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Ready to celebrate a big birthday (he was born on 11 March 1943), the "cowboy driver" accompanies SpeedHolics readers on an extraordinary journey: from his encounters with the greatest car manufacturers to the drivers he shared the cockpits with, he reveals the behind the scenes of a unique and unrepeatable life Photography by Alessandro Barteletti (IG: @alessandrobarteletti) It’ll tell you straight away that I’ll be spending my birthday with my family. I’m flattered to have received so many invitations and offers to organise something a bit more official, but I can’t imagine spending such an important event in any other way than with my wife, my children and grandchildren. For a driver of my generation, reaching eighty is worth twice as much, because managing to survive the races in my day was a lucky feat. And, luck in luck, I think I can say that I was part of the most brilliant era. Starting from the inventions that drastically changed our way of living and our habits. It seems incredible, for instance, when I think that I saw the very “first” television, and I can clearly remember my father saying, “One day, we’ll see people talking on the radio”. I also remember the return flight from the South African Grand Prix in 1973. Sitting next to me was Christiaan Barnard, the man who performed the first heart transplant in human history, and his wife. The first heart transplant, you get that? And today it’s a routine operation. After all, my motorsports career is also a testimonial to a unique era. Being eighty and being able to say that you spend sixty-one of those years racing cars means one thing: I was lucky - and at the same time unlucky, as there were certainly some dramatic moments too - to experience a big slice of car racing history first-hand. This is why, when I hear people talking about a race, a character, an episode, I can almost always say: “I was there”. Just think, I started racing against my friends on our bikes, just for fun, and then when I was nineteen I found myself gripping the wheel of my Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider on the track in Monza. And that was when my passion also became my career. Do you know what it meant to be on the tracks in the Sixties, firstly as an amateur and later as a professional? The answer is as simple as it is extraordinary: getting to know and racing against drivers of the calibre of Stirling Moss, Jim Clark, Hans Hermann. On the other hand, Jochen Rindt and I practically started together: I remember that in the uphill races, he drove the Giulietta and I had the Abarth. I also raced with Dan Gurney; with John Surtees, I had the privilege of sharing the wheel of the Ferrari 512. The same thing happened with Chris Amon and Nino Vaccarella: for me, every one of them was a legend. In relatively recent years, I raced with BMW M1s and 635s in the European Touring Car Championship, with Ford Escorts and the Capri, with the Opel Commodore and the official Porsches in the Italian GT Championship, but as a professional I can say that I started and consolidated my career racing for Abarth, Ferrari and Alfa Romeo when - respectively - there was Carlo Abarth, Enzo Ferrari and Carlo Chiti’s Autodelta. What characters they were. Abarth was a cold, calculating and very scrupulous man, but with a big heart. I remember one episode, on the Vallelunga track just outside Rome: we had to test a modification to the front end, and he was convinced it would go wrong, and so he stood in the middle of a bend, just outside the trajectory, with a newspaper under his feet. As I drove past him, I was supposed to rip the paper away with the front right-hand wheel: it was his way of demonstrating that his theory - and therefore the modification we were testing - was valid and safe. I think Enzo Ferrari was fond of me, he treated me almost like a son. We had a very direct relationship, he listened to me but was always uncompromising. After the 1973 edition of 24 Hours of Le Mans, when I came in second, he cut my celebration short by saying: “Second is the first of the last places”. Carlo Chiti, on the other hand, was a “one-man-show”: everything depended on him. An extraordinary engineer, an all-round designer, but with one great limit. When improvisation was required, or when decisions implying risks had to be taken, he took a step back. His priority was to send his driver out on the track in a safe car, even if this meant that it was less competitive. And in racing, this doesn't always pay off. And talking about behind the scenes, now I will tell you the story of the cowboy hat that I wear whenever I don’t have a helmet on. Cowboys have always been my heroes, since I was a boy. I loved that sense of freedom you can breathe when you read their stories, and I was literally seduced by the idea of taming a horse (and after all, a car for a driver is like a horse for a cowboy, right?). That’s why when, in 1967, I went to the United States for the first time, as soon as I got off the plane I went to a hat shop and came out with an original Stetson on my head. When I had become a “racing” cowboy, as many had nicknamed me, I tamed a horse too... or rather, a Rearing Horse. It all began in 1969 when Enzo Ferrari called me to Maranello for the first time. After the interview with him, I went to Franco Gozzi, his right-hand man, and asked him for a Ferrari sticker. I cut the Rearing Horse out there and then, and stuck it to the side of my helmet. It’s still there today, but with a couple of changes: I added reins and turned the tail upwards. I did that at the end of 1973, when I decided to leave Maranello, ahead of the choice that the “Commendatore” would certainly have taken shortly after. That was the year of the 312 B3, a single-seater with a monocoque chassis made in England. There were all kinds of problems, from the monocoque that bent to the engine that lost power. It was the result of a team of engineers who came from Fiat, headed by Stefano Colombo, but in the end it was me and Mauro Forghieri, a great friend right up to the end, who got it working. I remember that whenever we had to do a test, we loaded it on a trailer and set off in our red 124 estate. That was my last experience in Maranello. Today people still ask me about Niki Lauda’s accident at the Nürburgring in 1976, but I always change the subject. Contrary to many fans and journalists, I never wanted to consider it to be a major event, but simply something that happened, part of my life like many other episodes. I mentioned it now just to say that, for me, going to pull a driver out of the single-seater on fire was the only possible choice: it was a matter of instinct. Who was in the car was a detail that made absolutely no difference at the time. I stared death in the face in 1991, on the Magione track during the test sessions for the Italian Prototype Championships. Something went wrong with the brakes, and I ended up beneath a guardrail. And I can still hear the voice of the first steward who ran over: “Merzario’s dead”. “F**k off!” I answered. I was still conscious, despite having fractured two cervical vertebrae, some fingers and my feet, but I couldn’t say practically anything. They took me to hospital, where I heard the chief physician say that I would never be able to walk again. But I didn’t agree: so, I had them call my mechanic, and asked him to go to the hotel and get my bag, where I kept some emergency numbers. And that was how, thanks to my trusted doctors and several weeks in halo traction, a millimetre at a time I got my life back. This is my story. I’ve done a lot, and would do it all again, with three exceptions: I wouldn’t try my hand as a manufacturer (the greatest mistake of my life), I wouldn’t send Ferrari to hell and I would accept the signings I was offered in the United States, which I never paid much attention to at the time. But even with these mistakes, I can say that I have always been true to myself.

