive for the Miura: Gianpaolo Dallara and, shortly afterwards, Paolo Stanzani. Ironically, Ferruccio would remain owner of his car company for little more than a decade. A financial crisis in his tractor business forced him to sell Automobili Lamborghini to Swiss investors, after which he retired to a farm near Lake Trasimeno. Giotto Bizzarrini Giotto Bizzarrini, after experiences at Alfa Romeo and Ferrari where he authored all major engines until 1961, founded a consultancy in Livorno. Ferruccio Lamborghini commissioned him to design a V12 under a strict agreement: if the engine failed to meet specifications, he would not be paid. The result was a magnificent 3.9-litre twelve-cylinder engine, first installed in the 350 GTV and later mounted transversely at the rear of the Miura. Gianpaolo Dallara, a central figure in our story, he held a degree in aeronautical engineering and was a passionate devotee of motor racing. In 1959 he was hired by Enzo Ferrari with the promise that he would be assigned to trackside racing activities. Instead, he was placed in the Technical Office, working alongside a group of some fifteen technicians responsible for the design of all Ferrari cars, from racing machines to road models. Among them were the legendary Rocchi and Salvarani. At this point, I ask the reader’s indulgence for a brief personal aside: like Dallara, though some ten years later, I too was personally hired by Ferrari to work at the circuit, only to be redirected in the same way to the Engineering Studies department. There, I also found Rocchi and Salvarani still in place, who, despite not being engineers, continued to serve as exceptional tutors in the specialised art of sports-car design. I am certain that Dallara, too, came to appreciate their extraordinary competence. His frustration peaked when he was sent to the Monaco Grand Prix not as a track engineer but as a spectator. He then moved to Maserati under Giulio Alfieri and, in 1963, joined Lamborghini as head of the newly created technical department, designing the chassis of the Miura before leaving six years later to pursue Formula One and Formula Two projects with Frank Williams. Gianpaolo Dallara Paolo Stanzani, a Bologna engineering graduate with a reserved character, met Ferruccio Lamborghini almost by chance and was hired on the spot. Initially responsible for testing, homologation and development, he worked closely with Dallara on the Miura. In 1968 he became general manager and later designed the Countach. Deeply affected by Ferruccio’s departure and the company’s financial difficulties, he left Lamborghini in 1975 to work in civil engineering. From the left: Bob Wallace, Paolo Stanzani, Ferruccio Lamborghini, Gianpaolo Dallara Marcello Gandini stands as the central figure in the creation of the Miura myth. A designer with extraordinary mechanical culture, he entered Bertone as a freelancer in 1965 and became a full-time employee in 1965 when Giugiaro left, remaining for fourteen years. Frustrated by Lamborghini’s absence from racing, Dallara effectively conceived a near-competition car at a time when all road sports cars still used front engines and rear-wheel drive, despite Ferrari’s famous warning against “putting the cart before the horse”. Marcello Gandini Racing practice had already demonstrated the superiority of the rear-engine layout, and Lamborghini placed its V12 transversely behind the cockpit, with the gearbox beneath the engine and clutch and differential integrated in a single casting. The aeronautically inspired boxed-steel chassis featured lightening holes, independent suspension and disc brakes all round, while front-mounted horizontal radiators unfortunately expelled hot air towards the windscreen. It was immediately clear that this project overturned Lamborghini’s own philosophy. Although the engineers feared Ferruccio’s reaction, he accepted it on the condition of limited production. The naked rolling chassis was displayed at the Turin Motor Show in November 1965, eclipsing even the nearby De Tomaso Vallelunga and convincing Nuccio Bertone that he was the man to “make the shoe to Lamborghini’s foot”. Gandini was entrusted with styling and construction only months before the Geneva Motor Show of 1966. Turin Motor Show 1965: the chassis that ignited the Miura legend. Photo Lamborghini In an extraordinary three-month effort, Gandini’s team delivered the Miura P400. Unveiled in brilliant orange, it instantly made all other sports cars appear outdated. The Miura projected the industry into a new era and earned the title of supercar through its low, flowing form, mechanical expressiveness and rejection of decorative excess. It established a Lamborghini philosophy based on visual impact, innovation and perpetual reinvention, later embodied by the Countach and Diablo. Technical problems inevitably followed, yet even Enzo Ferrari reportedly remarked, after seeing it in action, “fortunately this car is built by Lamborghini”, a sentence that revealed admiration for the concept while underestimating its execution. One is left to wonder whether, in that moment, he recalled having provoked Ferruccio Lamborghini into creating the very car that would redefine the modern sports car. It soon became clear that the Miura overturned Lamborghini’s established design philosophy entirely. When the engineers presented their drawings to Ferruccio Lamborghini, they did so with a degree of apprehension, and were genuinely surprised when he approved the project, albeit with visible reservations. Lamborghini agreed on one essential condition: production would be limited to a small number of cars intended for the most daring clients, and the model would primarily serve as a technological and image-building flagship for the company’s more conventional production. Working relentlessly, day and night, the team succeeded in presenting a naked rolling chassis, devoid of bodywork, at the Turin Motor Show in November 1965, a bold and unconventional move that immediately set the project apart. It mattered little that a nearby stand displayed the spider that would later evolve into the De Tomaso Vallelunga, itself featuring a rear-engine layout. The attention of visitors and rival engineers alike was irresistibly drawn to this mysterious, radical machine. Many doubted that a true road car could ever be derived from such an audacious technical concept, yet Nuccio Bertone, present at the show, instantly recognised its potential. Deeply impressed, he approached Ferruccio Lamborghini with a memorable offer: “I am the one who can make the shoe to fit your foot.” Just two months later, shortly before Christmas, Lamborghini entrusted Bertone with both the styling and construction of the bodywork. At that decisive moment, Marcello Gandini entered the story. He was given a seemingly impossible task: just three months to define the design, hand-craft the body panels and assemble them onto the chassis. Working with extraordinary intensity, Gandini and his team achieved what can only be described as a miracle. In the spring of 1966, they unveiled a fully running prototype at the Geneva Motor Show. Gandini would later explain that he had worked in total creative freedom, constrained only by international regulations which, at that time, were still relatively permissive. The lack of time allowed no second thoughts: the design flowed instinctively, pure and uncompromised. From the very beginning, the Miura anticipated the philosophy that would define Lamborghini styling for decades. It was conceived to provoke love at first sight, to celebrate mechanical beauty, and to communicate power and speed directly, even when standing still, with an impact capable of leaving observers speechless. There would be no family resemblance between models. Each Lamborghini was meant to be radically different from its predecessor, a principle that would later be honoured by both the Countach and the Diablo. The Miura’s low, flowing single-volume form, its clean and decisive lines, and its deliberate rejection of purely decorative elements such as chrome trim, two-tone paintwork or mouldings conveyed aggression, exclusivity and a clear break from the conventions of competing sports cars. When the Miura P400 was unveiled at the 1966 Geneva Motor Show, finished in a brilliant shade of orange, its success was immediate and unprecedented. Overnight, every other sports car seemed to belong to a previous era. The Miura projected the automotive world into a new dimension of performance and design, earning for itself the defining title of supercar. As Gandini had intended, the car left audiences breathless. Yet, with the modesty typical of truly great figures, he later claimed that the enthusiastic reception far exceeded its actual merits. In this tribute to the Miura, I do not wish to dwell on the countless technical challenges that would later be addressed and resolved, except to recall one revealing episode. During road testing, Miura test drivers often engaged in impromptu acceleration contests with their Ferrari counterparts, frequently emerging victorious. I know with certainty the remark Enzo Ferrari made to his collaborators at the time: “fortunately this car is built by Lamborghini.” The comment was not intended as praise for build quality, but it unmistakably acknowledged the brilliance of the concept. One cannot help but wonder whether, in that moment, Ferrari recalled that it was he himself who had provoked Ferruccio Lamborghini into becoming his most audacious rival.   Luigi Marmiroli was born in Fiorano Modenese in 1945. After graduating in mechanical engineering at the University of Padua, in 1970 he was hired by Ferrari to introduce electronic computing to Maranello for the first time. In 1976 he founded Fly Studio with Giacomo Caliri, designing and managing competition cars on international circuits. Their main works were for Fittipaldi Copersucar, Autodelta, ATS and Minardi, with whom they joined forces. The developments in the partnership with Autodelta led Marmiroli to manage the technical unit of the Euroracing team in 1983. Two years later he was hired by Lamborghini to design the heir of the Countach. Other projects came after the 17 versions of the Diablo, though due to the continuing changes of ownership of the Sant’Agata based company, they were never put into production. Marmiroli relaunched Fly Studio in 1997, providing consulting services. One of the projects of the last few years is the development of microcars, quadbikes and commercial vehicles, including electric versions.

