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Commissioned by American racing icon Briggs Cunningham and unveiled at the 1961 Geneva Motor Show, Maserati 5000 GT chassis 103.016 represents one of Giovanni Michelotti's finest achievements. Developed with extensive wind-tunnel testing and shaped by a relentless pursuit of performance, it is widely regarded as the most aerodynamic and possibly the fastest of all thirty-four Maserati 5000 GTs ever built. A unique blend of racing pedigree, scientific design and Italian elegance, it remains one of the most significant grand tourers of its era. Words by Edgardo Michelotti Photos and Drawings: Archivio Storico Michelotti www.archiviostoricomichelotti.it Among the thirty-four Maserati 5000 GTs built between 1959 and 1965, one stands apart from all the others. Not because of its rarity alone, but because of the philosophy behind its creation. Commissioned by American racing legend Briggs Cunningham and designed by Giovanni Michelotti, chassis 103.016 remains one of the most remarkable grand touring Maseratis ever conceived. The car was unveiled at the 1961 Geneva Motor Show on the Michelotti stand, a fitting stage for what was arguably the most advanced interpretation of Maserati's ultimate road-going flagship. It is often described as the fastest and most aerodynamic 5000 GT ever built. Whether measured by performance, innovation or exclusivity, few would dispute its place among the most significant Maseratis of the era. The origins of the 5000 GT are now part of automotive folklore. In 1958, after exhausting the possibilities offered by Maserati's regular production models, the Shah of Persia approached the company with an unusual request: a 3500 GT powered by one of Maserati's formidable 450S racing engines. With the 450S programme already discontinued and several spare engines available, Maserati transformed the idea into a limited-production grand tourer of extraordinary performance. The resulting 5000 GT combined the sophistication of a luxury road car with the heart of a racing machine. Only thirty-four examples would be produced, each individually tailored for its owner. The list of customers included some of the most influential figures of the period, among them Gianni Agnelli, the Aga Khan and Briggs Cunningham, whose passion for speed was matched only by his considerable resources. In many ways, Cunningham represented the ideal 5000 GT owner: a gentleman racer who demanded the very best engineering available. For his personal car, Cunningham requested a design that would visually echo the Maserati 450S from which the concept had originated. As often happens in the creative process, the result evolved into something altogether different — and arguably even more compelling. Michelotti retained subtle references to the racing car through the rounded contours of the wheel arches, but the rest was an entirely original and strikingly modern creation. The design was characterised by exceptionally clean surfaces, a remarkably low roofline and generous glass areas supported by ultra-thin pillars. Decorative chrome strakes concealed functional air outlets behind the front wheel arches, while the semi-tapered rear section anticipated styling themes later seen on the Ferrari 330 GTC. Hidden headlamps, concealed behind rotating covers, flanked a low oval grille, preserving the car's aerodynamic efficiency. A muscular side exhaust, discreetly emerging behind the front wheels, hinted at the power concealed beneath the elegant bodywork. What truly distinguished Cunningham's 5000 GT, however, was the scientific approach taken during its development. Michelotti was among the very few designers of the period to employ wind-tunnel testing as an integral part of the design process. The body was refined at the wind tunnel of the University of Turin, resulting in what is widely considered the most aerodynamic 5000 GT ever produced. The exceptionally low nose, clean airflow management and concealed headlamps were all conceived with performance in mind rather than mere styling effect. The mechanical package was equally impressive. Cunningham sought the fastest example possible, and Maserati delivered accordingly. Before accepting the car, he reportedly insisted on testing it personally at Monza to verify that its performance met his exacting standards. Satisfied with the results, he used the car extensively, travelling between the European circuits where his racing team competed throughout the early 1960s. Beyond its exceptional performance, Cunningham particularly appreciated the outstanding visibility offered by Michelotti's design. The slim pillars and expansive glasshouse provided an almost uninterrupted 360-degree field of vision, an attribute he considered essential for high-speed driving. Today, the Cunningham 5000 GT is regarded as one of Giovanni Michelotti's absolute masterpieces. Among all thirty-four examples built, it remains unique in having been conceived through such a distinctly functional and scientific approach. Rather than relying solely on aesthetics, Michelotti pursued efficiency, aerodynamics and visibility with unusual rigour, creating a grand tourer that perfectly reflected the character of its owner: bold, purposeful and uncompromising. More than sixty years after its debut in Geneva, chassis 103.016 still stands as one of the purest expressions of the union between racing technology, aerodynamic research and Italian coachbuilding artistry. -- About the Author Edgardo Michelotti was born in 1952. After obtaining a diploma as a surveyor, he pursued architectural studies in Turin before joining his father, the celebrated designer Giovanni Michelotti, in 1973. He worked alongside him until Michelotti’s illness and passing in early 1980, later continuing the activities of the studio until 1991, when he gradually moved away from the automotive sector. Over the following fifteen years, Edgardo Michelotti focused primarily on industrial design, while simultaneously cultivating a deep commitment to photography, historical preservation and archival research. Since 2003, he has dedicated himself extensively to the preservation, cataloguing and digitisation of the Giovanni Michelotti archive — an extraordinary body of material documenting more than three decades of automotive design history across the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. The archive includes approximately 6,000 original design drawings, over 20,000 photographs, nearly 7,000 kilograms of full-scale body design plans, together with scale models, working tools, correspondence, technical documentation and period publications. Through this long-term preservation effort, Edgardo Michelotti continues to safeguard and promote one of the most significant creative legacies in post-war Italian automotive design.