Designer Paolo Martin talks about one of the most extraordinary and innovative dream cars of all time, unveiled to the public at the 1970 Geneva Motor Show. Through the backstage and with details of its genesis, he explains how it was born, but also how it should have remained. Because from the author’s point of view, the version implemented by the current owner is like tampering with a work of art. Photos and Drawings courtesy of Paolo Martin Archive It all began in 1968. Ferrari had sent Pininfarina two chassis of the 25 built for the type approval of the Ferrari 512 S. The chassis had remained unsold, and were sent to Turin to be used to develop a couple of prototypes for a possible future production. One was handed over to Filippo Sapino, my colleague from the style team who at the time was working in Grugliasco, and one to me. The input we had received was to think of a show car – then known as a dream car – suited to that chassis, without any great demands. I made my proposal, a small sketch on an A3 sheet; while Sapino did something better: a beautiful figure. His proposal was chosen. They still weren’t ready for mine, it was considered a rather strange “thing” while Sapino’s was “more feasible”, more of a real car. Although I had tried to make my idea a bit more attractive, it was decided that it wasn’t right and was put to one side for the time being. And so August 1969 arrived, and I decided to give some three-dimensional shape to my idea. I ordered eight square metres of polystyrene, unloaded it and started to scratch and saw, until I had a car in scale 1:1. Returning from the holidays, which I missed because I was working on my idea, Sergio Pininfarina and the engineer Renzo Carli – Sergio’s right-hand man and brother-in-law – were quite perplexed and indeed even a bit annoyed. They didn’t agree with the idea that I had come up with, so out of the ordinary: “What planet are you on, how did you get the idea of doing something like that?” they asked me. The polystyrene car was hidden under a cloth and forgotten for a while. It remained hidden for six months, more or less. Then one day, just like that, they decided to build it: the Geneva Motor Show was to start soon, and we had to put something scenic on display. I invented practically everything of the Modulo, without any external inspiration: the idea just came to me, pretty much like all my creations. I had no specific references, not even space vehicles, also because at that time there was nothing you could refer to. Some say that my inspiration came from the Shuttle, but it didn’t exist at that time. It was a completely personal interpretation. The only thing I wanted to do was to make something different from the usual car. I merely tried to translate the two dimensions of the original sketch into three dimensions: a graphic work that was developed into a 3D. I started from a graphic shape, so the concept of modularity (and from here the name Modulo) repeated both inside and out: the seats are exactly the same, the controls on the side, graphically all the parts are practically specular. This was the reason behind the inspiration, but many more came after. The Modulo was presented at the 1970 Geneva Motor Show. Engineer Fioravanti decided at the last minute that the original colour, a pearly pale blue, was wrong and had it painted black on a white background. Later the car returned to its original colour, but after that I knew no more of it, because I left Pininfarina in 1972. I know it was repainted white, but I don’t know whose idea it was. The story of the Modulo is quite special, because it was the only car that Sergio Pininfarina didn’t want to make, under any circumstances. He was really worried that it would be slammed by the press and not accepted. But when it started to make its name around the world, I received a telegram with apologies. Its success was crowned by the public. After 50 years, this design still has a certain charm, and everyone tells me that it’s an untouchable car, in the sense that you can’t change anything even by a centimetre, as this would change all the proportions. When you look at it, all the lines are simple, clean, essential and well proportioned. And this goes for all the cars I have designed: I wouldn’t change anything about them, I wouldn’t correct them because there’s nothing to correct. Everything comes to me almost instinctively, from my subconscious. Even when they seem designed by different people and the same hand can’t be seen in any of them, each one is different from the next. They are all completely different. That’s my nature: I like to invent things, and when the work is done I put it to one side. I have no regrets. The Modulo can’t be explained, it has to be sensed, it has to get inside you, give you an emotion. You can’t explain an emotion. For a critical opinion of the Modulo, Pininfarina even called the architect and designer Gio Ponti, hoping that he would express a negative view of the car so that he could say to me: “You see? Wasn’t I right?” But in fact Gio Ponti really liked the car. He made only one comment, about the holes in the rear window: “The arrow profile gives an idea of movement, but the holes are fixed spots,” he said. I told him that the holes could even be square if he liked, but the air had to come out of them anyway, it didn’t change anything.” The rear window was a bone of contention for Ing. Carli, who wanted it to be made of Plexiglas. In fact, he had it built like that, with the air holes. So in the evening he had the Plexiglas window mounted, and the next morning I put the sheet metal part back in, as I preferred. This went on two or three times, until he said: “OK do what you like.” I’m the only person to know every single inch of the Modulo. I know how the car was made, because I was the only one to oversee the construction, I worked with the workshop manager, alongside the workers. Everything was left up to me, I could decide whatever I wanted. For instance, the controls housed inside a ball: in the workshop we tried to build these balls, but even when done on the lathe they were never perfect. So I had the idea of starting from a bowling ball and making a mould, and that’s what we did. From the time I spent at Michelotti I was always used to solving problems on my own. And at Michelotti, I was also the prop guy; I knew all the back streets of Turin, all the tinkers and ironmongers, I always knew where to find the missing pieces. I was really talented at that, and I still am today. I have some stuff that’s been in the drawers for 50 years, and often that’s where the solution lies. It’s the way I work: it’s cheap and very easy. As we said, the Modulo was a dream car, a trend and style study that more often than not wouldn’t even get on the roads, also for economic reasons: the body shop didn’t care if the car worked or not, it was all about the dress, which could also perhaps be adapted to other models. So the Modulo was a graphic study, and turning it into a working car, like the current owner has done, is taking it a bit too far. It was like trying to make a plane with short wings or problems of stability fly. If I had wanted to put it on the road at the time, I would have been able to, but by adopting original and special solutions, otherwise you always risk having to improvise. And in fact, unfortunately that’s what happened. The oil radiator, the engine ventilation - because a 12-cylinder has its needs -, the rear-view mirrors, the “elephant-ear” side openings: put on the road like that, the car gives a completely different impression to what was originally intended. In my opinion, the great innovation of the Modulo was its simplicity: no convolutions, no stretching it. Perhaps that’s why some people say that “my” Modulo is an unfinished car, but that’s not it: it is perfectly defined, there was no need for anything else to make it work. But I think that now it has become undefined, now it has been turned into a working car: in my opinion, it’s like someone who owns a painting by a famous painter and discovers that the beautiful woman portrayed is short-sighted so they get another painter to put some glasses on her. Owning a work of art – because that’s what we’re talking about, a work of art – shouldn’t give the owner the right to change it however they like. It makes no sense. --- From May to July 2022, Paolo Martin’s work is on display in Venice, with 136 original sketches of his most important works. The exhibition “Vision in design”, at Ca’Balbi Valier Dorsoduro 866, on the Canal Grande, is a private event, and can be visited by sending a request to info.taistudio@mynet.it, or on the website www.bestinsketch.it