A one-off 1963 prototype that transformed a legendary endurance racer into an elegant yet aggressive gran turismo. Words by Edgardo Michelotti Photos and Drawings: Archivio Storico Michelotti   www.archiviostoricomichelotti.it An automobile conceived as a racing car “disguised” as a sporting grand tourer: this is how I would define the Jaguar D-Type Michelotti of 1963, a project born from my father Giovanni Michelotti’s constant drive to propose new ideas and explore uncharted stylistic territories. This restless creativity led him to acquire, almost by chance, the chassis and engine of a racing car of major historical importance, a machine that had been at the forefront of international competition in the late 1950s. The opportunity arose to purchase, for a relatively modest sum, a Jaguar D-Type racer, chassis XKD 513, which had competed in the 24 Hours of Le Mans driven by its French owner Jean-Marie Brussin, an industrial diamond manufacturer who raced under the pseudonym “Mary”. After achieving an excellent third place at Le Mans in 1957, Brussin decided to return the following year, but the 1958 edition ended tragically when he was involved in a fatal accident on 21 June. In 1960 my father had just opened his own independent coachbuilding atelier, and the prospect of working freely on such an illustrious Jaguar excited him enormously. The car was subsequently presented at the Geneva International Motor Show, traditionally held in early March, where it immediately attracted attention for its originality and coherence. Michelotti shaped the D-Type into an extremely sleek, aerodynamic and elegant coupé, yet one that retained a distinctly aggressive character. The front end was defined by a striking “shark-tooth” grille feeding air to the engine, flanked by slightly protruding round headlamps that appeared like watchful eyes skimming the road surface, while the bumper was split at the centre, its two terminal overriders framing the licence plate. Large air outlets carved into the front wings improved ventilation of the engine bay, while the rising, arrow-like side profile flowed naturally towards the rear, culminating in a pronounced tail with an overhanging boot and a similarly split rear bumper. The substantial rear overriders echoed those at the front, and the horizontal tail-lights aligned neatly with the centrally positioned number plate. The interior was equally unconventional and forward-thinking, with a fully padded dashboard designed to absorb impact and protect the passenger, circular in form and with instruments placed for perfect legibility by the driver. A strictly three-spoke wooden Nardi steering wheel enhanced both safety and driving pleasure, while the generously upholstered door panels were ergonomically shaped to allow comfortable arm support. In my view, this remains one of the most beautiful automobiles ever designed by my father. The prototype enjoyed considerable success and was eventually sold to an American collector, Richard Carter, based in Georgia. In the 1990s it became the property of French film director Roland Urban, who chose to repaint it in a vivid Ferrari red and proudly counted it among several other Jaguar Michelotti creations originating from my father’s work for the Swiss coachbuilder Ghia-Aigle during the 1960s. A particularly telling anecdote dates from 1991, when Urban drove the car from Cannes to Turin to attend the second Michelotti gathering. On the A10 motorway near Genoa he found himself engaged in an impromptu high-speed duel with a Ferrari 400 whose driver initially dismissed the Jaguar at a glance. The contest ended with the Ferrari lifting off first, prompting Urban to remark, with justified pride, that his opponent clearly had no idea he was challenging a genuine racing car. Among the surviving photographs, one image remains especially striking, showing the Jaguar in its red livery surrounded by a group of Great Danes, a beautiful and evocative photograph taken by Peter Vann that perfectly captures the car’s powerful yet refined presence. About tha author Edgardo Michelotti: Born in 1952, I hold a diploma as a surveyor and pursued a degree in Architecture in Turin. I began working alongside my father in 1973 until his illness and passing in early 1980. I continued his work until 1991, when I transitioned away from the automotive industry. For the next 15 years, I focused on industrial design, while also engaging in photography and archival digitization from 2003 to the present. This allowed me to manage an extensive archive, including the specific cataloging and complete digitization of approximately 6,000 graphic units, 20,000 photographs, 7,000 kg of full-scale design plans, as well as scale models, tools, correspondence, and periodicals. The archive spans over three decades, covering the 1950s, 60s, and 70s.

Engineer Marmiroli introduces a little-known chapter of automotive history, where Italian engineering and American ambition unexpectedly merged in the Vector M12. Words Luigi Marmiroli Images Courtesy of Luigi Marmiroli Archive I hope the story I am about to tell will be of interest to the passionate readers of Insight. It is a surprising tale involving two automotive companies whose paths began running in parallel as early as 1971, only to intersect in a way that would have been almost unimaginable—twenty-five years later, in 1996. The first was Vector Motor, a tiny Californian automotive manufacturer founded by Gerald Wiegert, driven by the ambitious belief that an American company could build high-performance cars capable of competing with the European supercar elite: Porsche, Lotus, Ferrari, and Lamborghini. I say was because, after a troubled and often turbulent existence, the company ceased operations following the death of its founder in 2021. Vector’s first prototype, the W2, made its debut at the Los Angeles Auto Expo in 1972. It was far from complete and openly blended design elements inspired by the Bertone Carabo and, above all, by the then-new Lamborghini Countach. Not coincidentally, both cars had been designed by Marcello Gandini—well known to all of us. Financial difficulties, combined with the founder’s singular personality, meant that Vector’s first production car arrived only much later and in very limited numbers. In 1989, the Vector W8 finally entered production. The second company in this story was, unsurprisingly, a very young Lamborghini Automobili, at the very moment it was giving birth to the mythical Countach. The first production LP400 was unveiled in 1973, and its own story is no less peculiar. The car shown was finished in a classic red and subsequently seemed to vanish into the fog of time. Meanwhile, a stunning Countach LP400 painted in a brilliant shade of green circulated in Europe and was long believed to be a second example. When the car was brought from Switzerland back to Lamborghini for restoration, the Polo Storico discovered traces of the original red paint beneath the green—and confirmed that the chassis was, in fact, number one. In the early 1990s, another parallel emerges. Lamborghini presented the outrageous Diablo Roadster Concept at the Geneva Motor Show, once again penned by Gandini, while Vector unveiled its own roadster concept, the WX3. We arrive, finally, at 1994—the year in which the two companies became closely linked. At the beginning of that year, Chrysler sold Lamborghini Automobili, marking the brand’s fourth change of ownership in its history. The new owner was Megatech, an offshoot of Sedtco Ltd., an Indonesian group led by Setiawan Djody—popular singer and businessman—and Tommy Suharto, son of the then president of the vast Asian archipelago. At the same time, Megatech also became the majority shareholder of Vector Aeromotive. As the American company was struggling to source suitable engines on the market, the shared ownership persuaded Lamborghini—despite a certain reluctance on the part of us engineers—to adapt the Diablo’s engine for use in the Californian supercar. Thus was born the Vector M12: a true “connection car” between Lamborghini and Vector. The project presented significant technical challenges. Beyond installing the engine itself, the Vector required modifications to the chassis, oil and water cooling systems, fuel delivery, and the entire exhaust system, including catalytic converters. All of this demanded close and not always easy collaboration between Italian and American engineers. Responsibilities were therefore divided. Lamborghini was in charge of the electronic fuel injection, engine management electronics, fuel tank, and complete exhaust system. Under Lamborghini’s supervision—but executed by Vector—were the clutch and gearbox (different from those used in the Diablo), along with the necessary chassis modifications. At the time, Peter Stevens—the renowned British car designer known for his work with McLaren, Lotus, and Jaguar—had moved to Sant’Agata Bolognese to provide stylistic support for our projects. As a result, the styling revisions of the Vector M12 were entrusted to him by the shared shareholders. I must admit that the outcome achieved on the M12 surpassed the results of some of his interventions on our Lamborghini projects. I still keep the media kit from the car’s world debut in 1996, which opens with these words: “Detroit (January 2, 1996) – Making its worldwide debut on the 100th anniversary of the first American production automobile, the exciting American-bred Vector M12 sports coupe is officially launched at the North American International Auto Show in Detroit. With this introduction, Jacksonville, Florida-based Vector Aeromotive Corporation breaks away from the tradition that all exotic sports cars originate in Europe.” The media kit went on to describe, in detail, the project’s exceptional technical, aesthetic, functional, and aerodynamic qualities. Naturally, it enthusiastically praised the performance of our engine—carefully avoiding any explicit mention that it was, in fact, the very same unit used in the Lamborghini Diablo. Although the entire automotive world was well aware of the reality, this omission initially surprised and annoyed me. I was soon reassured by the closing lines of the media kit: “These cars will all be designed to satisfy the dreams of the discerning automotive enthusiast—cars that stimulate the passion of driving—a passion that can only be satisfied by exquisitely designed and produced machinery.” Those words closely echoed what I myself had declared at the worldwide presentation of the Lamborghini Diablo six years earlier. In that sense, the Diablo’s philosophy had been successfully transferred to this new car, confirming that the heart transplant performed on the Vector M12 would work perfectly—without the feared rejection. Luigi Marmiroli was born in Fiorano Modenese in 1945. After graduating in mechanical engineering at the University of Padua, in 1970 he was hired by Ferrari to introduce electronic computing to Maranello for the first time. In 1976 he founded Fly Studio with Giacomo Caliri, designing and managing competition cars on international circuits. Their main works were for Fittipaldi Copersucar, Autodelta, ATS and Minardi, with whom they joined forces. The developments in the partnership with Autodelta led Marmiroli to manage the technical unit of the Euroracing team in 1983. Two years later he was hired by Lamborghini to design the heir of the Countach. Other projects came after the 17 versions of the Diablo, though due to the continuing changes of ownership of the Sant’Agata based company, they were never put into production. Marmiroli relaunched Fly Studio in 1997, providing consulting services. One of the projects of the last few years is the development of microcars, quadbikes and commercial vehicles, including electric versions.