Not merely simple lines that offer thrills, but shapes that cut through the air, using it to their own advantage. For Leonardo Fioravanti, icon of Italian automotive style, design and function are the foundations for aspiring to beauty Words Alessandro Giudice Photography Alessandro Barteletti Video Andrea Ruggeri Archive Courtesy of Leonardo Fioravanti Archive “Your right ear is a few millimetres lower than your left.” Leonardo Fioravanti, engineer and designer, looks and analyses, with his own very personal measuring device made of bright and very acute eyes and an ever-moving brain, processing and classifying anything that has a shape, assessing it and seeking to improve it. Elegantly sporting a blue blazer, despite his eighty years you can still feel that energy that would prefer to be in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, doing what comes naturally to him: designing. He welcomes us to his home on the hills of Moncalieri, an ancient and aristocratic place split between two marvels. One is the infinite view over the Alps and beyond, and the other the entrance to a paradise that on first sight appears to be a bunker, but is packed with life-sized scale models, shapes, drawings, models that seem destined for the mobility of the future but were instead designed ten, twenty or thirty years ago, their colours, lines and solutions leaving you speechless. It is the story of a life driven by creativity, where functions are defined by ideas that are as simple as they are effective, giving the true measure of genius blended with style. Leonardo Fioravanti’s biography is only apparently linear. It started with a degree in Mechanical Engineering from Milan Polytechnic, developing at Pininfarina and the Fiat Group, but is marked by the constant and almost obsessive presence of Ferrari, the brand of which Fioravanti became Deputy General Director, but for which he also designed some of its most iconic models - the Dino, Daytona, BB, F40, Testarossa, 308, to name but a few. “I have always had a soft spot for Ferrari, even before I began to work for Pininfarina,” he admits. [click to watch the video] Can you tell us about the genesis of one of the most representative Ferraris of all time, the 308? “The story of the 308 began in 1969. The idea was to make a different Ferrari: fewer cylinders, a lower price, more compact in size and accessible to a broader public. The new car was to have a V8 Ferrari engine mounted transversely, which could reduce the longitudinal dimensions of the car and reduce its costs. I was put in charge of the design. I had a precise reference model in mind: the P6, a Ferrari that I was particularly fond of because of its aerodynamic approach and minimalism. I began to work on the project, and was already pleased with the first drawing. But in the meantime, Enzo Ferrari had set his mind on something different. The “Commendatore” had always been against the idea of placing the engine centrally, behind the seats in front of the rear axle. He said it was a racing set-up, suited to professional drivers but dangerous for regular drivers. Yet something made him change his mind, and he was convinced that the right suspensions and a well-designed aerodynamic bodywork could help a 12-cylinder Ferrari with a central engine, without compromising on safety and making it predictable to handle.” The choice to increase the cylinders from 8 to 12 was also important in size terms… “Sure, but the lines I had given the “little” GT were the perfect inspiration. So, Ferrari stopped the plans for the 308 and asked me to design this new car. And thus came the 365 BB. The BB had a story in its name: all of us who worked on the project — me, Bellei, Sergio Scaglietti — were in love with Brigitte Bardot. When we talked about the new car amongst ourselves, we called it BB, it seemed to be the natural choice because it was charming and thrilled us. When it was presented, it was an instant success. Of course, someone at Maranello turned “our” BB into the Berlinetta Boxer, an incorrect name seeing as the BB wasn’t even a Berlinetta, a name more suited to a car with a front engine, and its engine wasn’t a boxer, which should have had opposing cylinders, but a 180° V flat engine. In any case, after presenting the BB, Ferrari decided to go back to the 308 project.” Not only smaller and more compact, the 308 was also lighter, which improved its agility. And all with an unmistakeable, impeccable style, similar to what happened with the Dino. “Yes, also because I reworked my 1969 design, and I was really pleased with the first three-dimensional 1:1 scale model that was built. I suggested fibreglass for the bodywork, as it weighed less than steel and for a car that needed to be cheaper and lighter it made sense. Ferrari accepted, and the first 308 GTB series was like that. We presented it at the Paris Motor Show on 3 October 1975, and it was an instant success. Commendatore Ferrari was delighted. He could see straight away that it would mean big business. But perhaps he also saw something else: that the car was beautiful in just the right way, the way that stands time.” As usual, he got it right. Half a century after its début, the 308 is still one of the most iconic Ferraris of all time. “In addition to the pride of having thought of and designed it, I also had another unexpected surprise, because as a gesture of his recognition — one that I will never forget — the Commendatore decided to give me one. When the 308 was delivered to Pininfarina, I jumped in and drove off to my home in Turin. At one point I saw a friend, I recognised her, slowed down and stopped and wound the window down. She turned round. She saw this low-down thing, a car you certainly didn't see every day, with me inside. “Is that you? Is this a Ferrari?” “Yes.” “Whose is it?” “Mine.” Silence. “What do you mean, mine?” “Yes, it’s mine, and I designed it too.” She got in and I drove her home. I was driving a Ferrari that I had designed and that was given to me by Enzo Ferrari. I was little over thirty. When I tell this story it still seems to be the story of someone else’s life. But it was mine.” You also designed a four-door Ferrari, the Pinin, but it was never produced. How did that go? “For Pininfarina's fiftieth anniversary we wanted to do something special: a four-door Ferrari, that had always been Commendatore Farina's dream. It was designed, built and called Pinin, in honour of the founder. It was taken to America, where it was very popular, and then to Maranello, with all the honours. I remember that morning: there was me, Piero Ferrari, the general director and others. We walked round the Pinin, taking it in from every angle. Enzo Ferrari was there, silent and attentive as he was when looking at something serious. And then, the decision. No deal. The reason was as simple as it was brutal: Ferrari produced sports cars in relatively small numbers, and that craft skill had consequences on the construction quality. Nothing catastrophic, because they were beautiful cars that went fast, so you could turn a blind eye to some imprecisions. But the four-door market was something entirely different: like the Mercedes, cars built with a manufacturing precision that, at that time, Ferrari could not match without huge investments. Entering that market with defects that were acceptable on a sports car would have been a strategic error.” You were born and studied in Milan. What kind of family do you come from? “My family was originally from Pistoia, so Tuscan to the core, where the first-born was the one who inherited, who decided, who was the one that counted. My grandfather Andrea was the second born, and knowing how things were, he took his things and went off to Genoa, where he became the director of the city schools. Commendatore Andrea Fioravanti — an open-minded man, my father used to say. I remember the huge study he had in his home in Castelletto, one of the higher neighbourhoods in Genoa that looks over the whole city. Children would come for lessons; they were intimidated when they came in but enthusiastic when they left.” You owe a lot to your grandfather… “He understood me perfectly, better than anyone else in the family. One afternoon we were on the terrace. There was a model car on the table, I can't remember which. My father, an electro-technical engineer, had set up his own company and he would have wanted me to follow in his footsteps. I didn’t have much time for electricity, but I was profoundly inspired by cars, and my grandfather knew that. He looked at me, pointing to the model, and said: “Forget about your father. Do what you want, follow your passion.” I was quite young, but those words stuck to me like glue.” What do you remember of the car world when you were young? “The folly and the excitement. I was twelve years old the first time I stole my father’s car keys. We had two cars: a Fiat 600 and a Fiat 1100 “bauletto”. We lived near Piazza Carlo Erba, a square with a quite large roundabout for that time, surrounded by wide, silent streets. Milan still had a rare quality at night: silence. There wasn’t all the traffic we know today, the roads were clear, and a twelve-year-old boy with his hands on the wheel could drive around quite undisturbed. So that night I took my courage in my hands. I waited for my father to fall asleep, found the keys, left the house, got in the 600 and drove off. The roundabout in Piazza Carlo Erba was free and empty. I drove round and round for an hour, maybe two. I wasn't afraid, I just felt like I was in exactly the right place, doing exactly the right thing. The steering wheel was heavier than I expected, but the pedals reacted in the