In the early Eighties, the sports sedan world was dominated by Maserati, and seen with significant interest by Ferrari. But in those years another attempt was made, by Colin Chapman, who chose the all-Italian creativity of Paolo Martin to give shape to his thoroughbred “four-door”. An extreme, pioneering project, interrupted by the sudden death of the British entrepreneur. Exclusively for SpeedHolics, the story is told in the words of the Turin-based designer. Photos Courtesy of Paolo Martin Archive The Lotus Four Doors was to be the most extreme of them all. In line with Colin Chapman’s philosophy, it would show off all its sporting spirit, and would be light, low and racy, much more than the Maserati Quattroporte that dominated a segment which – between the Seventies and Eighties – was watched closely also by Ferrari. As the Trident brand presented its third generation of sports sedans, Pininfarina created the prototype of the Ferrari Pinin, a 4.8-metre-long thoroughbred with the 12-cylinder, 5-litre and 365 HP engine of the 512 BB. It was presented at the Turin Motor Show in 1980, but was never put into production. Meanwhile, from the other side of the Channel Colin Chapman continued to make requests here and there to various stylists for a sporting four-door project. Paolo Martin’s design was deemed the best, but it remained on paper only after Colin Chapman’s sudden death following a heart attack on the night between 15 and 16 December 1982. What remains of this car are the renderings, the 1:4 scale model Martin made at Chapman’s request and the regret of a missed opportunity that would certainly have left its mark on the history of design. But what was so innovative about Paolo Martin’s Lotus Four Doors? And how did the Turin-based stylist beat the competition and convince Colin Chapman of the merits of his proposal? He tells us the story himself. A project that ended in tragedy, and which also began with some equally dramatic warning signs. “In 1979 I got in touch with Colin Chapman, the boss of Lotus in Coventry, when I found out that he intended to design and produce a four-door sports car in competition with Ferrari, which at that time was also planning to build the same type of car. I think he had also contacted other stylists, but in any case, he told me to submit a design to him. He didn’t want it to be anything less than what they could do at Maranello, and his Lotus had to have what it took to compete with Ferrari in that market segment. The car he had in mind was to be built on a very low chassis - no more than 1.2 metres high, which was really not much for a sports sedan. The biggest problem I had was sticking to the design delivery schedule. Fate had it that I fractured a few bones in a stupid domestic accident, falling on my side from a height of just one metre. It left me with five broken ribs, a shattered ulna and radius and a crushed hip, and it was impossible for me to work. I couldn’t move, but at the same time I couldn’t miss that opportunity. I had an orthopaedic bed set up in the lounge, bought a trapeze to keep me in permanent traction for 40 days and, with a specially built table, I began to work on the design, albeit with great difficulty (I fixed the sheets on the table with tacks and held the curved lines steady with my left arm in plaster, but they kept falling on the floor anyway). I did all the pencil drawings in this way, even the ones on red paper, a special card that was perfect for the alcohol-based paints and felt pens that were typical of that period, but which aren’t used anymore today. Chapman had no idea what had happened to me, and on the day set he came to visit me at home, you can imagine his surprise at seeing me in such a state. He probably thought that I wouldn’t have been able to do a good job, and that I would have presented him something rough and ready. “What are we doing here?” was the first thing he said. “Things that happen,” I replied, worried that he would have been upset and left. But he was a gentleman, and examined my drawings before he left. Two days later he asked me to make a 1:4 scale model. The first hurdle had been overcome. A while later Chapman came back to me to see the model, which was still in the rough stage, and together we corrected some minor details. He had come with two of his staff, and as you can see in the pictures, he sat in the garden a few metres away from the model and began to study it. He liked it, and decided to proceed in that direction. The car had a clean, soft line that was quite popular at the time. Imagining that the car needed a powerful engine, I think that commercially, it would have been a success with the clients of that kind of car. It had a smooth, sporting line, we might even say fluid. But it was quite an unusual car. Nobody had ever made a sports car like this before. It was the result of a – I think successful – combination of the philosophy of Lotus, which had always made sports cars, and a more family car, yet still very sporty. Perhaps it wasn’t very easy for the passengers to get in and out, but inside there was plenty of room. And I had even designed a small boot. One of the greatest difficulties in designing a car like this was also due to the material used for the bodywork. Lotus used a fibreglass moulding technique. Fibreglass is much thicker than steel sheet, and so some problems would certainly have been encountered in adapting some of the parts, such as the seals and external components, to be applied to the bodywork. You couldn’t just use standard profiles and adapt them to the new material: it’s one thing to work on six tenths of a millimetre (the average thickness of steel sheet) but something completely different to work on six millimetres of fibreglass. This was a huge obstacle for me. But it was an exhilarating project, because it was quite an unconventional car. A sports car like that had never been seen before. Would it have been feasible to build a car like that? Most definitely. If you look at the chassis, all the elements were well arranged. It would certainly have been revolutionary, very different from the others. Chapman was a car builder who had always aimed to produce different cars, and a sports sedan was a complete novelty for him too. He was quite a discreet person, but with clear ideas. Initially, he was rather hesitant with me, he didn’t really seem convinced about having me design the car. But in the end, he was really pleased. He even hugged me. We had a good relationship. It’s a shame it ended so soon".