Grandson of the Modenese entrepreneur who owned Maserati from 1937 to 1968, Adolfo Orsi, born in 1951, is among the most respected automotive historians in the world. A judge at Concours d’Elegance events across the globe, an expert appraiser, and exhibition curator, he is also the publisher of the only yearbook that documents every classic car auction transaction worldwide. Words Marco Visani Photography Leonardo Perugini Video Andrea Ruggeri Archive photo courtesy of the Adolfo Orsi Archive It’s a small street overlooking Piazza Santo Stefano — Via de’ Pepoli. We’re in the heart of medieval Bologna. In this narrow lane, barely two hundred metres long and just a few steps from the Seven Churches, Alfieri Maserati opened a workshop in 1914. It’s difficult to imagine, with modern eyes, a less “automotive” location. Yet that’s how it began: Maserati, contrary to popular belief, only became Modenese later on. By birth, it was from Bologna — and even further back, Lombard, since the Maserati family originally hailed from Voghera. Think of its emblem: the trident. It was Mario Maserati, the brother more sensitive to art than to engines, who suggested it. The design, chosen in 1926, deliberately took inspiration from the statue of Neptune that dominates Piazza Maggiore in Bologna — a symbol of strength and power. A fitting image, though in its original home, it would not last very long. Despite brilliant successes on the track, the Maserati brothers soon faced serious financial difficulties. Their true calling lay in designing cars, not managing a company that was beginning to grow and present all the complications that growth brings. Those were problems for a born entrepreneur — someone like Adolfo Orsi, a self-made Modenese industrialist born in 1888, who had built a small empire in the steel industry — and who loved cars. Proof of that passion came in 1935, when together with his brother Marcello, he opened the Fiat dealership A.M. Orsi in Modena. Two years later, he took over Maserati’s operations, signing a ten-year consultancy contract with Ernesto, Ettore, and Bindo Maserati. Omer, Adolfo’s son, was appointed to run the company. [click to watch the video] In the winter of 1939–1940, the headquarters were moved to Modena, partly for practical proximity to the group’s other businesses. These were the years in which the new management began to dream of broadening the company’s focus beyond pure motorsport to include small-series grand-tourers — much as Alfa Romeo was already doing. The plans were there, but so was the war, forcing Maserati to fall back on less ambitious yet more profitable products: batteries, spark plugs, electric trucks, and machine tools. Only in 1947, with the launch of the A6 1500 (built in 61 examples up to 1950), did the road-going Maserati finally become a reality, without ever abandoning the racing commitment. These were the years of Formula One (and not only that), with Juan Manuel Fangio as the leading driver. A Family Heritage That long preamble helps set the family scene into which, on 20 May 1951, Adolfo Orsi was born in Modena — Omer’s son. His name was an homage not to a single grandfather but to both: as fate would have it, his paternal grandfather was also called Adolfo. Today, when people mention Adolfo Orsi, they almost certainly mean the grandson. Not only because of chronology — his grandfather passed away in October 1972, by which time Maserati had long since been acquired by Citroën — but because the younger Orsi has become one of those names that anyone interested in automotive history or car collecting will encounter sooner or later. For no one else, as far as we know, has managed to combine so many of the trades linked to the four-wheeled world: entrepreneur, racing driver, auction organiser, concours judge, appraiser, publisher. Sometimes he alternated between these roles; other times he accumulated them — with an appetite that, as anyone who spends half an hour in conversation with him quickly realises, is driven by a visceral passion — one that seeks knowledge and breeds expertise. It is a wonderful way of honouring his family’s legacy — and by no means a foregone conclusion, given how often dynasties falter by the second generation, let alone the third. A Childhood Among Engines As a child, he often cycled to the factory, eager to see the new cars coming off the production line. He soon became the “co-driver” of test driver Guerrino Bertocchi and learned to recognise suspicious noises and vibrations during road tests. As a teenager, he accompanied his father to the Turin Motor Show at Torino Esposizioni or to visit the coachbuilders around the city. In his early twenties, he spent a couple of months working for Bob Grossman, Maserati’s importer on the American East Coast. Grossman raced in the Trans-Am series, and at weekends they went to the circuits; when Bob wasn’t competing, young Adolfo joined another Bob — Bob Dini, the workshop manager — who raced on dirt tracks. He was allowed to take any car from the showroom to reach the motel or, at weekends, to make a dash to New York. He drove everything: Lincoln Continentals, Ferraris, Corvettes, Cobras — and with petrol at just fifty cents a gallon: a dream come true. Back in Europe, he cut his teeth as a rally driver, behind the wheel of a Fiat 125 Special Group 2 and an Alpine A110 Group 3. In his twenties, he even took part in the Monte Carlo Rally. Yet it was only a brief episode: he had too much respect for the cars entrusted to him, and with the brutal roads of that era, he couldn’t bear to see them damaged. When that youthful illusion faded, it was time to buckle down and get to work. A Calling Becomes a Career At first, his professional life seemed to take a very different path: a solid education — including a grounding in languages such as Latin and German, insisted upon by his father — and a degree in Law led him to a senior position in one of the family businesses. The world of transport was not unfamiliar, but not in the way Adolfo had imagined it. Accessauto, the company he worked for, distributed spare parts for Fiat cars and trucks across Emilia-Romagna and the Marche region. But Orsi junior was not the kind to settle. “As long as one is restless,” wrote Julien Green, “one can be at peace.” And in the still-young Adolfo, that restlessness was a defining trait — it had many faces but invariably smelled of mineral oil. While still at university, between exams, he had begun restoring Maseratis for collectors — among them a 4CM and an A6GCS — coordinating craftsmen who had originally built those cars almost half a century earlier, such as the Bertocchis or Medardo Fantuzzi. Why not, he thought, turn this passion into a profession? In 1987, at the age of thirty-six, came the turning point: he left everything else behind to devote himself fully to what truly fascinated him — the history of the automobile in all its forms, with a special focus on what had happened within the Motor Valley. That inevitably meant knowing racing as well as production, drivers as well as engineers, in an intricate weave where men and machines, thought and piston, became an irresistible, inseparable blend. The Historian’s Instinct In fact, his historical curiosity linked to mechanics had surfaced as early as secondary school. At the 1969 Geneva Motor Show, Maserati — by then under Citroën control but still partly owned by the Orsi family — was to unveil a new grand tourer designed by Carrozzeria Vignale. A name had yet to be chosen. Adolfo reminded his father that it was exactly thirty years since Maserati’s first of two consecutive victories at Indianapolis (the marque had won in 1939 and 1940). “Why not call it Indy?” he suggested. Said and done. That wasn’t his only direct contribution to the marque that once belonged to his family. A second would come much later, in 1994. By then Maserati had passed from French to Italian hands — from Citroën to Alejandro De Tomaso in 1976, and to Fiat in 1993. The newly appointed CEO, engineer Eugenio Alzati, was preparing to celebrate the brand’s 80th anniversary with a retrospective at the Bologna Motor Show. Orsi met Alzati at the exhibition and proposed creating a single-make racing series for the Ghibli, the latest offshoot of the prolific Biturbo lineage, and offered to organise it himself. The result was twofold: a special road-going version, the Ghibli Cup, which breathed new life into a structurally dated model, and a promotional championship that was both highly engaging and genuinely competitive. Legends of motorsport such as Luyendyk, Tambay, Alén, Nanni Galli, and Nesti took part as guest drivers, at the wheel of Ghibli Open Cup racers provided by the organisers. Collector, Restorer, Enthusiast Not merely a theorist but a practitioner of automotive passion, Orsi keeps in his garage several Maseratis from his family’s era, all acquired long after their direct involvement ended: the 1959 3500 GT Vignale Spider prototype (the very car shown at the Turin Motor Show), a 1965 Quattroporte once owned by Marcello Mastroianni, a 1967 Mistral, and two ongoing restoration projects — Il Muletto, a small truck powered by a two-stroke twin-cylinder Maserati engine from 1950–51, and the prototype 3500 GT Touring known as the “Dama Bianca”. And then there are a couple of toy pedal cars — reminders that life is lighter and lovelier when treated as a continuous game. The World of Auctions But man does not live by Maserati alone. The first chapter of Orsi’s new life began with the auction world — then an emerging but little-known sector in Italy. Through an association with Finarte, he organised several auctions in Modena between 1988 and 1991. In 1992, when the Italian government introduced an additional tax on auctioned vehicles, he decided to withdraw. Not, however, before having sparked genuine public interest — for the first time in Italy — in the field of automobilia. The experience proved formative for the many chapters of his later life in the labyrinths of car collecting. Working inside the auction system lit a new idea. Why, he wondered, was it so difficult to trace transaction values? The answer was simple: there was no comprehensive record — no Annales to catalogue them. He began to organise scattered data for his own use. Then, in 1993, he was contacted by the late Alberto Bolaffi, the publisher whose name is synonymous with Italian collecting culture. Bolaffi asked Orsi to help improve an existing tool, the Bolaffi Catalogue of Collectable Cars, first issued a couple of years earlier. Orsi explained that the commercial value of any car varies dramatically depending on its history — and the first strand of its DNA is the chassis number. Moreover, to have international relevance, prices should be expressed not only in lire but also in pounds and dollars. With Raffaele Gazzi’s collaboration, the New Bolaffi Catalogue appeared in 1995 and continued until 2006. When Bolaffi chose to discontinue publication, Orsi set out to continue independently as publisher under the Historica Selecta imprint — for many years still with Gazzi’s support. The successor became the Classic Car Auction Yearbook, published exclusively in English. The 2024/25 edition, to be unveiled this October, marks the thirtieth instalment — an over-400-page volume known in Britain simply as “The Bible.” And if the British call it that, they know what they’re talking about. Expert Witness and Curator Alongside his auction work and publications, Orsi also served for many years as a court-appointed expert. Whenever a questionable car was seized, courts across Italy called on him to determine whether it was genuine or a fake. A classic example — though far from unique — was the appearance of two cars bearing the same chassis number: inevitably one of them was “invented,” however skilfully. Behind such high-profile judicial investigations, there was often the painstaking work of Adolfo Orsi — time-consuming but vital. Then there were the exhibitions. One of the most famous was Mitomacchina, staged between 2006 and 2007 at the MART museum in Rovereto. The museum had enlisted illustrious names — Giorgetto Giugiaro, Sergio Pininfarina, and others — but they lacked the time to engage fully. When director Gabriella Belli called him in, Orsi overturned the table: he replaced half the cars already selected and imposed a rigorous curatorial logic on the show. With 130,000 visitors, Mitomacchina became one of Europe’s most successful automotive exhibitions. The British magazine Thoroughbred & Classic Cars described it as “the most brain-tingling exhibition of cars ever assembled in the name of art.” Over the years, he also curated shows on Bugatti (with American historian Griff Borgeson, whom he calls his spiritual father), on great drivers such as Fangio in Modena and Nuvolari at Palazzo Te in Mantua, and naturally on Maserati itself — notably the marque’s centenary exhibition in 2014. The Judge By the time all these ventures were in full swing, another role had emerged: Adolfo Orsi the concours judge. He has been walking that particular lawn for more than twenty-five years, with ever-greater responsibility. He is a founding member of the International Chief Judge Advisory Group — which unites the world’s leading head judges — and has served as Chief Judge for the FIVA Trophy class at the Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance since its inception in 1999. He has attended twenty-seven consecutive editions of Pebble Beach and around 150 concours worldwide — from Russia to China, Australia to Japan, the US to India, Morocco to Romania. He clearly enjoys bringing his decades of experience to emerging markets in the field. What makes his contribution particularly significant is his long-standing campaign against so-called over-restoration — that excess of zeal which once led owners and their technicians to make cars too perfect. Today, it is widely accepted that a car’s value increases with its originality, and that presenting a vehicle as though it had just left the showroom is historically misleading. Much of that shift in mindset is due to Adolfo Orsi, who in the late 1990s championed the FIVA Award for best-preserved car at concours events. At the time, the idea seemed eccentric; today it’s mainstream. In 2024, both Pebble Beach and Villa d’Este awarded their top prizes to preserved, unrestored cars. The numbers speak for themselves: in 1999, there were only five cars dans leur jus at Pebble Beach — to borrow the French expression. Today, that category — not an official class, but a cross-section of the field — typically numbers at least five times as many. A Philosophy of Value Up to this point, we have spoken of the automobile in its historical, documentary, and cultural dimensions. But of course, every car also carries economic weight — sometimes enormous, especially when prestigious marques are involved. When collecting becomes investment, the market is subject to the same fluctuations as any share certificate. Asked what advice he would offer to prospective buyers, Orsi gives an answer that may disappoint anyone already fingering their mental abacus in anticipation of profit — yet one that will delight those who see cars as expressions of passion: “The car you love gives you a steady return — the pleasure of admiring it or driving it. That’s the only guaranteed yield. I can’t tell you whether the car you’re about to buy will gain value in ten years. It may rise a lot, or only a little, or not at all. But if you love that car, you will have enjoyed it. And if it has given you the joy of owning it — that, in the end, will be the true value of your purchase.” About the author, Marco Visani. Born in Imola in 1967, he has been a journalist since 1986. After beginning his career as a reporter for Il Resto del Carlino and other local newspapers, he has been writing about automobiles since 1992. He has worked with magazines such as Quattroruote, Ruoteclassiche, TopGear, Youngtimer, Auto Italiana, Auto, AM, Sprint, InterAutoNews, and EpocAuto; with TG2 television; the portal Veloce.it; and with the English publisher Redwood Publishing, active in the field of customer magazines. He is currently the Italian correspondent for the French classic-car magazine Gazoline, editor-in-chief of the bimonthly ZeroA, and contributor to L’automobileclassica, Youngclassic, Quadrifoglio, and Tutto Porsche. He also manages heritage communication for Volvo Car Italia. His writings have appeared in Corriere dello Sport-Stadio, Avvenire, Tecnologie Meccaniche, Rétroviseur (France), and Top Auto (Spain). He has published and co-authored several books for Giorgio Nada Editore and other publishers from 2016.