same way as the three on the piano, which as I played, I imagined were the accelerator, brake and clutch. And the car was an extension of what was inside: a physical machine that translated intentions into trajectories. I went home, parked and put the keys back in their place. My father didn't notice anything, and I went out again the following week and the one after, for months. Firstly in the 600, and later also in the 1100.” That seems more like the début of a driver than a designer… “Partly yes, and the two personalities lived side by side for a long time. I went to Monza with some friends who were older than me: I wasn’t eighteen yet, but they were, and that was enough to get into the ‘autodromo’. I sat in the car with them for a few laps, and then said: “Stop, get out, it’s my turn.” And I drove. Fast, apparently — faster than anything that seemed reasonable for someone of my age with no official experience. The day after my eighteenth birthday I got my driving licence. I signed up to the ANCAI, the Italian National Car Racing Association, and began to move up through the ranks: Fiat 500, then 1100, then Alfa Romeo Giulietta Sprint, then the sedan, then the Lancia, always Italian brands. It wasn't a question of nationalism, but they were the ones I loved, and that I could afford. In the end I won two Italian Gran Turismo championships.” And when did the designer come onto the scene? “The engineer came first. I studied at Milan Polytechnic but I missed out on a year and a half, perhaps two, of the usual five. It was all the fault of the races, it was Monza’s fault. But then I realised that it was time to stop, to stop racing temporarily and devote my efforts to getting my degree. And from that choice came the most important thing in my studies: my dissertation. The idea in my head was about the aerodynamics of sedans, and all my experience — sailing boats with my father, the pictures of cars and planes I drew as a a child, my passion for fast-moving shapes — was coming together to form a precise intuition. The problem of making an aerodynamic sedan lay in making the air flow smoothly along the bodywork; the theory of the time was to extend the tail, so that the air flow continued right to the end, without ever moving away from the surface. But a sedan with a long tail was a hard car to park, to handle, and to sell. There was a contradiction between the ideal aerodynamics and a feasible shape.” And how did your dissertation solve this contradiction? “By cutting the tail. Cutting it off precisely in the point in which the air flow was still very close to the surface: not where it wanted to break away, but before, while it was still governed. I discovered that a stable vortex formed precisely in that cutting point: a mass of air that spun on itself, remaining firmly against the rear end, allowing the external flow to run over it as if it was a curved surface. The air didn’t break away, it rode over the vortex. The aerodynamic result was comparable to that of a longer tail, but with a compact car. The model was built and taken to the Breda wind tunnel, where Milan Polytechnic carried out its experimental tests. It was approved. The dissertation became an official document, published by the university in 1960. It had everything — the calculations, the drawings, the photos of the wind tunnel tests. It was the first thing in my professional career to have a stamp, a date and an institutional recognition. And it bore the signature of a student who had lost two years playing about in Monza.” What drove you to draw when you were a child? A love of cars or of shapes? “I used to draw everything, but it always came back to means of transport: aeroplanes, boats, trains, cars, anything that moved. I understood it all only later, when I graduated from the Polytechnic with a dissertation on aerodynamics, and I had all the theoretical instruments to be able to look back and give a name to that old obsession of mine. I was attracted to movement because, as I mentioned earlier, movement is air. And air is the discipline that governs the shapes of everything that flows in the world: the wings of a bird, the hull of a boat, the lines of a car’s bodywork. Shape is not a matter of taste, not at first: it is a physical response to a physical force. Everything else comes after that. My father taught me everything without knowing it, when we went out sailing. He explained how the sails work, how they swell, how they are managed, how the air crosses over them differently depending on the angle of the wind. He didn’t use the word aerodynamic — it wasn’t his field — but that was exactly what he described to me. And I listened, without yet realising that I was learning the principle that was to define my whole professional life.” When and where did that spark that led you to Pininfarina come from? “Even before I graduated, one morning, I saw a Giulietta Spider with a hard top drive past my house. I stopped. It was one of those cars that block you without you being able to explain why: a few lines, yet so precise and essential that they seem inevitable. There was a plate on the bodywork: a stylised F, with the Pinin Farina brand, already crowned as the absolute benchmark of Italian car design. An engineer who worked in Turin for my father helped me to get an appointment. I hadn’t finished my degree. But I had the drawings, literally packs of them: years of work, sketches, designs, ideas put to paper with the free hand that everyone knew I had. I took them all.” What was the reaction? “Sergio Pininfarina and Renzo Carli met with me. They looked closely at the drawings. They were impressed. Then Sergio Pininfarina smiled and said, his tone of voice somewhere between serious and playful: “You’re going to become General Director here one day,” and then added the serious part: “But now go back to Milan, study hard, finish your degree at the Polytechnic and then we will talk again.” I went back to Milan. I graduated. And then I returned to Turin. I spent the next twenty-four years at Pininfarina. Not only did I become General Director but even Managing Director. Sergio Pininfarina's joke, said smiling at a kid with a load of drawings under his arm, had become my biography.” With Fioravanti srl, your company set up in 1987 as an architecture firm, designed some very interesting cars, including the Sensiva. “A 1994 design for an electric car with four-wheel drive, four-wheel steering, an electric motor for each wheel. Each wheel knew exactly what its friction coefficient was, and that information could be used to modulate the power, optimise the braking, manage the traction with a precision that conventional systems couldn’t get close to. In 2006 I sold the patent to Pirelli. Today they call it the Cyber Tyre. They sell it worldwide, mounted on high-end cars that use the information for active safety and driver assistance systems. Whenever I read about this technology in a magazine, I think of Piazza Carlo Erba, my father who slept unsuspectingly, and a twelve-year-old kid who drove round in a 600 wondering why smooth tyres held the road better.” Thirty years ago, you designed one that still has absolutely modern features today. What does the designer and the electric car enthusiast think today? “The electric motor is the designer’s freedom. I understood that when I was working on the Sensiva, and that’s what I still say today. A combustion engine is a huge, binding system. It’s big, heavy, full of components that have to stay in a precise sequence: clutch, gearbox, differential, radiator, cooling system, antifreeze in the winter. Every component takes up space, sets geometric limits, forcing the designer to build the bodywork around something given. Creative freedom is what remains after all these obligations have been met. An electric motor is small. The batteries can be placed wherever you want — in a central tunnel, like I did with the Sensiva, without disturbing the front or the rear seats. Each of the wheels can have its own motor, eliminating the drive shaft and the differential. The shape of the car can follow the logics of aerodynamics and aesthetics without having to compromise on the mechanics.” If the designer recognises the freedom offered by electrics, what does the engineer think? “I know this is a sensitive topic in Italy. There is a huge tradition of component manufacturers, factories that have supplied parts for combustion engines to the Italian and European car industry for decades. The transition to electric vehicles affects those factories, those families, those communities. It’s not a technical problem, but a real and serious economic and social problem. But it would be dishonest to use it to say that the electric motor is not the future. It is. In northern Europe over half the cars sold are electric. The problem is not the technology. The problem is how to manage the transition as painlessly as possible, thinking for example how to convert component manufacturers without losing their know-how.” Fioravanti, what is your relationship with cars? “I love cars because they’re made of everything and nothing. It’s a matter of geometry, air, function, chemistry, physics, history, economics and desire. It’s the nights spent as a twelve-year-old in a stolen 600, the championships won, the hours spent in with the models in the wind tunnel, the conversations with Enzo Ferrari, the drawings on paper that become metal that becomes speed. It is my grandfather on the terrace in Castelletto, with the whole of Genoa below, who looks at me and says, “Do what you want, follow your passion”.” I was very young. At the time, I didn't know that that phrase was a project.”