The first lockdown forced him to stay at home, in his villa in the hills of Turin. But Paolo Martin, the creator of some of the most innovative concept cars designed by Pininfarina in the Sixties and Seventies, isn’t the sort of person who sits back and watches. In order to give some meaning to that suspended time, he decided to reproduce the drawings of the cars he created in over sixty years of professional activity - drawings that were fading as the years passed. We’re talking of cars like the 1967 Dino Berlinetta Competizione, the 1968 Alfa Romeo P33 Roadster, the 1969 Ferrari Sigma Grand Prix (a pioneering Formula One car for its safety features), the 1970 Ferrari Modulo (considered to be the most beautiful concept car ever built), the 1975 Rolls-Royce Camargue and Lancia Beta Montecarlo, to name but a few of the most famous. A unique opportunity for looking back over the career of a man now “over 70”, who during his professional life worked for illustrious names of the calibre of Giovanni Michelotti, Nuccio Bertone, Sergio Pininfarina and Alejandro De Tomaso. He offered some of his thoughts exclusively to SpeedHolics, and we in turn offer them to you. Photos courtesy of Paolo Martin Archive When I was sixteen, in 1959, it was easy to find a job. I started working at the Alfa Romeo dealer “Dario & Vico” in Turin. That was where I learned everything: from cleaning the toilets in the workshop to overhauling cylinder heads, brakes and gearboxes. I was their mascot; they would call me over to remove the 13 mm upper nut on the gearbox bell housing of the Giulietta Sprint because I had small hands and I was the only one who could do it. Years later, I began to use pencil drawing as a way to express myself, but I never put down the spanners and bolts. It's in my blood! I still use a drafting machine today, and I’m never far from a lathe. Then I did a five-year apprenticeship with Maestro Giovanni Michelotti, followed by a grey period with Bertone and then on to Pininfarina. I could draw in 1:1 scale with no problems, and after my experience with Michelotti I was very quick at drawing. Now, thanks to the pandemic, I have had time to dust off my drawings, which on average are half a century old. This was an important job, because the original drawings were faded and worn. Before I started, I wondered: “Who knows what will come out of this after all this time”. But in fact, it was as if all the drawings had been done just a few days earlier. I found it very easy to reproduce lines that were true to the originals. And the biggest surprise was that I found that I still had the same touch as before. I never realise how old I am unless I look at my ID card: my approach hasn’t changed at all. This means that if I had to design my cars all over again, they would be identical. I started with the 1967 Dino Berlinetta Competizione, which was the first design I worked on at Pininfarina. This is its story. For logistical reasons, it was born in my bedroom at home, top secret, nobody could ever know! I made the 1:10 scale drawing, the wooden model and then worked on the actual car. There were no second thoughts, no doubts, and its yellow colour soon dominated the whole workshop. Sergio Pininfarina and Renzo Carli, Sergio's brother-in-law and the managing director of the company, were not very enthusiastic when they saw it. Carli said it was a bit “poor”, there was no chrome-plating and everything was too essential. So he had a spoiler added to the front and one on the back, which I thought was a bit whimsical. When I see the original drawings, I really can’t see the point of this “addition”. That wasn’t how it was meant to be, and like then, now I would take off those two spoilers and put back the front air intake that I had originally designed. In other words, when I drew the Dino Berlinetta Competizione again after more than fifty years, I could find no faults with it. If I had to do it again, I would perhaps use modern materials, different headlights, not the double round lights which were the only ones available at the time. But nothing else. I did these drawings again out of nostalgia. But when you get back into the spirit of the times, you realise that pretty much nothing has changed. Drawing is like writing, and when you write something down you remember it. Instinctively, my hand followed all those lines, just like the first time. With no hesitation. So it’s hard for me today to give an opinion on my work. Also because for me there has always been only one result; what has been done is not up for discussion. For example, the 1968 prototype of the Alfa Romeo P33 Roadster, which came right after the Dino Berlinetta: as I wrote in my book “Martin’s Cars”, it has a style that clearly seems to contradict the sinuous lines that had been used up until then. Even I, the man who drew it, wondered what the reasons behind this metamorphosis were. Probably it was the desire for something new, a clear break with the habits of the past. But in fact I can't explain it. That’s just what I came up with. Because the way I work is impulsive, without hesitation. There’s no reason why. Everything I do is the result of a spontaneous action, I like to solve the problem. And this was also the case with the Sigma Grand Prix, a classic example of my way of working. I thought about how a safe single-seater should be, without ever having seen a Formula One race. The same thing happened with the Dino Berlinetta. I got into the spirit of the car and was led by the shape of the chassis (from a Ferrari Dino 206 S). This influenced the whole design; I certainly couldn’t design a sedan on a sports car chassis. This is how it worked: normally we received the chassis or just its drawing with all the sizes. That was all. There was no indication of which engine to use, the displacement or the performance. We had no idea about the technical details, and let’s admit it, we really didn’t care. And up until then I had not been struck by the aesthetics of the Ferrari. I have never followed any kind of archetype. I drew what I felt, following the shape of the chassis. My interpretation was purely emotional, it came to me like that. And once again, I really can’t say why. In the end, lots of people have said what this car expresses: happiness, joy. Happiness means perfect proportions, and for me proportions are everything. Michelotti said that cars must be beautiful when they’re dirty: if this happens, it means that they are in proportion. The only style innovation in the Dino Berlinetta Competizione is the passenger compartment, which is circular, so that the windows can slide into the doors and up to the floor. The innovation lay in the fact that when the windows were down the car was practically a convertible, and when they were up it was a coupé. The door lifted up with the glass. In practical terms, it was an innovation that had never been seen before. But then this solution was never used again. As I said, the only misjudgement I still see today are the spoilers that Carli added. I wouldn't have done that. I have no idea why he did. Originally the car had an oval mouth that added much more movement to the whole thing, but Carli didn’t want that. He also added two flimsy supporting struts. But that was in his nature, he always had to add his penny’s worth. We often argued because of this, although in a good-natured way. All in all, I was also pleased because at least I received some feedback about my work. Pininfarina was always passive, he never said anything. He never got excited. But nobody set any rules about the lines. Martinengo, the director of the Style Centre at that time, used to say: “Do what you want”, and that was the end of that. Those were different times.

A diplomat, a race-car driver, a pilot, a polo champion, an alleged assassin, and a notorious ladies’ man, Porfirio Rubirosa is believed by many to have been Ian Fleming’s inspiration for James Bond. Over in Germany at the celebrated HK-Engineering, there rests a car with a special connection to the Dominican mystery man. Images Courtesy of HK Engineering Ian Fleming’s legendary spy James Bond was mostly inspired by, or even based on, a Dominican diplomat, socialite, and Casanova by the name Porfirio Rubirosa. Back in 2016, Lawyer and Forensic Historian, Daniel J. Voelker, published a deep-dive article titled “Will the Real James Bond Please Stand Up?” which set imaginations running and tongues wagging. In it, Voelker asserts that Ian Fleming’s legendary spy James Bond was mostly inspired by, or even based on, a Dominican diplomat, socialite, and Casanova by the name Porfirio Rubirosa. Voelker was by no means the first person to make this claim. Though a whole host of real-life characters, as well as the author’s own life experiences, have been credited as the inspiration for Bond, Rubirosa’s name has been floated time and time again. However, Voelker was most certainly the first to investigate the theory in such depth. In his article, he tugs at the thread of rumour, exploring the lives and movements of both Rubirosa and Fleming, and dredging up times, places and mutual friendships through which they crossed paths. Through cultural icons like Erroly Flynn, Noel Coward, Eva Peron, and Rita Hayworth, and sun-dappled destinations in Jamaica, Haiti, Cuba, and California, and the French Riviera, Voelker digs up clue after clue that the man known to his friends and fans and “Rubi”, is the most likely candidate for the real-life Bond. Alas, potential issues with libel and rather sickeningly, race and ethnicity (Rubirosa was Afro Latino), may well have prevented Fleming from ever revealing the identity of his muse. Of course, the jury is still out. In truth, we’ll never know for sure, but Voelker’s is a fascinating case, and well worth a read. Whether it’s true matters not for the purpose of our story, for Rubirosa led a colourful life filled with adventure, potential espionage, parties, women, affairs, and cars. One car in particular demands our attention, the absolutely gorgeous Mercedes-Benz 300 SL Coupe, which takes pride of place amidst the fantastic works of HK-Engineering in Germany. But before we head to present-day Europe, let’s first rewind to the Caribbean in 1909. The Adventures, Affairs & End of Porfirio Rubirosa “The only things that interested me were sports, girls, adventures, celebrities. In short – life.” – Porfirio Rubirosa Born in San Francisco de Macorís, Dominican Republic, in 1909 to an upper-middle class family, Porfirio Rubirosa’s father, Don Pedro, was also a notorious womaniser, and had served as the General of a government-backed militia who held sway in the Cibao region. Over time, Don Pedro rose to a Diplomatic role, and became chief of the Dominican Embassy in Paris in 1915. Thus, Rubirosa lived in Paris from the age of five, returning to the Dominican Republic as a Law Student when he was 17. The young Rubirosa soon decided that academia wasn’t for him however, and joined the military instead. In 1930, Rafael Trujillo became President of the Dominican Republic. A Dictator who stayed in power until his assassination in 1961, Trujillo saw something that caught his attention about the engaging young Rubirosa when they met during a Polo match a country club in 1931, and soon asked him to join the Presidential Guard. Before long, Rubirosa would be married to Trujillo’s eldest daughter, Flor de Oro Trujillo. According to some records, this was something of a forced marriage after a secret romantic encounter. Faced with death at the hands of the dictator’s regime or marriage, Rubirosa chose life. Alas, Rubirosa’s serial adultery led to a divorce in 1937. Even so, the dictator kept him hired as a diplomat, aiming to leverage his charm, smooth talk, and frankly, ability to lie, to his country’s advantage. “He is good at his job, because women like him and he is a wonderful liar,” quipped Trujillo, knowing full well the damage he’d done to his daughter. It was during these “diplomatic” years that Rubirosa’s fame, or infamy, really took off. Between serving in Embassies in Berlin, Buenos Aires, Rome, and Havana (during the Cuban Revolution, no less), “Rubi” came to be known as the womaniser who would be married four more times, to French actresses Danielle Darrieux and Odile Rodin, and American Heiresses Barbara Hutton and Doris Duke, who was that time the richest woman on earth thanks to her father, James Buchanan, owner of American Tobacco and the inventor of the mass-produced cigarette. Due to his many, many affairs, his wives were so keen to divorce him that Rubirosa accrued fortunes in settlements and alimony – not just cash either, but a mansion, a Dominican coffee plantation, a fishing fleet in Africa, and even a pair of B-25 Bomber planes. As for those extra-marital affairs and/or close relationships with other women, some of the most famous names of the mid 20th century – Zsa Zsa Gabor, Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, Veronica Lake, Judy Garland, and Eva Peron – were linked to Rubi. Over time Rubirosa rose from simply a diplomat to an official with a curious title: “Inspector of Embassies”. Free to travel the world at his dictator’s orders, dark rumours circulated about Rubi’s actions, darker than sins like adultery, lust, and glutton. Though he was never charged for the crime, he was questioned regarding the “disappearances” of Trujillo’s political adversaries Sergio Bencosme (1935) and Jesus Galíndez (1956) by the New York District Attorney in 1962. This line of questioning came after Rubi had fallen on harder times. Stripped of his suspicious “Inspector of Embassies” privilege after the 1961 assassination of Rafael Trujillo and subsequent fall of the government, it felt like time was running out for the infamous lover and liar. Indeed, Rubirosa met his end three years later in 1965. Then living in Paris, albeit in less opulent surroundings, and living out his passion for car racing and polo, Rubirosa was celebrating late into the night having won the Polo Coupe de France on July 4. Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, Rubi jumped in his Ferrari 250 GT cabriolet into a tree, dying on impact. A fitting end for a man who loved to live fast. “You feel like this man is breaking through walls, tearing down mountains, and turning the world upside down to conquer you. He is wild, impatient, with a stormy temper. But he lays his heart at your feet when he desires you, and he desires you unceasingly. He is the best gift a woman can give herself.” - Zsa Zsa Gabor on Rubirosa Porforio Rubirosa’s Mercedes-Benz 300 SL Coupe A life-long lover of the finer things, it stood to reason that Rubi was a collector of high end cars, and as one of the most gorgeous, sophisticated cars of the last century, the Mercedes-Benz 300 – known by many as “The Gullwing” – fit his wishes perfectly. The car’s development began in 1951 with Rudolf Uhlenhaut’s Mercedes-Benz 300 SL racing sports car. The SL’s six-cylinder engine wouldn’t be enough to make it competitive, so the design team focused on reduced drag and weight. Hence, an aluminium body was forged, along with those now iconic top-hinged “gullwing” doors. With these improvements came racing honours in 1952 – 2nd and 4th at the Mille Miglia, three victories at the Swiss GP in Bern, two at the Le Mans 24 Hours, four wins at the German GP at the Nürburgring, and two more at Carrera Panamericana in Mexico. Not yet satisfied with its performance, 1953 saw the 300 SL upgraded further with a Bosch direct injection system. The Gullwing had arrived. 1954 saw the 300 SL made available to the public, making its debut on the commercial scene at the International Motor Sports Show in New York, where its racing calibre, sleek and unique design, and best of all, those unforgettable doors, caught the imagination of car aficionados around the world. Though capable of reaching 250 km/h with its 215 hp engine, direct steering, four speed, short shift transmission, the car was also well suited to everyday or weekend driving at more sensible speeds. However, only 1,500 were built and production ceased in 1957, as Mercedes-Benz replaced it with the more comfortable, though still sensational 300 SL Roadster. Naturally, our protagonist Porfirio Rubirosa – a man known for knowing what he wanted and getting it – wanted his very own 300 SL Gullwing. In 1955, the 87th 300 SL ever built came into his ownership at the company’s Wiesbaden branch, then transferred to Rubi’s home in Paris, and registered under the licence plate number CD 75 IT 5348. Rubirosa would keep the car until his death in 1965. From there, it changed owner five more times before eventually being sourced and purchased by a certain Hans Kleissl in 2000. The founder of famed HK-Engineering in Germany. The Story Continues Today at HK-Engineering The company is celebrated worldwide for its expert restoration, preservation, and careful maintenance of the Mercedes-Benz 300 SL. Though they’ve branched out to other models in recent years, the 300 SL is their forte. Not just known for restoring cars to “good as new”, HK-Engineering is celebrated for their ability to preserve, treat with care, and maintain the personality of the vehicles which pass through their hands. As such, Rubirosa’s 300 SL remains as close to the original as possible. Though it had been painted after Rubi’s death by a subsequent owner, the team at HK-Engineering restored it to the original matte silver, while preserving the original interior, rim paints and chromed features. Indeed, the company’s work on the car won them the “Specialist of the Year” awards at International Historic Motoring Awards in London in 2014. Needless to say, this is HK-Engineering’s prize possession. Even today, it can be seen at high-profile races and events such as the Mille Miglia. People will stop and admire the beauty no doubt, but one wonders, will they know the full story of that car and its first owner? It’s one worth knowing. Porfirio Rubirosa Mercedes-Benz 300 SL Coupe Chassis number: 198.040-4500087 Engine number: 198.980-4500100 Body number: 198.040-4500088 Ownership History 1) Porfirio RUBIROSA, diplomat, from 03 February 1956. Registered licence plate: CD 75 IT 53 48 (CD stands for “corps diplomatique”) 2) Jean HEBERT, engineer, from 09 October 1958 PARIS - Registered number: 300 HK 75 3) Roger BUSSY, from 23 October 1959. LEVALLOIS - Registered number: 300 HK 75 4) Yves LAPLANCHE, film producer, from 09 November 1960 PARIS - Registered number: 300 HK 75. 5) Georges LAFOND, entrepreneur, from 31 December 1963. PARIS - Registered number: 300 HK 75 6) Claudine CHERIF HAMDI, from 23 March 1966. PARIS - Registered number: 300 HK 75 7) Hans KLEISSL, from 2000. Germany - Registered number: WM SL 30H To learn more about HK-Engineering, click here to visit the website. SpeedHolics has not been paid to write about this product or brand, nor will we profit from any purchases you may make through the links in this article. We’re a fully independent website. We simply choose to write about products and brands that appeal to our passions, and hopefully to yours too.