Energy transition, rebranding, a repositioning aimed far higher upmarket than ever before. The Coventry marque is living through one of the most difficult seasons in its long, turbulent history (and that’s saying something), not least because it has now been almost a year since Jaguar last built a single car—waiting for the brand’s full-electric relaunch scheduled for 2026. With the market at a practical standstill and a revolving door of CEOs, what future awaits one of Europe’s most storied manufacturers? Words Marco Visani Classic photography Jeroen Vink for SpeedHolics Other photos Jaguar Land Rover Limited It is a freezing winter Tuesday evening, 12 February 1957. At Browns Lane, home of Jaguar’s main factory, hundreds of freshly completed cars are lined up in storage. A fair number of Mk VIIM flagships, many 2.4 and 3.4 Litre saloons (the compact four-door later known as the Mk1), a handful of XK140 roadsters—and nine XKSS. The last workers have only just clocked off the afternoon shift when a devastating fire, breaking out from the tyre warehouse, engulfs the facility, destroying much of the finishing line and rendering more than a third of the factory unusable. A catastrophic blow contained only through the stubborn will of William Lyons—recently knighted—and the workforce. Workers salvage bolts, whatever sections of walls and sheet metal they can, and within just a few days production resumes, albeit at a crawl.Jaguar has indeed weathered more than a few storms in its century-plus existence. It begins with the fact that the company was founded in 1922, yet the history books mark its birth as 1945—because only in the immediate postwar period did it adopt the name we know today. Previously the firm was the Swallow Sidecar Company, universally referred to as “SS”—a deeply uncomfortable acronym after the crimes of the Nazi Schutzstaffel. Compelled by history itself to rebrand—an almost unique case in the automotive world—Jaguar entered the 1950s with head held high and, despite the 1957 fire, emerged with its image bolstered by international success, especially in the United States. Daimler and Coventry Climax entered the company’s shareholding. It was in this phase of expansion, in 1961, that the E-Type was born—probably the most iconic Jaguar ever built, celebrated as much by the jet set as by cartoonists. But the calm was short-lived. In 1966 the marque was absorbed by the British Motor Corporation (which would become British Leyland two years later), a motley conglomerate of mass-market brands in which Jaguar was an undeniable misfit. And yet life went on, even this time, even after Sir Lyons stepped aside: new models arrived that would define eras (the XJ above all), and the V12 engine debuted. The E-Type, forced to navigate the transition from boom years to far tougher times, passed the baton to the XJ-S. It was more a survival float than a confident swim forward—one that, under Thatcher’s government, led in 1980 to Jaguar being carved out of the holding company, staff cuts, and a stock-market listing. Its stay on the London Stock Exchange was brief—barely a decade. In 1990 Ford acquired Jaguar, and in 1998 placed it under the Premier Automotive Group, alongside Aston Martin, Land Rover, Volvo and—across the Atlantic—Lincoln. The result was another false start, producing one model in particular—the X-Type—that shared its platform and major components with the Ford Mondeo, and which introduced body styles and technical choices hardly coherent with Jaguar’s heritage: a station wagon, front-wheel drive, and a Diesel engine. As the PAG dissolved, Jaguar once again changed hands—this time along with Land Rover, with which it effectively merged—passing to India’s Tata Motors: the former colony purchasing one of the jewels of the Crown. At first, things went rather well. The line-up was broad—saloons, estates, coupés, convertibles, SUVs—and the market responded. Then something went wrong. Very wrong. In April of this year, Jaguar sold just 101 cars across all of Europe, compared with 1,951 in April 2024—a 94.8% drop. Looking at the first four months of the year, the contraction is slightly less dramatic but no less alarming: –76.6%. What lies behind this collapse? The energy transition, which is tormenting the entire European industry as it braces for the prospect of zero-carbon rules from 2025, is only part of the story. It is normal—painful, but normal—that factories slow down and resort to furloughs during generational changeovers between model lines. But what is happening to Jaguar has no precedent. In November 2024, Jaguar stopped all production lines (E-Pace, F-Pace, I-Pace, XF, XE and F-Type) pending a radical overhaul of the line-up, which is to relaunch in 2026 with three all-electric models. All current cars remain available only until stock runs out—and only outside the UK, a further oddity. A year-plus production freeze is an extraordinary move. Painful for workers, painful for the dealer network, painful for the brand’s image. And the explanation given by former CEO Adrian Mardell was astonishing: “Jaguar vehicles do not deliver economic returns.” As if to admit they had knowingly been building cars with no margin. Yet even this unusual approach to transition pales when compared (and especially when paired) with the risky rebranding operation entrusted to an external agency—Nothing, a name that feels ominous in hindsight—unveiled on 19 November 2024. The new logo and lettering are anything but engaging: a naïve alternation of upper and lowercase, the suppression of typographic ascenders and descenders, and an aesthetic faintly reminiscent of a certain high-tech vacuum-cleaner brand. The leaper—the famous Jaguar mid-pounce—has vanished. But above all, the communication is strikingly abstract. It leans into a vaguely “woke” framework—at least in intention—built around five cryptic taglines: create exuberant, live vivid, delete ordinary, break moulds, copy nothing (the last supposedly quoting Sir Lyons). These accompany a 30-second fashion-film “reel” designed to announce Jaguar’s new course without showing a single car (not least because none exist). Instead, eight latex-clad figures move ambiguously through a lunar-dreamlike environment dominated by pink and baby-blue tones. Those colours, as we learned two weeks later, were clues to the colourways—Miami pink and London blue—with which the Type 00 would be unveiled at Miami Art Week, a deliberately non-automotive setting. And when the concept finally appeared, many observers might have preferred the car-less video. The “zero zero” is a concept whose styling—despite a long bonnet that faintly nods to the legendary E-Type—has triggered debate, controversy, and even mockery throughout media and social networks. Some saw the rear grille as resembling the outdoor unit of a home air conditioner; others, more mischievously, likened the profile to a comic-book Batmobile. Leaving styling aside—explosive in its own right, given its deliberate severing of all ties with the past—it is the declared intention to reposition Jaguar at the top tier of the luxury market that has raised eyebrows. Throughout its existence Jaguar has always represented accessible luxury: distinctive, personal, never ostentatious, and priced well below Bentley and Rolls-Royce—against which it now apparently intends to compete, if the production version of the Type 00 becomes the four-door grand tourer promised. Even CEO Rawdon Glover acknowledged in a July 2024 interview with Quattroruote that “probably 10–15% of our current customer base will stay with us—so relatively few.” Confident that it can rely on conquest customers, Jaguar has not, unlike other brands, reconsidered its timing for abandoning combustion engines—those other brands having already adjusted their schedules to match the weak demand and the not-so-subtle hope of regulatory backtracking. Quite the opposite. In the same interview, Glover stated that “with any platform (in this case the JEA, Jaguar Electric Architecture), it’s always a long-term game. It takes six years to bring it to market and then you have a nine-year cycle. So when you make a platform decision, you are committing for 15 years—and it’s hard to walk that back.” And yet walk back they have—at least at the shareholder level. On 1 August, Tata Motors accepted (or perhaps encouraged?) the resignation of CEO Adrian Mardell. And in December came news that Chief Designer Gerry McGovern, too, had been shown the door. Automotive boardrooms have seen no shortage of departures lately—from Carlos Tavares (Stellantis) to Luca de Meo (Renault), from Wayne Griffiths (Seat–Cupra) to Jim Rowan (Volvo). But Mardell’s abrupt retirement—despite approaching 65 and having 35 years of service—cannot be unrelated to the radical transformation he oversaw, which is so far delivering anything but the expected results. Coventry’s spin does little to hide it: they insist that the wave of debate surrounding the Type 00 and the now-famous reel has produced unprecedented visibility (which is undeniably true). But numbers speak too: according to the authoritative InterAutoNews, quoting ACEA statistics, Jaguar sold just seven cars (yes, seven, spelled out to avoid doubts) in Europe in July 2025, compared with 1,460 in the same month the year before—a 99.5% collapse. Which is to say that Jaguar is, for all practical purposes, extinct. Or at least completely motionless. At this point one must ask whether the timeline will hold (the GT derived from the Type 00 is due to debut late this year and reach showrooms—if any are left—by the first half of 2026) and whether there truly is a future for this cornerstone of European motoring culture. A few days after Mardell’s departure, Jaguar Land Rover announced that on 1 November leadership will pass to Pathamadai Balachandran Balaji, until now Chief Financial Officer at Tata: a numbers man, suggesting a future oriented more toward balancing books—especially with Trump-era tariffs targeting the US market—than imagining new worlds and new audiences through ethereal visions. For now, we prefer to take comfort in history, which is why we chose to present images of two E-Types. Across fourteen years, roughly 70,000 E-Types were built between the OTS and FHC (Fixed Head Coupé). We like to think of it as a good omen for a brighter future—and that the current turmoil is just one more of Jaguar’s many crises. Hoping, once again, that it may rise from its ashes. About the author, Marco Visani. Born in Imola in 1967, he has been a journalist since 1986. After beginning his career as a reporter for Il Resto del Carlino and other local newspapers, he has been writing about automobiles since 1992. He has worked with magazines such as Quattroruote, Ruoteclassiche, TopGear, Youngtimer, Auto Italiana, Auto, AM, Sprint, InterAutoNews, and EpocAuto; with TG2 television; the portal Veloce.it ; and with the English publisher Redwood Publishing, active in the field of customer magazines. He is currently the Italian correspondent for the French classic-car magazine Gazoline, editor-in-chief of the bimonthly ZeroA, and contributor to L’automobileclassica, Youngclassic, Quadrifoglio, and Tutto Porsche. He also manages heritage communication for Volvo Car Italia. His writings have appeared in Corriere dello Sport-Stadio, Avvenire, Tecnologie Meccaniche, Rétroviseur (France), and Top Auto (Spain). He has published and co-authored several books for Giorgio Nada Editore other publishers from 2016.