This is the story of a special family that has made the passion for cars the foundations on which to build relationships, emotions and visions, as well as a profession. Today it represents the most prestigious car brands, supporting them and making them a success on the track too. With the “Biscione” always in its heart… Words Alessandro Giudice Photography Alessandro Barteletti Video Andrea Ruggeri “Driven by Heritage” is a project exploring the stories behind Swiss excellence, created in partnership with Astara - the official importer and distributor of Alfa Romeo cars in Switzerland. Memories are expressed in different ways. Sometimes all that is needed is a perfume or even a bad smell, a passing shadow that lights up the heart or sends shivers down your spine, or again, some music, a colour, a tactile sensation. Like the cold metal pipes of the roll bar that Ronnie, the seven-year-old heir of a family devoted to cars, gripped onto as he clung to the prototype sports car his father Loris Kessel had just driven to the podium of the iconic circuit in Monte Carlo. [click to watch the video] But we will take a look at that later, because first of all we have to focus on the young Loris. Born and bred in Ticino, he began to race when he was just eighteen, in the Giulietta Spider his mum had gifted him and that he had souped up, wider axle tracks and bumpers included, for uphill races. This passion was impossible to contain, and took him straight to the Formula 2, and from there into the who’s who of car racing, the Formula 1. He raced in the RAM team Brabham, but things were not easy: technical and other problems delayed its development, despite Loris always giving it his all. His efforts won him twelfth place – his best position – in the 1976 Belgian Grand Prix in Zolder (where his fellow citizen Clay Regazzoni came second behind Lauda, both in a Ferrari), his only satisfaction being that he was in front of the host, Jacky Ickx, and a guy named Fittipaldi, at the starting line. And if instead of a Brabham with a Ford Cosworth engine, even with the young Gordon Murray as race engineer, he had driven a 12-cylinder Alfa Romeo (i.e., the BT45 of the two Carlos, Reutemann and Pace) perhaps things would have gone better. Because Loris always had a certain rapport with the Biscione, which he handed down to his son Ronnie (named after Peterson, a driver he greatly admired). And here we return to the Principality where, in 1994, Enzo Osella, the Turin-based manufacturer of racing dreams, had held up the trophy that bore his name. The formula was quite simple: the cars were all the same, the PA20s designed and built in the factory in Piedmont, powered by a 3-litre V6 Alfa Romeo, racing around the bends of the most famous uphill races and the world's Formula 1 circuits, and were the opening races of some Grands Prix. Like the one in Monte Carlo, where Loris Kessel came third, deciding to give his son a very special gift: a lap of honour, of course at a tourist pace, around the bends of the Principality, sitting in the only place where a passenger, aside from the driver, could sit in an Osella: on the engine hood. So, gripping the roll-bar tightly, the wind in his hair, he paraded around the Monte Carlo circuit, a kind of Formula 1 red carpet, with the stands packed with people applauding ahead of the actual Grand Prix. With all these ingredients it is hard not to fuel a passion that had already grown in the Racing Car workshop yard, in Grancia, a tiny municipality a few miles from Lugano, where the very young Ronnie drove a go-kart while his father sold, repaired and prepared racing cars, almost all of them Alfa Romeos. With a promise: “When you are tall enough to drive one of the cars we take out on the track, I’ll let you try one.” And so soon enough, in 2003, Kessel Jr made his racing début. It was in Hockenheim for the Ferrari Challenge, and Ronnie was in Germany at the wheel of a 360 because, in the meantime, from 1995 Maranello had appointed Loris to represent the brand in Ticino and he, a racing fan, had begun to help his clients race. That day, in Hockenheim, Ronnie was just 16 years old. “A record that I think still stands today,” he tells us, “I was the youngest driver to have taken part in a Ferrari single-make race.” The racing continued hand in hand with studies and work, which increased thanks to the qualities and approachability of the eclectic and exuberant Loris. When Loris fell ill, Ronnie was still young, but he felt the responsibility of carrying on a task that the whole family had devoted all their love, passion and energies to since 1976. With Ronnie, the Kessel Group consolidated its key activities, creating highly specialised units that, with the contribution of around 200 employees, worked in sales, servicing, restorations and maintenance of classic and, of course, sports cars. The latter was a tradition considered to be the jewel in the Group’s crown: every racing weekend, the Kessel Racing team could be found on the track with at least 12 cars racing in 5 championships: European Le Mans Series, Michelin Le Mans Cup, GT World Challenge EU (Endurance and Sprint Cup), Italian GT Endurance, Ferrari Challenge Europe. Without forgetting the Asian Le Mans Series, held in the winter months when racing stopped in Europe. The Kessel premises multiplied in Canton Ticino, with Grancia and Noranco, near Lugano, but also in Zug and Sihlbrugg, where the largest and most complex Ferrari sales and servicing centre in Switzerland had just been inaugurated. In all this, Ronnie Kessel is a key figure for both clients and collectors. His racing experience helped him to understand and often anticipate the drivers’ needs. To avoid entering into direct competition with them, he even pulled out of the GT races, specialising instead in historic car races, including the Alfa Romeo Revival Cup, spending time with friends and fans in a more relaxed environment. “These races are fought to the last bend, and there are still many driving thrills, with a manual gearbox and heel-and-toe shifting.” Ronnie raced in a former-Lucien Bianchi GTAm, but still had his mind set on a future in F1 and DTM. To move in that direction, he bought an Alfa Romeo 179, a single-seater that in 1981 Bruno Giacomelli raced in. “I had the great honour of spending a lovely day with him in Modena, where we both drove the car,” Ronnie Kessel says. “To make sure that I was as efficient as possible, he gave me a few technical tips on the use, including that of cutting of the tip of my driving shoes to avoid getting my feet caught in the chassis when changing gear. I dreamed of driving it in Monte Carlo, where I had done a lap clinging onto my father's Osella.” The Kessel Classic collection also includes four 155 DTMs, one for each of the seasons they raced in, from the 1993 “narrow” body with the large Alfa logo on the side, and the 1994 with the Martini coat, the 1995 orange Jaegermaster and the last 1996 red. “All fantastic cars, I’m sure some special races can be organised.” The car racing culture, along with some infectious enthusiasm, are essential for creating a sense of empathy and trust among the clients, who feel protected and spoiled by someone who shares their passion. “The most engaging part of my work is the community that has built up over the years with some old friends – people who saw the company grow – and new acquaintances made in very different fields: on the track, concours d’elegance, at the dealers, as well as during art fairs or fashion and design events. Being able to work all-round with cars helps you meet people with whom you often have many other interests in common in addition to cars.” This is why Kessel organises some exclusive and thrilling events, destined to become iconic. Such as THE ICE, the concours d’elegance for classic cars held on the iced lake in Saint Moritz, which in just a few editions has become one of the most eagerly anticipated events on the international scene, combining an original mix of cars with the glamour of the town in Grisons. All in all, “tailored” customer care expressed through highly professional sales and servicing, experience, craft skill and culture in restoration, logistics and technical support for racing adventures: bywords for an approach based on excellence. What’s the secret? “One of the most precious lessons I learned from my father and that I strive to put into practice every day is that to be a good leader you have to be authoritative, not authoritarian. It is precisely due to this approach that I can count on the constant support of my team, and this support means that today we are able to turn ideas into concrete results, and always with an eye on the future.”