After the historical agreement signed with the Ford Motor Company, it didn’t take long for the streets of the ex- Soviet Union to fill with cars derived from American models. However, some engineers and designers worked on far more personal projects, creating sports cars and original aerodynamic studies. Drawings courtesy of Massimo Grandi The history of car production in the ex-Soviet Union is certainly not renowned for its originality. On the other hand, we should remember that on 30 May 1929, the Ford Motor Company signed a historical agreement for the production of cars in the Soviet Union. The contract established that Ford would oversee the construction of a production plant in Nizhny Novgorod, on the Volga River, for the production of the Ford Model A. From that moment on, Soviet cars produced by the large car manufacturers, including GAZ (Gor'kovskij Avtomobil'nyj Zavod) from 1929 and later ZIS (Zavod Imeni Stalina), from 1946, proposed models that, stylistically and technically speaking, were directly derived from or greatly inspired by similar American models, of course starting from the Gaz A, a clone of the Ford Model A. This aspect also had an immediate impact on the sports car world, again based on mass-produced models. One typical example was the 1938 GAZ GL-1. Produced in 1938, this racing car, based on the model GAZ-M1, in turn based on the 1934 four-door sedan Ford Model B 40A, was the fastest Soviet racing car before the war. The original GAZ-M1 engine was enhanced, to 65 HP instead of 50 HP. After some tests, it was replaced by a new 6-cylinder 100 HP engine taken from the GAZ-11, and some details were re-designed (new wheel trims, a dome above the driver’s head, rounded grilles). With the original 65 HP engine, the top speed was 148 km/h but the 100 HP engine helped it to reach 162 km/h. Although this new record was quite modest, not surpassing even the results of the Tsarist Russia drivers, it was in any case an authentic turning point for Soviet motor sports enthusiasts. The first exception to this rule was seen a few years earlier, in 1934, when the engineer Alexei Nikitin Osipovich built an aerodynamic car in his garage based on a GAZ A, the GAZ A-Aero. In 1933, Alexei Nikitin (1903-1974) was appointed to the Russian Military Academy to study aerodynamics. He conducted in-depth research into the design and production of sports cars around the world, even building a small-scale wind tunnel where he performed many simulation experiments on aerodynamic drag models. Until, in 1934, he decided to build a 1:1 scale model, seeking to apply the best results achieved during the experiments. The wooden over-chassis was covered with metal plates. The standard engine was improved with an aluminium head and an increased compression ratio. The speed of the car did not yet match that of other sports cars, but in terms of design and aerodynamics it was a significant and original moment in the Soviet panorama in the early ’30s. After the Second World War, along with its industrial production, the Soviet car sports world gradually returned to business. It was a long and arduous process, as many eminent designers from the pre-war era had become designers of military equipment throughout the hostilities, including A. Pukhalin and A. Nikitin. However, from 1946 some designers drove the creative revival of the Soviet car world, V. Rostkov at ZIS and A. Smolin at GAZ. Already in 1938, the first car sketches by designer Valentin Brodsky, developed in 1940 by Vladimir Aryamov, which revealed a growing trend towards a more modern car design in the Soviet Union, were for a two-door coupé, the GAZ-11-80 which in fact anticipated the later GAZ Pobeda, identical in many aspects. However, following the German invasion in 1941, the military priorities delayed the work on the new car, and the factory began to produce military items. The first Pobeda was developed in the Soviet Union in 1946, overseen by chief engineer Andrei A. Lipgart. Originally intended to be named "Rodina" (Homeland), the name "Pobeda" (Victory) was then preferred by Joseph Stalin. The name was chosen also because the works began in 1943 when the victory of the Second World War began to seem probable, and the car was intended to be a post-war model. The GAZ-M20 "Pobeda" was produced in the Soviet Union by GAZ from 1946 to 1958. Although it was usually known as the GAZ-M20, the designation of an original car at that time was simply M-20: M for "Molotovets" (the GAZ factory took its name from Vyacheslav Molotov). The styling was curated by the car designer Alexander Kirillov, the graphic artist Veniamin Samoilov and the above-mentioned Andrei Lipgart. The GAZ-M20 Pobeda was one of the first Soviet cars with an original design, and was also one of the first cars to introduce the ponton style with compact sides, ahead of many western manufacturers. In technical terms, the engineers in the factory in Gorky used a 1938 Opel Capitan, captured in late 1941, as the basis for their studies. (FIG 6) The M20 Pobeda was also the first Soviet car to use completely original moulds. The first production model left the assembly line on 21 June 1946. It was also the first Soviet car to have turn signal indicators, two electric (rather than mechanical or vacuum) windscreen wipers, four hydraulic brakes and an AM radio installed in the factory, and over time became a symbol of post-war life in the Soviet Union. Of course, this new, modern car paved the way for sports versions. The first place certainly goes to the "Pobeda-Sport" “Victoria”, a two-seater sport coupé, created specifically for racing in the 1950s. The Pobeda-Sport was an experimental car that was constantly updated for Soviet racers so that they could achieve the best results. In 1955, the car could reach speeds of up to 180 km/h. On 8 September 1956, the Torpedo-GAZ factory racing team, with testers Gorky Vyacheslav Mosolov and Alexander Efremychev, won the silver medal in the individual category of the USSR road championships. Although powerful and fast, in terms of design and aerodynamics the car was nothing new, the mere transformation of the sedan into a two-seater roadster. The ZIS factory also worked on the design of a sporting prototype, the 1051 ZIS-112 concept. The car, known as the Cyclops, was designed by Valentine Rostkov. The two-seater prototype was principally inspired by the US concept car GM LeSabre, again from 1951. The car had a removable rigid roof and was powered by a 140 HP V8 engine. The car was subsequently equipped with an experimental 186 HP V8 engine with four carburettors; it also had an oil radiator and a rapid manual ignition control system. In December 1948, a special USSR governmental decree was issued, prohibiting the use of foreign technology in competitions. The measure was taken after a series of serious accidents, some fatal, involving the Auto Union Sports, the spoils of war. Although forced to start from scratch, the Soviet designers had since learned from German research, demolishing and studying some of the German cars in detail, understanding the importance of aerodynamic applications in racing cars. The designers began to work on the rationalisation of car forms already experimented in Europe, without making any fundamental changes to the engines, gearbox and chassis but improving the aerodynamics, with faired rear wheels (and also front wheels on some models), eliminating edges, plates and other protruding parts, incorporating the mudguards and especially trying to