The most bourgeois and least-known variant of the prolific Biturbo family, told through the passion of a collector. A collector who, when he was a boy, worked at Maserati. And who, as he walked through the factory yards, dreamed of one day wrapping his hands around the steering wheel of a 228. A story in which passion and work intertwine, and where the protagonists who made the headlines walk side by side with the technicians who helped design, build, and bring these cars to the world. Words : Marco Visani Photography : Leonardo Perugini Every time Marco left the company canteen to return to the office, he passed through the courtyard. And in the courtyard he would find the cars completed during the morning, neatly lined up. It wasn’t as though they formed kilometre-long rows. Just a few units, and if you paid close attention, you could almost recognise them one by one, perhaps even playing at giving them an imaginary name depending on the series, the customer’s chosen trim, and of course, the colour. In the end, it was a way to humanise them. As Marco did, fuelled by the thrill of having found himself working in a magical place for someone passionate about engines. Who knows how many technical-school graduates came out of his city’s schools each year. And inevitably only a few among them were lucky enough, instead of being hired by one of the countless companies in the supply chain—or even in sectors completely unrelated to automotive—to enter the true gotha of motoring: on one side (that is, Ferrari), or on the other side, meaning Maserati, using the expression coined by the Commendatore, which expressed all his detachment (to say the least) for anything in Modena that had four wheels, a very powerful engine, but a trident instead of a prancing horse. To Marco Bergamini, born 1966, industrial technician and mechanical designer, fate assigned the “other side”. In 1988, at age 22, he entered the historic headquarters on Via Ciro Menotti and began working in meccanica fredda. In workshop jargon, that meant everything that wasn’t bodywork nor engine (the latter being, by nature, the hottest element of all). That meant transmission in all its components, brakes, steering and suspension. Marco worked eight hours a day at the drafting board, one heliocopy after another: CAD-CAM was just around the corner, but had not yet completed its transition. More concentration in the morning, less in the afternoon. After admiring those small groups of newly completed cars, he imagined—on a very distant day—being able to hold one of their steering wheels in his hands. But not the wheel of just any Biturbo—which at the time was the core business of the line-up—and not even that of the sumptuous Quattroporte (the President of the Republic’s car: how could a young man allow himself to desire such a transatlantic ferry?). The car that unsettled his afternoons was something in between: the 228. The most unusual member of the prolific Biturbo family, which at the time included coupés, Spyders, and the 420 and 425 saloons. Alejandro De Tomaso, who had been Maserati’s father-master since 1976, not content with competing against Alfa Romeo and BMW (something never seen before the arrival of the Biturbo itself), decided he also wanted to present himself as an alternative to Mercedes-Benz in the upper-middle-class coupé segment. An even more ambitious undertaking, given that the image of a Maserati and that of a German car were as far apart as devil and holy water. But the considerable success enjoyed by the Biturbo and its companions (no fewer than 22 models in 16 years, a true record) convinced him to launch himself into this challenge as well. Working with him was not easy: he expressed his opinion about everything, tolerated no contradiction, refused to take decisions on Tuesdays or Fridays because they brought bad luck, and was said to walk around the factory armed and with a large dog of an apparently unfriendly temperament. Marco has no direct confirmation of the last two rumours (when personalities are so strong, it takes nothing for exaggerated, if not outright invented, anecdotes to spring up around them), but he does remember—and has seen in writing—the circulars, worthy of a totalitarian regime, that circulated through every department of the company. Here is what he wrote on 18 July 1991: “From: President. To: all relevant Departments. It is reiterated that any modification to the vehicles, even the most insignificant, cannot under any circumstances be carried out without prior authorisation from Mr A. De Tomaso. Anyone failing to comply with this directive will face severe disciplinary action.” In short, even if you changed a slotted screw for a Phillips to improve product quality or to solve a production impasse, you risked having a very bad time (or much worse, given the vagueness of the punishments threatened). It was in this surreal climate that the 228 was conceived. Basically, the idea was simple and logical: take the longest wheelbase among the three planned for the Biturbo—the saloon’s 2.60 metres compared to 2.51 for the coupé and 2.40 for the Spyder—fit the largest engine in the twin-turbo V6 family, and cover everything with a specific body. And here things got complicated. Because, to give the new coupé a different aura—more bourgeois and less aggressive than the others—half the world had to be redesigned. Not a single panel matched those of the other models, which gives you an idea of how illusory any implicit notion of cost rationalisation really was. Pierangelo Andreani, the same designer responsible for the first Biturbo, worked with a sure hand and managed to give the car a touch of nobility, not without indulging in a few flourishes: the raised rear edge of the bonnet, the one that “rests” against the windscreen, shaped to partially conceal the wipers; the thick border around the grille; the most elegant wheels ever fitted to a “small” Modenese car. To emphasise its difference, even the door handles were mounted above the upper side crease instead of below it, as on the others. The result is attractive, perhaps also thanks to its very imperfection: the body is 15 cm wider, but the tracks grow by only 38 mm at the front and 23 mm at the rear. The result: the wheels look lost inside the arches, sitting too far inward. A bit like those scale models where differently shaped bodies must settle for sharing a single chassis. In those years Marco, dressed in his white coat (which Maserati designers were as proud of as the test drivers were of their very light blue suits), moved from one project to another. He drew the pedal assembly of a 4.18 modified to integrate ABS, and worked on the installation specifications of the Getrag five-speed gearbox that would end up, in 1990, in the Shamal, replacing the ZF units previously used. Every project was created in 1:1 scale—plan view, front view, rear view. In his first years at Maserati he often heard talk of that 228 that fascinated him so much. At Via Ciro Menotti they said that, yes, it was a provocation to Mercedes-Benz’s C124 series, but above all the car intended to continue the path opened by Maserati models of the past—sporty but less aggressive than the “small” Biturbo—such as the 3500 GT, the Mexico and the Kyalami. How could you not feel part of history, when you worked in a place where a car model was entrusted with a responsibility like that? As successful as the early Biturbo had been, the welcome for its bourgeois relative would be lukewarm. If over 9,000 units of the original carburetted Biturbo were produced, only 469 examples of the 228 would leave the factory in four years. Almost all were exported, given that its displacement—close to three litres (hence the name 228, to be read as 2 doors, 2800)—made it undesirable in Italy, where heavy VAT of 38% instead of 19% applied to cars over two litres: indeed, that is precisely why the Biturbo had been born as a two-litre. Numbers so low as to make Marco’s dream of owning one even more unrealistic. But he told himself every day: when would I ever be able to afford a car like that? And if they talked so much about the 228 at the factory, fuelling his curiosity as he returned from the canteen, it was because its genesis had been unusual. It was presented as a prototype on 14 December 1984, exactly three years after the Biturbo. De Tomaso always chose this date to launch new models because it was Maserati’s founding anniversary. And in 1984 the company celebrated nothing less than its seventieth year. At its first appearance the mechanics were very different from the final version: four valves, two spark plugs per cylinder, twin overhead camshafts per bank and carburettors. It remained on paper for a long time: production officially began only in spring 1986, on the eve of the definitive model’s presentation in Turin. The fuel and valve train systems had been completely rethought (and simplified): now it featured fuel injection, a single camshaft per bank, and three valves and one spark plug per cylinder. To favour export markets, deliveries in Italy began very late: at the end of August 1987. Because of the increased VAT, it was extremely expensive on the domestic market: its first list price was 72.8 million lire, more than double the base carburetted Biturbo’s 33 million. With just a little extra—79 million—a potential buyer could take home a Porsche 911 Carrera. Certainly, the very rich standard equipment partly justified the asking price: power steering, alloy wheels, height- and reach-adjustable steering wheel, central locking, automatic air conditioning, electrically adjustable front seatbacks, power windows, hand-stitched leather upholstery. Only four options: automatic gearbox, metallic paint, ABS and high-pressure headlight washers. Rumour also spread that Maserati intended to expand the 228 range with a 428, a four-door version. Logical perhaps, but unfounded. The only (slight) variant of the model would be, from 1990, the catalytic version for the USA, with power reduced from 255 to 224 hp. It was produced for just one year, after which the 228 gave way to the 222 4v, which kept the 2.8 engine but increased it to 279 hp, mounted on the shorter, more angular body of the original Biturbo. The charm of the halfway point had faded too soon. And certainly the caudillo from Buenos Aires did not enjoy it—not even from the driver’s seat: for years, due to physical problems, he had handed the wheel to his trusted Ivano Cornia, a test driver who was asked to leave the proving grounds to chauffeur the boss around Modena. Very rarely in a Quattroporte, sometimes in a red 2.24, at other times in a black 4.24. Never in a 228. By 1997 the De Tomaso era was already long over. And in that year, Marco Bergamini’s time at Maserati also came to an end, as he moved with different responsibilities to companies outside the sector. The years passed, but the nostalgia for those cars he had drawn parts for only grew. Especially for that 228 that disturbed every one of his returns to the office. “I just need to avoid one of the first fifteen built,” he repeated like a mantra. The first fifteen 228s, for the record, mounted the rear axle of the two-litre Biturbo but had stability problems. Then the day came in 2008 when he saw it. An immaculate example, in Swan White livery, with 86,000 kilometres since June 1989, when it was collected from the dealership by its first owner, a man from Vicenza who had passed away a few years earlier. Apart from some scratches on the bodywork the car was sound, but it had one major mechanical problem: a cracked engine block. But Marco is someone who knows how to get his hands dirty and use spanners (and all the other tools). He dismantled it piece by piece in his home garage, with wooden posts supporting the body because he didn’t have a lift. Every single bolt was zinc-coated; he even overhauled the rear axle, sandblasting it himself, and launched into an authentic treasure hunt for the missing pieces: he found the bearings in the United States, had the piston rings reconstructed, based on samples, by a specialist in Turin. He granted himself one single licence, though a modest one: two pairs of exhausts, which were regularly fitted to cars destined for export markets, whereas in Italy the 228 had only one pair, on the right. It took eight long years of evenings stolen after dinner to reach, in 2016, the final result. Today the 228 still stands proudly in his garage next to a more recent, less aristocratic but equally underrated product of Italian industry: a 1997 Lancia K saloon. By sheer coincidence, the very year he left Maserati. Even if, in truth, he never really left it at all. About the author, Marco Visani. Born in Imola in 1967, he has been a journalist since 1986. After beginning his career as a reporter for Il Resto del Carlino and other local newspapers, he has been writing about automobiles since 1992. He has worked with magazines such as Quattroruote, Ruoteclassiche, TopGear, Youngtimer, Auto Italiana, Auto, AM, Sprint, InterAutoNews, and EpocAuto; with TG2 television; the portal Veloce.it ; and with the English publisher Redwood Publishing, active in the field of customer magazines. He is currently the Italian correspondent for the French classic-car magazine Gazoline, editor-in-chief of the bimonthly ZeroA, and contributor to L’automobileclassica, Youngclassic, Quadrifoglio, and Tutto Porsche. He also manages heritage communication for Volvo Car Italia. His writings have appeared in Corriere dello Sport-Stadio, Avvenire, Tecnologie Meccaniche, Rétroviseur (France), and Top Auto (Spain). He has published and co-authored several books for Giorgio Nada Editore other publishers from 2016 to 2021.