A personal tribute by Edgardo Michelotti recounting the 2023 Concours d'Élégance Suisse in Coppet, where collectors and enthusiasts gathered beside Lake Geneva to celebrate the centenary of Giovanni Michelotti through rare cars, original design artefacts and an intimate retrospective dedicated to one of Italy’s greatest automotive stylists. Words by Edgardo Michelotti Photos and Drawings: Archivio Storico Michelotti www.archiviostoricomichelotti.it There are places where the automobile transcends its mechanical nature and becomes culture, memory and human expression. In June 2023, the gardens of the magnificent Château de Coppet, overlooking Lake Geneva, offered precisely this atmosphere during the 2023 edition of the Concours d'Élégance Suisse. From 16 to 18 June, collectors, historians and enthusiasts gathered among the historic lawns of Coppet to celebrate some of the rarest and most elegant automobiles ever created. Yet beyond the concours itself, the 2023 edition carried a particularly emotional meaning: the celebration of the centenary of the birth of Giovanni Michelotti. Following the important tributes organised between 2021 and 2022 at the Museo Nazionale dell'Automobile in Turin, at the DAF Museum and in Aigle, Switzerland, Coppet became another meaningful chapter in the remembrance of one of the most prolific and visionary automotive designers of the twentieth century. The unique atmosphere of the château and its vast green park created an ideal setting for encounters and conversations. Unlike many modern concours events, the cars could be admired closely and naturally, without barriers, allowing visitors to rediscover the human dimension behind automotive design and craftsmanship. A major exhibition area was dedicated entirely to Giovanni Michelotti’s work. At its centre stood one of the most extraordinary surviving testimonies of his creative process: the full-scale wooden buck of the final Ferrari 365 GTB/4 Spider designed by Michelotti between 1978 and 1979 for his friend Luigi Chinetti and the North American Racing Team. This wooden form was used to shape three unique prototype cars, each distinguished only by its colour combination: one finished in Ferrari red, another in two-tone silver, and a third in light and dark blue. The presence of this rare artefact offered visitors an exceptional glimpse into the artisanal methods of Italian carrozzeria culture — a world where design still emerged from sculpted surfaces, craftsmanship and intuition. More than ten cars designed by Giovanni Michelotti participated in the concours itself, spread across various competition categories. Together, they demonstrated the extraordinary breadth of his stylistic language, from refined grand tourers to compact city cars and imaginative prototypes. Thanks to the generosity of the event’s patron and my personal friend, Mathias Doutreleau, a large exhibition space was also dedicated to an extensive series of illustrated panels retracing my father’s professional journey. Rather than presenting a conventional historical biography, I chose to let Giovanni Michelotti “speak” directly to the audience through his own words, captions and reflections on his approach to automotive design. Visitors discovered the story of a man who began his career at Stabilimenti Farina before the Second World War, endured the difficult wartime years and then had the courage to become an independent freelance designer — the first in Italy, and perhaps in Europe, to offer automotive styling as an autonomous professional activity. The exhibition explored his pioneering research into aerodynamics, safety concepts, urban mobility and vehicles designed for younger generations. Another section focused on prototypes and experimental studies, including the Chinetti project and the creation of the three Ferrari spiders illustrated through original photographs and technical materials. The narrative then moved through the many production cars that carried Michelotti’s signature, before concluding with a more intimate portrait dedicated to the human side of his life: his family, his passion for sport, the warm relationship with his collaborators and the atmosphere inside the workshop he loved so deeply. During the event, I also had the opportunity to hold a conference , sharing lesser-known aspects of his career together with personal memories and anecdotes from both his professional and private life. The response from enthusiasts and collectors was deeply moving. Many spent long periods studying the panels, discussing the projects and rediscovering the remarkable versatility of a designer whose contribution to automotive culture remains immense yet, perhaps, still underestimated today. Among the Giovanni Michelotti-designed cars present at Coppet were: Lancia B52 Vignale Ferrari 330 Coupé NART Chinetti Triumph TR5 Cabriolet (1968) Morris Spiaggetta (1969) Moretti 1500 Spider (1961) Moretti Spider Tour de Monde (1958) Fiat 600 Berlinetta Monterosa (1957) Fiat 1100 (1953) Fiat 1500 Allemano (1964) Triumph Italia (1962) Fiat 600 Coupé Viotti Alfa Romeo 2000 Coupé Ghia Aigle In a fitting conclusion to the weekend, the concours’ highest honour was awarded to the charming Morris Spiaggetta, a delightful example of Michelotti’s ability to combine elegance, creativity and playfulness in a single design. More than a celebration of automobiles, Coppet became a celebration of ideas, friendships and artistic vision. For those few days beside Lake Geneva, Giovanni Michelotti’s spirit once again walked among the cars he imagined — not only as machines, but as living expressions of beauty and freedom. About the Author Edgardo Michelotti was born in 1952. After obtaining a diploma as a surveyor, he pursued architectural studies in Turin before joining his father, the celebrated designer Giovanni Michelotti, in 1973. He worked alongside him until Michelotti’s illness and passing in early 1980, later continuing the activities of the studio until 1991, when he gradually moved away from the automotive sector. Over the following fifteen years, Edgardo Michelotti focused primarily on industrial design, while simultaneously cultivating a deep commitment to photography, historical preservation and archival research. Since 2003, he has dedicated himself extensively to the preservation, cataloguing and digitisation of the Giovanni Michelotti archive — an extraordinary body of material documenting more than three decades of automotive design history across the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. The archive includes approximately 6,000 original design drawings, over 20,000 photographs, nearly 7,000 kilograms of full-scale body design plans, together with scale models, working tools, correspondence, technical documentation and period publications. Through this long-term preservation effort, Edgardo Michelotti continues to safeguard and promote one of the most significant creative legacies in post-war Italian automotive design.

Almost all the Shamal models built were red or black, despite being available in the full palette offered by Maserati in the early 1990s. We managed to get our hands on one of the very few examples finished — and, fortunately, still preserved — in blue. The story of an uncommon car to introduce an equally uncommon model: one that brought the V8 back into Maserati’s range and raised both the image and the ambitions of the sports cars derived from the prolific Biturbo family. Words Marco Visani Photography Leonardo Perugini To tell the story of a car starting from its colour can mean one of two things: either the narrator is unusual, or the colour is. As for the former, we are far too involved to judge. As for the latter, there is no doubt: encountering a blue Maserati Shamal is rarer than finding a needle in a haystack. For the simple reason that almost all those that left the assembly lines on Viale Ciro Menotti, in Modena — save, it seems, for little more than a dozen — were Rosso Maserati or Dazing Black. An unusual misunderstanding lay behind this near-unanimity: the brand’s official communication — press release images and brochure photography — portrayed the car exclusively in these two shades. Colours that were, in fact, a nod to the contemporary Biturbo Racing, itself offered only in those hues. Whether customers walked into a Maserati dealership already intent on ordering their car in red or black, or whether these colours were subtly “imposed” by salesmen despite the availability of the full Maserati palette — both solid and metallic — remains unclear. Claudio Ivaldi, president of the Biturbo Club Italia and author of Maserati: L’era Biturbo, a 416-page tome that stands as the definitive bible of this model