give the body the most penetrating shape possible. Aged 43, Alexei A. Smolin joined Gaz in 1950. A designer with significant experience in the aeronautical - and therefore the aerodynamic - field, having designed the aircraft KSM-1 with a GAZ-M engine (1935), seaplanes (1937), and an airplane with a six-cylinder engine, the GAZ-Air (1938). His first design was the new sporting version of the Pobedo M-20, the GAZ M-20 Pobeda Sport SG -1 (1950). With Smolin, the M-20 bodywork underwent a significant transformation, as can be seen in this drawing, with the compared profiles; only the chassis and wheelbase remain unchanged. The body is compacted into a long, tapered profile at the rear, the ponton mudguards draw an elongated drop shape with faired front and rear wheels, the roof is low and also extends rearwards into the long, narrow tail. The front is low and flat, with a low, wide air duct grille. The only element reminiscent of the original sedan is the engine hood, raised upwards with two “nostril” shaped air ducts for the carburettors. Although large (5680 mm long, 1695 mm wide, 1480 mm high with a 2700 mm wheelbase), the car didn’t weigh much, just 1,200 kg. Like the pre-war GAZ-A-Aero and the GAZ-GL1, the steel was replaced by aeronautical aluminium and duralumin. Incidentally, the SG1 was the first Soviet sports car not to be produced in a single model, and in fact five were made. The GAZ Torpedo SG-2 In 1951, it was again Smolin who invented the only design of the new GAZ development: the SG-2, known by the general public as the Torpedo. The drop-shaped aerodynamic body was nothing like the GAZ - Pobeda-Sport SG-1. Smolin introduced the “lenticular” form, with two shells joined on the median line of the body. This lenticular form was then used in 1952 on the Alfa Romeo 1900 C52 "Disco Volante", in 1954 on the Jaguar type D and later in Donald Campbell’s 1962 Bluebird-Proteus CN7. It was a completely new design, literally created from scratch. While developing his design, Smolin used advanced aeronautical mathematics and technologies. In the plan view, the profile was reminiscent of a cuttlefish, but in fact it was an attempt to get as close as possible to the elongated drop shape, which for a solid immersed in a fluid theoretically has a cx of 0.0. In the side profile, this drop shape is extremely clear. Here too, both the front and rear wheels are faired. The roof is very low, again with a drop profile that stretches to the tail, crowned by a thin, vertical stabiliser fin. The rounded front has an air duct made directly in the body, with no grille. Also in this case, if we compare the side profile with that of the Pobeda sedan, we can see other changes in the aerodynamics compared to the Pobeda sport SG 1. This car was much lighter than the previous model. The body was made from duralumin profiles coated in aluminium sheet. The body was 6250 mm long, 2070 mm wide and 1200 mm high. The car weighted 1100 kg. The standard M20 engine volume was increased to 2487 cc, and a Roots-type compressor and a drive shaft were installed, like those on the Pobeda-Sport, consisting of two parts separated by an intermediate support. It also had a three-speed gear with no synchronisers, an SV valve and only one carburettor. The car was relatively powerful: 105 HP at 4000 rpm. The top speed of the Torpedo was 190 km/h. While in technical and performance terms, the Gaz Torpedo was certainly nothing significant, in terms of shape on the other hand it was a true “revolution”, as we can see even better by comparing the profiles of the previous “sport” model. Starting from scratch, A. Smolin re-designed the shape starting from the mathematical application of aerodynamic principles. In some aspects, it reminds us of that revolution introduced by Malcom Sayer on the plans of the Jaguar XK 120 C with the new model XK Tipo D. A car, a design, that stands out not only within the context of Soviet production but also European and international production. I would like to end with a last drawing, taken from a period photo, where we can see the three fundamental models of this interesting history all together: the Gaz Torpedo, the Gaz Sport and the Gaz M20.

Today, establishing how many Alfettas were made is a hard task, but we can reasonably state that five original cars got as far as us. Among these, one in particular stands out, kept at the MAUTO - Museo dell'Automobile of Turin. Still with the signs of battle of yesteryear, this car is the one that spent most time on the racing tracks. SpeedHolics “met” the car to tell its story and remember the extraordinary adventures of what was to become the “Biscione’s” first Formula 1 car. Photography by Paolo Carlini (IG: @paolo.carlini.photographer) Archive courtesy of Sanesi Family, Alfa Blue Team, Fabio Morlacchi Archives Enzo Ferrari could be described as nothing more than the inspiration behind the project for the “little GP car”, and as stated in the specialised press, seeing what was done at Maserati it would have needed a 4- or 6- cylinder engine. At Alfa Romeo, the suggestion for the new racing car was taken on board, but was based on a more sophisticated straight 8-cylinder solution for the engine and the whole layout of the car was defined, refined yet orthodox compared to what had been designed and built in the racing sector up until that time by Vittorio Jano at Portello, managed by Ferrari. A new design race began straight afterwards with the design by the Spanish engineer Wifredo Ricart at Al, more advanced yet perhaps too pointlessly complex. So, its inspiration and paternity are sure, as is the project management. The names, in order, are: Enzo Ferrari, Gioachino Colombo, the Portello engineer, and Alfa Romeo. Ferrari only played a small part, the physical place where the design was developed and the construction of the first units began. As in all complete car designs, whether for mass production or racing, the various mechanical parts were developed by a team of engineers and draughtsmen, who worked on the instructions of the designer and the manufacturer. The main data for the arrangement required by Portello were taken to Modena by the engineer Gioachino Colombo in early May 1937. Exactly one month later, Colombo and the engineer Angelo Nasi completed the design of the engine and the chassis. On 1 January 1938, the first engine began to be assembled and Colombo returned to Milan on 17 June. On 1 January 1938 the new racing department was opened in Portello, called Alfa Corse, physically located in the new sheds on the corner of Via Traiano and Viale Renato Serra. The construction of the new department began in autumn 1937. The masonry works were completed between December 1937 and January 1938. The building and shed next to Via Traiano were finished between April and May. So, when Colombo was sent to Modena, it had already been planned for all the material to return to Milan shortly afterwards. The 1924 G.P. car Tipo P2 won its first race, and in 1925 the first ever Grand Prix Championships. Tipo B, better known as the P3, also won its first race. The 158 carried on this tradition, also winning its first race, the Coppa Ciano in Livorno on 7 August 1938, with Emilio Villoresi 1st and Clemente Biondetti 2nd. In late 1939, the Spanish engineer Wifredo Pelago Ricart, who joined Alfa as an industrial engine consultant in September 1936, became technical director and was also in charge of the racing sector. In 1939 he designed a new car, which was intended to replace the 158. This was