Words Alessandro Giudice Photography Alessandro Barteletti Video Andrea Ruggeri Swiss Grand Tour is a project to discover itineraries driving classic Alfa Romeo cars, in partnership with Astara, the distributor and importer of the Brand in Switzerland. The Route from Rapperswil to Klausenpass The itinerary running from Rapperswil to the Klausenpass is full of surprises. Each bend reveals enchanting views and a variety of atmospheres unique to Switzerland. We chose to tackle this route in two very different Alfa Romeos: a 1961 Giulietta Sprint and a Junior BEV Speciale. The Giulietta Sprint is a splendid vintage coupé, rich in Italian history and elegance. In contrast, the Junior BEV Speciale represents the future of the brand. This interesting contrast makes the journey a tale of different eras and styles, along with driving pleasure. At the wheel of the Giulietta is Elias Lederach, a young and enthusiastic owner born in 1988. He is the third generation of “maître chocolatiers” with a full-blown passion for Alfa Romeos. [click to watch the video] (Map by Sansai Zappini) The journey begins in Rapperswil, nestled on the eastern bank of Lake Zurich. Known as the “Town of Roses,” it boasts 15,000 varieties that colour its gardens in the warm season. The historical centre is a medieval gem with beautiful views. Its pebbled streets, elegant houses, and the castle dominate the town, offering priceless views of the lake and surrounding mountains. After enjoying a coffee by the lake and a stroll to the wooden bridge linking the town to the opposite bank, it was time to climb towards the mountains. We left the lakeside landscape behind for the increasingly authentic Alpine scenery. From Rapperswil, the road heads south along the banks of the lake before heading towards Uznach. This flat stretch is framed by well-tended meadows and villages huddled around churches with narrow bell towers. After Uznach, a small village that was a major trading centre in the Middle Ages, the itinerary climbs gently towards Glarus, the capital of the canton. Here, the landscape changes dramatically. The peaks close in on the valley, and green meadows give way to rocky walls and waterfalls that swell rapidly after the rains. Glarus is steeped in history, from the Protestant Reformation to the devastating fire in 1861 that destroyed much of the town. Rebuilt in functional blocks, it offers a simple charm with its impressive neoclassical reformed church and tidy façades. The local industries bear witness to the strength of the local people. This strength is expressed every year on the first Sunday of May during the Landsgemeinde, a unique public assembly held in the large Zaunplatz. Here, laws and budgets are decided, and governments and tribunals are voted on by a show of hands. Leaving Glarus, we headed towards the Klausenpass in Betschwanden. From the road, you can admire the region's last waterfall, Diesebach. Here, the road begins to narrow, and the valley gives way to rocky walls and conifer woods. This is where the journey turns into pure emotion, ahead of the climb to one of Switzerland's most attractive Alpine passes. At 1,948 metres above sea level, the Klausenpass is more than just an Alpine pass. It is a legendary route for car and mountain lovers, with bends designed for driving enthusiasts. Climbing towards Urnerboden, the landscape suddenly opens up into a green plateau, the largest in the Swiss Alps, dotted with wooden chalets and grazing cows. Stopping here, you can breathe in the true essence of the Alps: clean air, silence interrupted only by cow bells, and broad horizons inviting contemplation. The last few miles up to the Klausenpass offer a crescendo of emotions. The road narrows, cut through the rock, alternating natural tunnels with spectacular bends overlooking dizzying overhangs. This is the kingdom of the bends, which made the history of hill climb races. The Klausenrennen, one of Europe's most famous uphill races, animated this road in the Twenties and Thirties. Legendary drivers raced behind the wheel of cars that can be found in museums today. Driving along these roads, even as simple excursionists, immerses you in this wonderful sporting tradition. It brings to mind an era when the car symbolised freedom and victory. The beauty of this itinerary is amplified by the contrast between the two cars chosen for the journey. The 1961 Giulietta Sprint is a return to the past. Its interiors, which Elias wanted in chocolate-coloured leather, feature a slim steering wheel and manual gearbox. Every kilometre is a dialogue with the mechanics, offering a driving pleasure made of attention, sensitivity, and complete involvement. On the other hand, the Alfa Romeo Junior BEV represents modernity. It is a silent, lively car that copes with the bends effortlessly, showing how even an electric car can provide a thrilling experience. Putting them side by side is like looking at two different eras in the same history: that of a brand distinguished by Italian design and passion, both yesterday and today. Reaching the peak of the Klausenpass is a satisfying experience for all the senses. From this height, the eye sweeps across the Alps, with views that seem almost painted. In summer, the meadows shine with colourful Alpine flowers, while the cool air invites you to stop for a break. Perhaps in one of the restaurants serving typical mountain cuisine. This moment becomes an indelible memory. The discreet hum of the Junior BEV and the roar of the Giulietta blend into the sounds of nature, creating a unique harmony. The itinerary from Rapperswil to the Klausenpass is more than just a trip; it is an experience of nature, culture, and passion. Starting from the romantic tranquillity of a lakeside town, crossing a valley marked by history, to reach a mountain pass that thrills with unforgettable landscapes. Whether you choose to tackle it in a classic car, enjoying the charm of the past, or in a modern electric car exploring the future of mobility, this journey invites you to slow down, look around, and be won over by a country that, bend after bend, always manages to amaze. The Collector: Elias Lederach My name is Elias Lederach, and I have loved classic cars since I was a child. Our grandfather drove us around Switzerland and Europe in his old Mercedes 190 SL. Wonderful memories. I drove a 1961 Giulietta Sprint up to the Klausenpass. A splendid car. I love this model in particular because of her balanced style. For me, she represents car manufacturing perfection. I bought her three or four years ago, and since then I have only changed the interiors: they’re not original, but I wanted to cover her with beautiful brown skin, that’s how I like her. I love the Alfa Romeo brand and its cars. I have loved all the models they have made, and I hope that in this new electric era they can infuse all the personality the brand deserves. My passion for Alfa Romeos is based on their design. I adore the driving dynamics and the feeling of control at the wheel, both in classic and recent models. This is why my everyday car is a Giulia Quadrifoglio. I love its sporting line, and even though it is a sedan, it offers true sporting performance. I just love her.

A bond born from an adolescent passion. For Ermanno Cozza, Maserati means more than just a job. For sixty years, it has represented the driver of creativity, the pleasure of relations and a technological adventure that today has become a commitment to passing on facts and traditions. A demonstration of absolute loyalty to a brand that represents the excellent style, performance and sporting flair of Italian car manufacturing Words Alessandro Giudice Photography Alessandro Barteletti Video Andrea Ruggeri Archive Courtesy of Maserati Archive Ermanno Cozza was born in 1933, and has spent 60 years of his life in a magical bubble of creativity, quality, genius and above all people. Some of the episodes in his story may seem simple, yet in fact they reveal all the thrills and tensions behind a four-wheel legend that, with the same aplomb, has won many a victory on the track and captured the hearts of enthusiasts on the road. A long and sometimes winding road, which began with three resourceful brothers from Bologna and continued with the enterprise of a man from Modena. All driven by the desire to offer an excellent product with innovative solutions, based on the dedication, passion and sacrifice of the people who lived the adventure on the front line. People like Ermanno Cozza, who has kept every moment he spent at Maserati like a precious gem, a memory that comes across as emotional even more than historical, from where the value of the individuals who created the “Trident” magic clearly emerges. [click to watch the video]   Ermanno Cozza fell in love with Maserati because of Alfa Romeos, a Guzzi motorbike and a football, precisely in that order. The Alfas were the ones that Enzo Ferrari raced with his team, close to where Ermanno, aged 9, would pass by when going from his home in Collegarola, a small hamlet on the outskirts of town, to visit his aunts who ran a grocers shop near Vignola, outside the city, and to his uncle Achille’s restaurant, in Via Usiglio on the corner of Via Ciro Menotti. When he went home in the afternoon, he would fiddle about with the Moto Guzzi that belonged to Vito, a boy who lived in the same building: “I wanted to take it apart and hide it from the Nazis, who at the time were requisitioning anything that had an engine, and he was very fond of that motorbike,” Cozza recalls. It was then that, unscrewing a bolt, removing a part, handling connecting rods and pistons and discovering the secrets of the engine, that the young Ermanno developed a passion for all things mechanical that was to stay with him throughout his life. And the Alfa Romeos? Well, here a friend of his comes into the picture: older and skilled with engines, he had Ermanno's full attention, even when he dismissed the red cars he saw every day along Via Trento e Trieste in just a few words: “He said: ‘Nah, those are made in Milan, not here. If you want to see a real racing car you have to go down to Via Ciro Menotti, just before the level crossing. That’s where the “Fratelli Maserati” are, they’re from Bologna, they do everything themselves. They don’t have any engineers, they do the drawings, the designs and then they build the racing cars themselves, from the engine to the bodywork, with a few of the mechanical parts coming from a factory in Porretta Terme. They won a really important race in the United States [ed.: the 1939 Indianapolis 500]’. That was when the name Maserati got into my head and never left.” A name that wasn't new to Ermanno, because it was written on the triporteurs and electric vans that he saw around the province, delivering materials and machine tools: “They had huge batteries, not like the ones we have today, they could run for 50-60 km but solved the problem of petrol and diesel shortages.” Then one day, while he was playing football on a field near home, he saw a group of people chatting together, and one of his friends said that the guy with the hat was ‘Commendatore” (“Commander”) Orsi, the boss of Maserati, that he had moved from Bologna to Modena. Ermanno was impressed, and when the ball rolled in their direction he (a rather timid introvert) picked up the courage to introduce himself to the gentleman: “I told him that one day I would like to work at Maserati and he asked me who I was and what I did: ‘When you finish school, come and see me and we’ll see what we can do’. And that’s what I did,” Cozza remembers with a smile half-way between satisfaction and nostalgia. Because in the meantime Ermanno continued to cultivate his passion for mechanics at the Corni Technical Institute, a veritable institution in Modena that trained the best mechanics in the area that went on to be known as Motor Valley: “It was a kind of university, set up by an industrial magnate from Modena who needed workers for his company, but was surrounded by a community of farmers.” But the year of his diploma did not end well, and Ermanno was forced to resit the exam in September (“In Italian too, because we only spoke dialect and so it was hard to speak proper Italian and impossible to write it”). Fortunately though, he passed the exam in September and, diploma in his