family (if you do not already own it, you should — it is an extraordinary read), offers no firm hypothesis. Or rather, he advances a cautious, almost inverse suggestion: since the overwhelming majority of early cars were sold in red or black, subsequent buyers simply came to believe those were the only available options. However it happened — and by now it matters little — the fact remains that our Shamal, the one featured in these pages, is finished in Blu Sera. Its owner, Fabio De Domenico, is a 73-year-old Sicilian gentleman driver with mineral oil running through his veins — drawn, needless to say, from the sump of a Maserati. “The spark,” he tells us, “was struck at first sight. It was 1983 when I brought home my first Biturbo, still carburettor-fed and with the digital clock.” Soon after came the oval analogue unit, objectively far more elegant. Yet being able to say that your car still carried the liquid-crystal display — however modest and awkward — is precisely the sort of detail that makes a Trident aficionado smile knowingly. By 1987, the lure of open-air driving prevailed: he sold the coupé and replaced it with a Biturbo Spyder, still in his garage today with fewer than 50,000 kilometres. There were others in between, but Fabio is not one to boast or dwell on numbers. Above all, he values quality over quantity. Proof of this came when choosing a Shamal: there was no hesitation. He acquired it in 2023 from its first owner, a gentleman from Messina, complete with its original registration plate — the final digits reminiscent of James Bond. A subtle suggestion, perhaps, that 007 might be missing out by insisting on driving Aston Martins. Built on 22 October 1992 and registered on 17 November, the car was in excellent condition, though it betrayed the previous owner’s taste for light customisation: minor sins such as a Momo sports steering wheel, an aluminium gear knob in place of the original wood, and other small “interpretations”. All swiftly reversed within days — just long enough for the correct parts to arrive and for Fabio to restore them with meticulous care. We agree with him: history is best preserved with absolute respect, and if that earns you the label of obsessive, take it as a compliment. With a car like this, satisfaction comes unbidden. At its first public appearance, the 2023 Maserati International Rally in Barcelona, it won the “Biturbos and derived” class and received its award from Adolfo Orsi — grandson of the man who chaired Maserati from 1937 to 1968. No small achievement. The Shamal marked a return to values that had been lost in Maserati’s De Tomaso era. It emerged at a time when Fiat was beginning to acquire a stake in the company — full ownership would follow in 1993 — yet the project itself belongs entirely to the previous management. To begin with, after years of somewhat cryptic numerical designations, it revived the tradition of naming cars after winds, as the Karif had done before it. “A summer wind, from the northwest, originating in Mesopotamia,” explained the Shamal’s brochure, in a deliberately elevated tone that avoided mentioning Iraq at a time — as now — of delicate geopolitical tensions. The car was developed on the shortest of the three Biturbo platforms: a 2.4-metre wheelbase shared with the Spyder and Karif. This both revealed the lack of funds for an entirely new model and showcased Maserati’s ability, as the French would say, to faire du nouveau avec du vieux. Doors and windscreen were carried over from other models — a significant constraint that did not deter designer Marcello Gandini. He created a coupé that was aggressive yet controlled, firmly planted thanks to a noticeably wider rear track, with his signature upward sweep of the rear wheel arch and a contrasting treatment of the thick B-pillar and roof, suggesting a removable hardtop and targa configuration. Pure illusion — but effective in lightening and animating the design. The rest was achieved through a raised tail, a faired-in scuttle improving aerodynamics while masking the mature base design, and asymmetrical front lighting — a round projector lamp on the outside, a rectangular unit within — shared with the Racing, from which it also borrowed its wheels, albeit in larger dimensions. Spoilers and side skirts completed the look, in line with the stylistic conventions of the time. Inside, aside from the seats, the cabin was largely identical to the Karif’s, including its 2+2 homologation — though the rear seats are best suited to very small passengers. The true highlight, however, lay beneath the bonnet. After years dominated by a range of V6 engines — while the naturally aspirated V8 survived only in the Quattroporte III, produced in very limited numbers — the Shamal introduced a completely new V8, developed by Walter Ghidoni. Unrelated to the flagship’s engine, it was a modular evolution of the twin-turbo V6, with an additional cylinder per bank: 3,217 cc, 32 valves, four overhead camshafts and a catalytic converter, producing 322 horsepower (later increased to 326) — more than the “entry-level” Ferraris of the period. Top speed approached 260 km/h (later 270), and 0–100 km/h took just 5.3 seconds. Other innovations included a six-speed Getrag gearbox and a tubular rear subframe, replacing the stamped structure to better handle power and torque — 44 kgm at 2,800 rpm, for the record. While the Ranger differential and electronically adjustable Koni dampers represented state-of-the-art technology, the brakes lagged behind: enlarged compared to lesser Biturbos, yet lacking ABS altogether. De Tomaso saw no need for it and refused even to consider it as an option. In fairness, the early development of anti-lock systems in the 1990s was not without flaws — we once witnessed a Lotus crash into a low wall in a gravel car park when the sensors misinterpreted the surface and reduced braking force entirely. Not entirely irrational, then, his resistance. Still, with such technical credentials, the Shamal stood as the most high-performing Biturbo derivative ever produced — and the only one with a V8. The Shamal was first revealed on 14 December 1989, at Maserati’s traditional anniversary celebration — a commendable custom introduced by De Tomaso that one hopes might one day return. The car was almost production-ready, aside from details such as the wheels — burnished on the prototype — and the bonnet vents, silver and louvred rather than black mesh. Yet production plans, by De Tomaso’s own admission, were still undefined. Like a true star, the car toured motor shows throughout 1990 before returning to Modena on 14 December, accompanied by confirmation that production would proceed. During the Christmas period, Maserati issued its first price list featuring the Shamal. The first customer cars were delivered at the end of January 1991. These were affluent buyers, willing to accept the higher VAT rate — 38 per cent rather than 19 — applied in Italy at the time to cars exceeding two litres in displacement. This tax threshold, incidentally, explains the success of smaller Biturbo models on the domestic market. The Shamal cost 125 million lire — twice the price of a 2.24v. It was certainly more exclusive, but for many buyers the increase in image and performance did not justify such an outlay. Abroad, however, the picture was far more favourable — particularly in Japan, where 90 orders arrived from Tokyo as soon as books opened. De Tomaso, who had planned a limited production run of 450 units over three years, even considered removing the cap to meet demand. It was not to be. Corporate turbulence, the transition to Fiat Auto, internal competition — first from the Karif (until 1992), then especially from the Ghibli (from 1993) — and a dynamic character perhaps too demanding for a largely road-focused clientele all curtailed the ambitions of a model that had much to offer. Production continued until March 1996 — more than two years longer than planned — yet total output reached only 369 units, of which 37 were right-hand drive. What remains of the Shamal, beyond its memory, is its engine: that magnificent V8, later used in the Quattroporte IV and, above all, in the 3200 GT, which in 1998 would take up the mantle of Maserati’s great grand tourer. 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.

Born into the craft, his father Giovanni already possessed a natural instinct for high-speed mechanics, Gian Carlo Minardi began in the minor racing categories in the 1970s and, in just over a decade, embarked on a remarkable 21-season journey to build his own Formula 1 team. Along the way, he crossed paths with Enzo Ferrari, Ayrton Senna, and Flavio Briatore, and continues today, long after stepping away from the circus, to cultivate motorsport culture through the Historic Minardi Day at the Imola circuit. This is the portrait of a visionary who transformed dreams into reality, overcoming obstacles and skepticism alike. Words: Marco Visani Photography: Leonardo Perugini Video: Andrea Ruggeri Archive photography courtesy of the Gian Carlo Minardi Archive There is a word in the local dialect that perfectly encapsulates a certain Romagnolo mindset, one that requires explanation to be fully understood. E mutòr does not simply mean “engine.” It signifies the passion ignited by anything that has one, especially when that engine is used to test oneself on a fast course. It is not a descriptive term, it is a way of being. [click to watch the video] Whether two wheels or four, whether few cylinders or many, is of little consequence. What matters is the desire to inhale the scent of mineral oil, to see the marks of burnt rubber etched into the asphalt, to watch your rival shrink in the rearview mirror after you’ve left him in your dust. Without mutòr, Giovanni Minardi of Faenza would likely be remembered by few. He would have remained a footnote in local history, significant, certainly, having managed the city’s Fiat dealership since 1927. But then something happened. In 1947, engineer Oberdan Golfieri, an associate of Enzo Ferrari, who at that very moment was founding the company that would bear his name, often invited his colleague Gioacchino Colombo, another engine designer, to dinner at his home in Faenza. It was during those Romagnolo evenings, over piadina and glasses of Sangiovese, that Golfieri met Minardi. Minardi, driven by that same mutòr, had conceived the idea of building a racing car. And since the Olympic ideal of participation did not interest him in the slightest, he wanted only to win, he secured backing from Counts Renzo and Rino Ferniani and commissioned Golfieri to design the most competitive 750cc engine ever built, to be mounted on a modified Fiat 500 Topolino chassis. The result would be the smallest inline six-cylinder engine in the world, derived from half of the V12 then taking shape for the Ferrari 125, the progenitor of all Ferraris. The car, named GM 75 (Giovanni Minardi 750), achieved little in terms of results, second-to-last at the 1948 Valentino Grand Prix in Turin, a retirement at the Coppa del Garda despite securing pole position, and just two unremarkable appearances in 1949. It could have remained a minor story, one of countless unsuccessful single-seaters of the postwar years. But it did not. The Minardi racing lineage had been born. Even if a quarter of a century would pass between its prologue and its first true chapter. Fast forward to 1972. One of Giovanni’s three sons, Gian Carlo, born in the very same year as the GM 75, for nothing ever happens by chance, was not only helping manage the family dealership but was, inevitably, captivated by racing. He founded a team, Scuderia del Passatore, its name paying homage to a legendary 19th-century Romagnolo bandit whom folklore had elevated into a kind of folk hero. The team entered single-seaters in Formula Italia and Formula 3 and maintained close ties with Angelo Gallignani, owner of Everest, a company based in nearby Fusignano producing rubber aftermarket components. Before long, the team became Scuderia Everest, reflecting its sponsor, and moved up to Formula 2. When Everest withdrew in 1980, the team took on the name of its founder, Scuderia Minardi was born. Appetite, as they say, grows with eating. And this small provincial team, having climbed from grassroots beginnings to what might already have seemed the fulfillment of a dream, was not content. It wanted more. It wanted the top tier. Gian Carlo wanted it, having tailored that dream around himself and his family, always supported by his brothers Giuseppe and Nando. That dream, pursued with relentless effort and few proclamations, was realized on April 7, 1985, at the Brazilian Grand Prix, for the first time, a Minardi, the M185, stood on the grid of the Formula 1 World Championship. Originally intended to run an Alfa Romeo turbocharged V8 promised by President Ettore Massacesi, who ultimately withdrew his commitment at the last moment, Minardi instead sourced a naturally aspirated Cosworth V8, sufficient for two races, before replacing it with a more competitive turbocharged V6 from the newly formed Motori Moderni, where Carlo Chiti had found a new home. If the engines represented a carousel of missed opportunities and fresh starts, the lead driver was a certainty, another Romagnolo, Pierluigi “Piero” Martini. Of the 118 Grands Prix he would contest, 102 would be under Minardi’s yellow and blue colors. Minardi and Martini became inseparable, so much so that even today, mention of one often blurs into the other. It mattered little that Martini retired in that overseas debut, a team born from nothing, with just one engineer, Giacomo Caliri, and ten technicians, had already achieved a minor miracle, quiet, proud, and distinctly Romagnolo. While Italy indulged in the hedonism of the 1980s, the Minardi Formula 1 adventure unfolded as something altogether singular. For one, Gian Carlo and his small, determined team extended the boundaries of the Motor Valley eastward, beyond the traditional axis of Modena and Bologna. More profoundly, Minardi achieved an almost anthropological shift. Before 1985, Faenza, a town of fewer than 60,000 inhabitants, was known worldwide for ceramics, so much so that the French word faïence derives from its name. After Minardi, Faenza became synonymous with Formula 1, a legacy that endures even beyond the team’s eventual ownership changes. As Gian Carlo himself likes to point out, “Faenza is the only city in the world to host two top-tier racing teams”, the other being Gresini Racing, founded in 1997 by the late Fausto Gresini. The Formula 1 journey of such a small team was never going to be easy, though it was undeniably exhilarating. Much of this was due to Minardi’s exceptional ability to build relationships. He was among the few granted access to the office of an aging Enzo Ferrari. And when the Commendatore faced a man who inevitably reminded him of his younger self, he listened, advised, and quietly approved. It was no coincidence that in 1991, three years after Ferrari’s passing, the Scuderia supplied Minardi with a V12 engine, leading to the team’s best-ever result, seventh place in the Constructors’ Championship. There was even a moment when Ayrton Senna might have joined Minardi. In 1982, while Minardi was still in Formula 2, Paolo Barilla suggested that Gian Carlo take notice of a young Brazilian driver. After watching him perform in the wet at Silverstone and in the dry at Hockenheim, Minardi offered him a contract for 1983. The reply was disarming: “You are the first person to offer me a professional contract, Gian Carlo, I will never forget that. But no, thank you. I plan to become Formula 1 World Champion within six years.” True to his word, Senna achieved the title in 1988. And he never forgot Minardi, often stopping by the team’s motorhome, renowned for its food, for an embrace and a plate of tagliatelle. His tragic death in 1994 at Imola, just a short distance from Minardi’s headquarters, felt like a cruel twist of fate, a modern Greek tragedy where passion and mortality intertwine. The years that followed were challenging, rising costs, lost sponsorships, and constant engine changes, from Ferrari to Lamborghini, Ford, Hart, and back to Cosworth. In September 2005, the team was sold to Red Bull and transformed into Toro Rosso. Yet Gian Carlo Minardi never left the world of motorsport. He served within the Italian Automobile Club, scouted new talent, and from 2021 to 2025 presided over Formula Imola, managing the Enzo e Dino Ferrari circuit. Above all, since 2016, he has been the creator of the Minardi Historic Day, held annually at Imola. What might sound like a gathering of historic Minardi cars is, in truth, far more, a Romagnolo interpretation of the Goodwood Festival of Speed, a kind of Woodstock for motorsport, where every inch of asphalt resonates with passion. With static displays, associations, memorabilia, and dynamic demonstrations, the event draws 20,000 visitors each year, a powerful statement of authenticity and coherence in an era where traditional motor shows have largely lost their identity. Behind the scenes, following the sudden passing of his brother Nando in 2021, Gian Carlo is supported by his niece Elena, ensuring that Minardi is not merely a dynasty, but a family. A family that has always believed, and continues to believe. 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.