pocket, Ermanno headed straight for Maserati, in Via Ciro Menotti 322, on his way home. He demanded to speak to the “Commendatore”, but the porter said he wasn’t in, and they got into a heated discussion when, by pure chance, right at that moment Adolfo Orsi came through the gatehouse and asked what was going on. When Ermanno explained who he was, Orsi told him to make an application through the correct channels and then he would look into it. And so it was. 28 October 1951, his first day at work, marked the start of one of the longest, varied and in some respects legendary careers in the history of Maserati. A career that began in the Control Centre, where he had to check the quality of the parts produced, and then moved on to the tooling room, from where he was picked by the engineer Bellentani to work in the “esperienze” department. “There were two of Maserati's most skilled engineers, Leoni and Reggiani, who everyone called “the doctor” because he had a habit of resting a screwdriver on the running engine and putting his ear to the handle, listening as if it was a stethoscope. He was really good, and after a few years working for Ferrari in Maranello, and in America for the importer Chinetti, he came back home after an accident that kept him in bed for two months, when he discovered that he wasn’t insured by the company. So he sent them to hell and went to work for Maserati.” And it is precisely Antonio Reggiani, AKA Tonino, born in 1913, who Cozza was most fond of and who he misses the most: “He treated me like a son, he taught me everything. And if I came up with something he would always give me the merit, even though he was my superior.” The relations between Ferrari and Maserati were quite chilly, although they had a tacit agreement not to steal each other’s top men. Just think that the back of the house where the Orsi family lived in Via Sabatini looked over the courtyard of the Ferrari factory, and both Adolfo Orsi and Enzo Ferrari often took their drivers to eat at the Cantoni restaurant nearby: “There was never more than a nod of the head when they met. When Ferrari wanted to know what was new at Maserati, he didn’t even say its name: ‘What are they up to down there?’ he would ask. There was respect, but also a kind of love/hate relationship.” One thing that became part of Cozza’s DNA is that he too has trouble calling Enzo Ferrari by name, instead using the more distant and generic “the one from Maranello”.   Even though he spent most of his time working on competition cars, he hardly ever went to the races. In 1953: “That year I even worked on Christmas Day. The cars had been shipped to Argentina in late October for the Temporada. They were the old F2s, the new ones were being completed. But we had a technical innovation that needed to be designed and tested.” This was the De Dion suspension, which had the differential joined to the gearbox. Valerio Colotti, a designer who had come to Maserati after working for Ferrari, had begun to design it in September after the head of the Maserati esperienze department, Vittorio Bellentani, had sent him to Monza to “watch” the Mercedes track tests, and see how the rear of the German car was made. Cozza recalls: “The Autodromo director, Giuseppe Bacciagaluppi, got him some Pirelli overalls so that he would blend in and not be noticed.” Right after the Mercedes went off the road, replacing a rear wheel one of the mechanics covered the tail of the car, but not quickly enough to prevent Colotti from taking a mental photo of what he had seen, the De Dion suspension, which he then did even better, turning it into a masterpiece. And so on 25 December 1953 they decided on the engine to be used by Fangio, and the following day, Boxing Day, in the winter fog and a temperature of just 2 or 3 °C, the test driver Guerino Bertocchi tested the 250 F with a new engine and the De Dion suspension at the “Aeroautodromo” in Modena. “After a few laps of the track, he stopped, took off his gloves, pulled off his goggles and said to us, all hanging on his words: ‘Now that’s what I call a real car!’. The following day we all went to Malpensa to load the cars on the plane for Buenos Aires.” This was just the first stage of a mission that was heading for perfection, and not only in sporting terms. Indeed, while the team and the drivers Fangio and Marimón were showing the cars to General Perón, who knew Italy well having attended the Military Academy in Modena, Commendator Orsi signed an agreement with some manufacturers to supply 50 machine tools made by one of the factories owned by his family. On the day of the Grand Prix, Sunday 17 January, with the Ferraris in pole position on the starting line and for much of the race, the weather was what actually helped the Maserati 250 F, “considered by the sports press to be an evergreen car.” Its engine, developed in the close-to-zero temperatures of the Po Valley and running at over 40 degrees in South America, in the pouring rain that cooled the air an hour into the race, began to work at full power, and Juan Manuel Fangio shot off into the lead, with the single-seater winning its début race. The result was repeated during the first European race of the season, on the Belgian circuit at Spa-Francochamps, before the Argentine driver moved to Mercedes-Benz. Talking about the Argentine champion, Cozza states: “Fangio was a mechanic, a guy who knew his cars. He was also a saver, and never pushed the engine to the max. When we offered him an injection engine for the 250 F, he said he preferred to carburettor version, even though it developed around twenty HP less: ‘I’ll get them out of her, don't you worry’. He was a lovely person, really pleasant but terribly suspicious: when he tested a car, he always wanted someone to be there to make sure that nobody could get close. Those were the days when the driver counted for 51-52% of the success, but gradually cars have taken over in percentage terms. Who were the best drivers at that time? Nuvolari, Fangio, Surtees, Jim Clark.” The trip to South America would have been perfect, had it not been for the fact that after the dozens of machine tools under Orsi’s agreement were delivered, a military coup overthrew President Peron and the supply was never paid for by the industrial companies but only through wheat supplies sent by the Argentine government to the Italian government, which then gave the equivalent in cash to Maserati only five years later, in 1959. The matter put the company into receivership: “I remember that when we began to make the 3500, we bought ZF gearboxes from Germany, and the orders were signed and the payments authorised by an official at the bank. This was a humiliation for Commendator Orsi, who sold off his personal property to close the procedure in six months,” Cozza explains. But it was also the time when they had to disband the Racing Department: “Called in by Orsi, all the staff confirmed their willingness to work without pay until the matter had been resolved: ‘You will pay us when you can,’ said Brancolini, an engineer who spoke on behalf of everyone. With tears in his eyes, Orsi replied that he had found other positions for all of them: ‘Two to Ferrari, one to Centro Sud, one set up his own business and another went to Weber’.”   1963 saw the birth of one of the Trident's most extraordinary and iconic cars, the Quattroporte, which was an obsession for Orsi who couldn’t believe that his business colleagues bought Mercedes, Jaguars or even Rolls-Royces. “It was the car for Italian and European businessmen, and I had to solve a big problem,” Cozza continues. It all came about when the engineer Alfieri received a phone call from the Swiss dealer Sonvico: one of his clients in Lausanne had complained that on the kilometre of cobbles leading up to his house, sitting the rear seats of the Quattroporte - the third one to be delivered - you couldn’t talk or hear anything because of the noise made by the suspensions. “The engineer called me and said ‘get a sound meter and tell me where I can find a dirt track near the factory’, and I took him to one near Vignola that seemed like a dump site. The values recorded were really high, too high for a luxury sedan.” It was a technical problem, the shock absorbers sent the wheel vibrations to the bodywork which was in steel sheet and not tubular. “One evening Orsi came by and saw me working on a Quattroporte, and asked, ‘Well?’ and I replied ‘We can't solve this one, commendatore. And just think, two thousand years ago the Romans had chariots with leaf springs’. It was a moment of enlightenment, and the next day we mounted these on the rest of the production.” On his many business trips, in 1968 Orsi also met the chairman of Citroën, who asked him for an aluminium six-cylinder engine for a future four-seater gran turismo coupé because, he said, ‘our engines are too heavy and cumbersome’: “When the commendator told us, Alfieri and I had the same idea. We made the engine from an eight-cylinder, cutting two of them off to make a special 6-cylinder with a 90-degree V cut. A compact engine designed for front-wheel drive, to be assembled with the gearbox.” Meanwhile, the Michelin family, who owned Citroën at the time, was interested in buying out Maserati: “Commendator Orsi was already getting on, his son Omer was becoming ill and his sons, the engineer Roberto and the doctor Adolfo, were still just kids.” Citroën bought all the shares in 1970, but there was no particular interference: Maserati continued with its production, in addition to twenty or so C114 engines for the SM, launched in the same year. The oil crisis of 1973 put Michelin in trouble, and among the sale of many of its collateral businesses was also Maserati, which was taken over by the Italian government via GEPI, the public financial corporation set up to help companies in difficulty. And that was when Alejandro De Tomaso, Argentine driver and businessman who had at the time of Citroën’s entry into the company tried to take Maserati into Chrysler, came back into the picture. He bought out the first 30% of the company and took over its management, thanks to the experience gained in his own company Automobili De Tomaso: “Every year he bought another 5-10% of the GEPI stake and ended up with the full ownership of Maserati. He did the same thing with Innocenti, abandoned by British Leyland with 3000 employees, which GEPI forced him to purchase.” De Tomaso thought that he could solve the world crisis with a small car (to avoid the VAT rate of 38%) but powerful and prestigious like a luxury car: “And that’s how the Biturbo was born. In 1981 the engineer Bertocchi, son of the historical Maserati test driver, who had left to work for De Tomaso after Citroën had put a French technician in charge, returned to Maserati. One day he called me into the test room to watch the tests of the 2-litre V6 with twin-turbo. It went like a dream, a great 180 HP engine, but in the end, I asked De Tomaso, who was also there: ‘This is all fine now in October, but what will it do in the spring when the temperatures rise?’. I should have kept my mouth shut: ‘What do you mean? What do you know about engines?’ I didn't answer, but the whole production suffered from overheating, along with a number of other problems due to the rush to get it on the road.” These problems did not change De Tomaso's plans, and the production continued until 1997, even after Maserati was bought out by FIAT (1989) with many different names and versions (the last was called Ghibli), all coupés and spyders. Alejandro De Tomaso was not an easy man to get along with: he was an authoritarian with a short temper, and he often spoke harshly even to his closest staff: “He tried with me too,” Cozza recalls, “but I went right up to him, my face just inches from his nose, and said: ‘Mr De Tomaso, my name is Cozza. If you need me, call me Cozza and do not dare to use those adjectives that you use with the others.” One day Ermanno was called by De Tomaso who asked him about a detachable crankshaft, a design dating back to 1939 that he had found in a warehouse where Cozza had stored all the Maserati material that Citroën wasn't interested in. He was with the Swiss importer, and was boasting about the finesse of the Maserati technology. “Mr De Tomaso, we have so much of that stuff in the warehouse, it’s a shame to leave it there. He replied: ‘Well you deal with it; I’ll give you a budget to restore and catalogue it all’. The first year he gave me five million lire, the second year twice that.” And this is where the story of the Maserati collection begins, because De Tomaso had set up a company to which he charged all the costs of restoring the cars and cataloguing the documents, so when the company was sold to FIAT, the period cars belonged to the Argentine businessman, who at one point decided to sell them at auction. Word got round in Modena, and to prevent this Italian heritage from being sold off abroad, Omer Orsi’s son, Adolfo, along with Maria Teresa de Filippis, a historical Trident driver, went to Rome to see Veltroni, who was Minister of Cultural Heritage at the time. However, his hands were tied because the whole collection was in England, as sensing the problem, De Tomaso had had it all transferred in a hurry. And this is when one of the Panini brothers, Umberto, came into play. He had been a mechanic and test driver of Maserati motorbikes, which Adolfo Orsi’s sister had begun to build after taking over a bankrupt company from Bologna called Italmoto. After the mother, a widow with five children, had opened a newsagent in Modena, the brother Giuseppe, AKA Peppino, had the idea of the football cards. This winning idea became a huge business, and indeed Peppino was forced to call Umberto back from Venezuela, where he had emigrated and enjoyed his own professional success. “Come home, America is here!”. He came back to Italy and invented the “Fifimatic”, a card bagging machine that sped up the process. Another great success. When they sold the publishing business to the English, Umberto opened a large agricultural holding called Hombre, where they not only make and sell organic Parmigiano-Reggiano but also have a motorbike and tractor museum, which he is passionate about. And he was also the one to be involved in purchasing the Maserati collection: “He took his Fiat 130 to Stanguellini for a service and told him about the cars from the Maserati Museum being auctioned in England. Panini seemed uninterested, but not too much. “Between a rock and a hard place”, as they say. So Stanguellini called Orsi and together they went to see Panini who asked which cars they were: racing and road cars, Cozza did all the restorations and has all the documentation’. How much do they cost? ‘Five or six billion lire’, while his son Matteo asked his father ‘but do we really have all that money?’. ‘Don’t you worry’. And that's how the cars returned to Modena, and today, even only one of them could easily pay off the initial investment.” While Umberto Panini’s intervention saved the tangible heritage of the Trident tradition, ensuring that it remained in Italy, it is thanks to Ermanno’s painstaking work that all the documentation concerning the cars and company events was catalogued. Today this heritage allows the company’s Maserati Classiche division to certify the originality of the cars and the correctness of their restoration, in addition to providing assistance to collectors, historians and enthusiasts with the many archive documents. Returning to the company history, 1997 saw the union with Ferrari, promoted by FIAT with the relaunch project assigned to Luca di Montezemolo, the Ferrari chairman, at a time which, for Cozza, was a happy and especially technological period for the Trident, above all from 2002, when the new Coupé and Spyder models were fitted with a 4.2 l V8 engine produced in Maranello. “It was a natural and absolutely spontaneous birth. It did us good to work with them, a company that shared similar traditions, history and products. If it was up to me, I would seek more partnerships between the two brands.” But of all the dozens of models that have passed him by, which is Ermanno's favourite? “My favourite Maserati is the “Dama Bianca”. This was the 3500 GT prototype with Touring bodywork that came to Modena for the final adjustments and tuning. It was white with blue leather interiors, very elegant, a magnificent car. It came and went from the workshops, and we gave her this nickname to recognise her. When I think of a Maserati, I think of her.” Ermanno Cozza’s precious testimonial offers a view of how things were done from the inside, with all the nuances, anecdotes and intimate moments that were decisive for the history of the Trident, a history that Maserati has written and continues to write, underlining the brand’s excellence in the racing world, in its technique and in its style. With a witness whose love for the company has never waned. “I spent 38 years working for Maserati, and 22 more as a consultant, and I still go there every Wednesday. You never know when they might need a hand.”

Prof. Massimo Grandi retraces in this article the extraordinary story of Émile Darl’mat, the Parisian coachbuilder who, between the 1930s and 1950s, transformed Peugeot chassis into exclusive aerodynamic creations, from Le Mans racers to elegant postwar coupés. Words and Drawings Massimo Grandi Émile Eugène Henry Darl’mat was born in 1892. After learning the trade of mechanic from his cousin, he worked as a chauffeur for a businessman who first took him to the United States, and later gave him a loan when Émile decided to settle permanently. With that loan, he rented a small workshop near Les Invalides in Paris, where he began repairing cars of the marque La Buire. By 1923, he had become an official Peugeot dealer, quickly distinguishing himself by offering customers not just sales and repairs, but also mechanical and aesthetic upgrades. By 1930, his Paris workshops already employed 160 people. Darl’mat understood that to win customers he needed to offer something exclusive. He began creating bespoke, attractive cars that combined sporting performance with the ability to compete in demanding races such as the 24 Hours of Le Mans. To set his specials apart from standard Peugeots, he gave them a unique badge: the coat of arms of the city of Paris, supported by a lion’s paw with four claws, a nod to Peugeot’s own roaring lion emblem. The First Peugeot Darl’mat On the chassis of the 1936 Peugeot 302, with styling by Georges Paulin, the first Peugeot Darl’mat was born: the 302 DS. Several Peugeot-Darl’mat 302 “Spécial Sport” models, fitted with the more powerful 402 engine, entered Le Mans in 1937 and 1938 with notable success. Built in very limited numbers, the 302 Darl’mat was offered in three body styles: a roadster, a coupé, and a drophead coupé. The first examples came out of Darl’mat’s Paris workshops. But by the mid-1930s, Peugeot had begun integrating these special-bodied coupés and cabriolets into its official lineup. From 1936 to 1938, production shifted to the Peugeot factory in Sochaux. In total, just 104 examples of the 302/402-based Darl’mats were built and sold across all body styles. The outbreak of war in 1939 brought an abrupt halt. Production was suspended, and only in August 1944, immediately after the German surrender in France, did Darl’mat reopen his garage. The situation was desperate—raw materials were scarce across Europe. Peugeot managed to restart production in 1945 with the small 202, initially built almost entirely from prewar stock. The Postwar Peugeot 202 Coupé Darl’mat obtained a running 202 chassis, number 629844, and used it to build a lightweight, streamlined coupé. Gone were the flamboyant, extravagant prewar “streamlined” forms. His 202 design looked decidedly more “Teutonic,” inspired by the German scientific approach to aerodynamics pioneered by Paul Jaray in the 1920s and refined by Koenig and Kamm. The resemblance was clear to contemporary projects such as the Opel Autobahn Stromer of 1936 and the Maybach SW38 Stromlinie of 1938. As Jaray had theorized, the 202, the Opel, and the Maybach were essentially built around two elemental volumes: a wing-section lower body with a constant longitudinal profile, and an upper “teardrop” cabin. The result was a fully integrated body: pontoon fenders, flush-mounted headlamps positioned low in the nose, and smooth, continuous surfaces to minimize turbulence. The car’s efficiency paid off. In 1947, with Charles de Cortanze at the wheel, the 202 Darl’mat set three 1,100cc class speed records at Montlhéry, including 1,000 miles at 144.5 km/h average and 2,000 miles at 145 km/h. It was displayed with pride at the Peugeot stand of the 1947 Paris Motor Show. Yet despite the attention it generated, the 202 Darl’mat never entered production—not even as a small racing batch. Postwar shortages meant all available materials were reserved for France’s reconstruction. The Peugeot 203 Darl’mat: A French Sports Sedan After the war, Peugeot developed the 203, its first monocoque car, launched in 1948. It remained the company’s only model until 1955. Strong, comfortable, and reliable, the 203 was not a sports car—but Émile Darl’mat set out to change that. In 1949, he unveiled a more muscular version of the 203, effectively creating a French take on the sporty sedan—anticipating, in spirit, what the 205 GTI would represent three decades later. Darl’mat used the short-wheelbase version (435 cm overall, 258 cm wheelbase). Built at Sochaux, chassis and engines were sent to Paris for transformation. To distinguish it, Darl’mat lowered the roofline by 14 cm. Since the monocoque couldn’t be modified, he adjusted the suspension springs (dropping ride height by 7 cm) and reshaped the upper body panels. The bonnet, roof, and windows were reduced in height, improving aerodynamics and road holding. The rear was redesigned with a subtle fin, while the grille took inspiration from contemporary Cadillacs, flanked by additional driving lamps. Mechanically, the 203 Darl’mat remained close to factory spec, but lower, sleeker, and stronger—up to 75 hp from its 1.8-liter engine. Between 1949 and 1954, 135 examples were built, including a few rare 1952 cabriolets. On this foundation, Darl’mat produced one last streamlined variant: the Peugeot 203 DS. The Peugeot 203 DS Darl’mat Introduced in 1953, the Peugeot 203 DS followed the same philosophy as the earlier 202: a 203 chassis and uprated drivetrain clothed in an ultra-light, aerodynamic aluminum body. The car weighed just 600 kg, with cleaner, simplified lines compared to its predecessor. The nose now featured a low, horizontal, elliptical intake framed by spotlights. Its teardrop tail recalled the futuristic Dubonnet Xenia, while the steeply raked windshield reinforced the impression of speed. Originally, it had gullwing doors like the later Mercedes 300 SL, but these were replaced with conventional doors after Montlhéry test sessions. In 1953, Darl’mat and de Cortanze returned to record attempts. The 203 DS looked set to achieve its goals, but one hour before the finish a lightweight Borgo piston failed. The car was never raced again, for reasons that remain unknown. The Unbuilt Peugeot 402 DS In 1946, even before the 203, Darl’mat had envisioned an elegant new coupé based on the Peugeot 402 L chassis, no longer as a racer but as a grand tourer. The design was sleek, aerodynamic, and refined—an evolution of the themes later seen in the 202 and 203 DS. The proportions followed the same logic: a flowing teardrop cabin, integrated pontoon bodywork, and a distinctive oval grille. Longer at 4,760 mm and 1,370 mm tall, it promised to be an elegant, two-seat GT. But it never left the drawing board. Postwar shortages and the 402’s aging technology consigned it to history. Remarkably, its shape has since come to life: in 2010, Romanian coachbuilder Mebbero Automobile SRL of Cluj constructed a faithful Peugeot 402 DS coupé on an original 402 L chassis. Even the interior—missing from the original drawings—was recreated in the style of late-1930s Peugeots. -- Massimo Grandi , architect and designer, previously director of the Car Design laboratory at the Design Campus of the Department of Architecture at the University of Florence. Member of the ASI Culture Commission. Among his published works: “La forma della memoria: il progetto della Ferrari Alaspessa”, “Car design workshop”, “Dreaming American Cars”, “Ferrari 550 Alaspessa: dall’idea al progetto”, “Quando le disegnava il vento”, “Il paradigma Scaglione”, “La più veloce: breve storia dei record mondiali di velocità su strada” (with others).