A different background to all other car designers, an unusual artistic sensitivity and a unique professional career, that saw him develop from the drawing board to Head of Heritage for the Italian Stellantis brands. Who is Roberto Giolito, the man behind the Mirafiori Heritage Hub? And what is his vision of the history and style told through a divergent intelligence and a generally unusual approach to cars. Words Marco Visani Photography Leonardo Perugini Video Andrea Ruggeri Archive photo courtesy of the Roberto Giolito Archive Roberto Giolito is not the best car designer, for one simple reason: the best people always move within a comparative environment. [click to watch the video] If you are number one, you are not so far from number two or three. Giolito, who was (a verb in the past tense: the first difference, but not the most important) an excellent designer, was on the other hand unique. Incomparable, unclassifiable, undefinable. Defining him merely as the man who designed the Fiat 500 - 312 (the 2007 model) and, just before that, the 1998 Multipla, is an understatement. But also introducing him merely for what he does today, as Head of Stellantis Heritage, to use the inevitably sterile language of the corporate nomenclature, does not suffice for describing this multi-faceted character and his wide skills base. He has spent his entire professional career going against the grain, yet without that determination to deliberately do things differently, as that would have made him nauseating. It’s just that being influenced by different stimuli, and consequently creating a style that goes beyond the simple – yet fundamental – shape of the car, has always come naturally to him. And this also gives his way of being a different meaning today, now that he is the custodian of the history of a great industrial group. It is first and foremost his background that makes him stand out from the crowd. He is not from Turin (or rather, he is only in origins), nor is he from Milan or Modena — the three car capitals are therefore far from his studies — but from Ancona in the Marches region. He did not attend the Polytechnic, he is not an engineer or an architect, but a pure designer, who cut his teeth at the ISIA in Rome. ISIA stands for the “Istituto Superiore per le Industrie Artistiche” – Higher Institute of Artistic Industries: from the name we can understand that his studies were far from rigid, and very open. Basically, he got his passion for cars from his father. Who designed cars… Was he a stylist? No, a trader: he sketched cars as a hobby. Seeing these, the young Roberto learned and developed one thing in particular, perhaps the most important you can learn in life: curiosity. That drive that makes you want to know and understand. And he broke down barriers, because knowledge and creativity know no boundaries. This is also where his passion for music came — jazz and the double bass in particular — which, like mathematics, has strict rules and infinite potential. Furnishings and graphics became his daily bread for a few years. Then, in 1989, things changed: he applied for a job as a designer at Fiat, and during the interview he found himself talking to Ermanno Cressoni, the man behind many successful Alfa Romeos (from the Giulietta – 116 to 75, as well as the 33) who had recently come to Turin after the Arese-based company joined the Fiat group. In almost thirty years as a designer, he blended the ability to innovate from scratch (the Multipla) with that of recovering past experiences and launching fresh ideas into the future (the 500, the 124 Spider). So, after such a brilliant career, it was almost inevitable that, in 2016, Sergio Marchionne thought of him to head the Heritage department of what was still called FCA, as Stellantis was born from the merger of FCA and the French PSA only in 2021. And here we have to take a step back to get a closer look. For a company with 125 years of history — if we consider Fiat as the parent company of this group —, talking about heritage could seem a platitude. But not if that group is Fiat. Before Giolito took over the heritage department, the testimonials of its past were found only in the historical quarters in Via Chiabrera, Turin. It was an interesting collection, that spoke of the Fiat “Cielo Mare Terra” (“Sky, Sea and Land”), according to the 1930s slogan used when Fiat also made aircraft and marine engines, but in car terms had not moved since the 1960s. It was open to visitors only one Sunday a month, or every Sunday for a relatively short period: from the celebrations of the 150 years of Italian Unification (2011) to the pandemic (2020). The remainder of the memories could be found in an anonymous shed in Beinasco, on the western outskirts of the city. Fiat had stored dozens of vehicles there: they took one car from the assembly line as they left the production department, along with the few prototypes that luckily had not been demolished (the vast majority had unfortunately been crushed). There were Fiats and Lancias, the oldest ones put on show in the small museum in Borgo San Paolo, beneath the old headquarters when Lancia was still a separate entity to Fiat. And while in Via Chiabrera the museum was for connoisseurs, Beinasco was a matter for proselytes. You got in if you were in with the right crowd or if, as in our case, you were given (privileged) access as a journalist. It was neither museum nor repository, just a warehouse: a temporary solution to prevent the cars from rotting while final arrangements were being made. The trait d’union between that warehouse and what today we know as the Heritage Hub is Roberto Giolito. It is thanks to him that the Fiat Auto collections are now on show to the public in a highly symbolic space. And this is where the SpeedHolics team met him. The appointment was in Via Plava 80, Turin. The western end of Mirafiori Sud. The cardinal point is very important in the location of this place: built in 1939 to support and, in the medium term, take over from the city site at the Lingotto, the Fiat Mirafiori factory was already too small in 1956. This is why it was doubled in size, going beyond Corso Settembrini: the newly built area thus became Mirafiori Sud. In the golden years, over 60,000 people worked in this area, which ran for five kilometres along one side: the population of an average-sized provincial town. When the economic boom was over, tackling the fierce competition and lowering goals and ambitions, just a few thousand workers could be found at Mirafiori. One of the many spaces left empty by the decentralised production (firstly central and southern Italy, then South America, Poland and the Balkans) was identified as the right place to set up something of a size and accessibility that Fiat had never had before. The premises are those of the former Officina 81, where instead of the previous transmissions, gears were made for the gearboxes of all the cars in production. Anyone who between the 1950s and the 1990s drove a Fiat will have had something to do with this building, even if they were not aware of this: a subtle and highly evocative choice. 230 cars can be found here, in an area covering 15,000 square metres, the size of a large hypermarket, and recently 79 were added from the ASI Bertone collection. Another small trip back in time: when the Bertone bodywork firm folded in 2014, the company museum risked being sold off in pieces. ASI made an offer to ensure it remained intact and prevent it from being sold abroad, so that the heritage of Italian style could stay in its own country. The Bertone cars spent a few years in Volandia, the aviation museum at Milan’s Malpensa Airport: a very attractive location but far from coherent with these artifacts. And in recent weeks an agreement between ASI and the Heritage Hub has brought the Bertone cars permanently to Via Plava. Only a few of these are based on Fiat mechanical sub-assemblies, and their bonnets sport a wide range of names, from BMW to Volvo, from Jaguar to Lamborghini. You would have to visit the Henry Ford Museum in Detroit to find something even vaguely similar. In Europe, as far as we know there is nothing like it: this is the sign of a great cultural maturity, very close to Giolito's own ideas. And today, although a manager of history, he remains “sacerdos in aeternum” in his vocation as a designer. Of course, he would get involved in the idea of conserving a fleet of concept cars and (to a lesser extent) mass produced models of historical and documentary value. What is great about the Heritage Hub is not only that enthusiasts can lose all concept of time and space, magnetised by the number of materials on show: it is also that they can discover the soul of brands that were once under the Fiat Group that were very distant from the idea — or the cliché — of a vehicle manufacturer for the mass market. Fiat was very often a byword for innovation: here, in the 1960s, came the antiskid system, the forerunner of the ABS, which was later industrialised in the USA for regulatory reasons; and it was Fiat that invented the common rail, in turn sold to Bosch. Ahead of its time, when electric mobility was nothing more than an exotic distraction, Fiat was working on this with the 1972 X1/23, the 1993 Downtown and the 1994 Zic, the last two the work of Giolito, who had not yet obtained the media success that he would soon earn with the brilliant (and rather controversial) Multipla. But what is showcased to the full at the Hub is that great Fiat, the star of motorsports. Both not so long ago (the three world rallies won by the 131 Abarth and the five by the Lancia Delta HF Integrale, between 1977 and 1992, and the Stratos and Rally 037 in the meantime and, even before that, the Fulvia) and in remote times, when Fiat had not yet chosen to work in the general field and addressed even high-spending audiences, using its record cars for promotional purposes. Two of these can be found in Via Plava, authentic technological masterpieces applied to racing, with the size — seen with today’s eyes — of trucks and an objectively worrying potential for vehicles with mechanical brakes only on the rear wheels: the 1908 S61 (a 10.1-litre four-cylinders with 115 HP and 150 km/h) and the 1924 Mefistofele (6 cylinders, 21.7 litres, 320 HP and 235 km/h). Two clues indicating the industrial scope of the brand and the ambitions of its founders. The narration offered to visitors to the Heritage Hub is a far more complex and articulated world that we might imagine. There is a lot of technology, but also a lot of beauty: that thing that — as Giolito explains with a pleasing image — we note even before we are able to explain it. Beauty that is also the ethical meaning of certain projects that he worked on before the new millennium. Like the Ecobasic, the study for an essential and sustainable car (“we reuse or remove anything that is not needed”) when sustainability was still not a manufacturers’ priority. And then there are services for collectors, called by a deliberately Italian name “Officine Classiche”: more than just a commercial operation to sell restoration services, but an exchange of expertise between people who share the same idea for one reason or another and a sense of belonging. And who with their stories build a great community. From past productions to today’s narrative, Officina 81 plays the role assigned to it by Giolito: the responsibility for making car history readable, lovable and above all tangible. 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.

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.