the Tipo 512, which rode the waves of success of the large and winning Auto Unions, with central-rear engine. The flat 12 engine, with 1500 cm3 displacement, was positioned just behind the driver. The 512 was tested from the summer of 1940 until 1942, but the testers were not happy with the driver's seat being so far forward. These included Consalvo Sanesi: sitting practically between the front wheels, the driver couldn’t immediately feel the significant oversteer caused by the rear axle slippage, and before he realised the car would be almost sideways. During the conflict, the sportscar material that would be interesting after the war was sent to Milan to save it from any foreseeable enemy bombings. The material included nine of the twelve 158s produced, following the destruction of one during the tests with Marinoni in June 1940 and two which were destroyed in 1939, during practice drives by Emilio Villoresi and Giordano Aldrighetti, who like Marinoni both lost their lives following the accidents. Along with the two 512s complete with all the mechanics, plus the engines and spare parts, they were taken firstly to the Mechanics Hall at the Milan Exhibition Centre, and then hidden in the pits at the Monza race track. Subsequently, almost all the material was bricked up into a large room, with just an inspection door, at the ex-Gavazzi textiles mill in Melzo, 15 kilometres to the east of Milan, where part of the decentralised production of crankshafts was located. As an elderly Alfa employee, in charge of overseeing the decentralisation of the racing material, told me years later, only the two almost complete 512s plus several spare 158 engines were taken provisionally to a farmhouse in the Abbiate area owned by the family of the driver Achille Castoldi, and were then transferred to an unlikely textiles factory in the centre of Abbiategrasso, around 18 kilometres to the south-west of Milan. According to Giuseppe Busso and what we find in the surviving documents, the two 512s were later transferred near Orta, where the engineers and a complete aviation department were located in a factory in Armeno, in the province of Novara. Particularly the bombings of October 1944 destroyed much of the Alfa departments, and only the delocalisation of the engineering staff and the material, along with the strong will of the workers, allowed the works to resume at the end of the war. Racing activities resumed timidly in 1946, when the 158s were dusted off and returned to Milan. Unaware of the 512's driving issues, the specialised press began to wonder which car Alfa Romeo would have continued to race with: the 158 or the 512? The 158, designed in the summer of 1937 and born in the spring of the following year, behaved well and had significant potential for development. Furthermore, all the cars, plus the spare engines, had been saved from destruction during the war. Gioachino Colombo, born in Legnano, joined Alfa Romeo on 7 January 1924 as a draughtsman, and went on to manage the design department. He left Alfa for the first time on 31 August 1947, to join Ferrari. He returned to Alfa on 1 February 1951, to the annoyance of Orazio Satta’s engineering team, as Director of the Car Design Department and Vice-Director of the Alfa Corse Design Team. He finally left Alfa on 31 August 1952. Colombo worked only on the first developments of the 158 in 1946 and partly in 1947. So, from the autumn of 1947 to early 1951, the 158 was developed by Orazio Satta and Giuseppe Busso’s team, assisted by engineer Gian Paolo Garcea and other Alfa technicians with aeronautical training. Today it is not easy to establish precisely how many 158s and 159s were produced. We have to base our estimates on the bills of materials delocalised during the war, the few data on the materials lists in the Alfa Museum in the 1960s, and the data provided in the meticulous race reports drafted between 1946 and 1951. It is reasonable to suppose that, between late 1937 and 1938 a first batch of four tipo 158s were built, three of which, as we have seen, were destroyed during practice session accidents between 1939 and 1940. Of these, one 158 survives in the Alfa Romeo Museum in Arese, with chassis number 158.005. The next batch of eight cars was produced between 1939 and 1940, with a different numbering, from 158.107 to 158.114. Then things began to get complicated, as in the winter of 1950-1951, several 158s were updated to 159s, reinforcing the chassis and increasing the fuel tank capacity in order to adopt more powerful, guzzling engines. In these cases, the chassis number had the prefix 159. During 1951, on the other hand, four new tipo 159s were built, with further changes to the chassis compared to the tipo 158 developed into the 159, with a De Dion rear axle. In the Alfa Romeo documents these were known as both “Fianchi Larghi” (“large hips”), and tipo 160, with the bodywork probably built by Zagato. Therefore, in the 1951 Championships there were a few 159s, which were in fact the developed 158s, still with the old rear pendulum axle and the 159 with the De Dion. The two 159s in the Museum in Arese, the 159.111 and the 159.112, are two ex-158 updated to 159s, presumably the 158.111 and 158.112, fitted with De Dion axles during the winter of 1951-52, so after the end of the 1951 Championships, just before the Alfa meeting of 15 February 1952, when the decision was taken to not race in the 1952 Championship or any others in future. On the other hand, the demonstration chassis at Arese, with no bodywork, was rebuilt with various parts found in stock with rather improbable numbering. Of the five 158-159s remaining today, excluding the chassis complete with mechanics, the most frequently raced was the 159.109, today on display in the MAUTO - Museo dell'Automobile of Turin. Following the recent renovation of the museum, the car was placed in the room where the racing cars are on show, following years of exposure to direct sunlight. The current setting is very attractive, hiding the many “wrinkles” that our Alfetta would in fact be very proud to show off. She has been in Turin for a long time, even she can’t remember for how long. But if you know how to listen to her, she has a lot to say. She remembers the practice sessions for the Grand Prix in Tripoli in 1940. .109 - “It was May, I still had my original engine, I was used as a reserve car for tests and practice runs. Nino Farina pushed the engine, a 225 HP with single-stage compressor, to 7500 rpm! I had Pirelli tyres with smooth tread, I used Ricinavio airplane engine oil, from the plane engines produced at Portello, where I was born. Farina beat one of my sisters!” Then came the war, and Italy joined less than a month after the race. A couple of races in 1946, and a few more in 1947. .109 - “I can’t remember, they were hectic times! They took us back to Milan, and after servicing it was test after test. I remember those on the runway at Malpensa military airport, with those huge uneven concrete slabs that ate up all our tyres! The Monza track was still unusable, occupied by allied military vehicles for sale and with the asphalt ruined by the air raids. Coquettishly, the Alfetta .109 continues her story... .109 - “I remember well the 1947 Milan Grand Prix, definitely! If I remember correctly, it was 7 September. Even though during the practice session just before the race I was driven by Count Trossi (Carlo Felice), I was intended for Sanesi (Consalvo), with race number 24. The others and I reached the starting line in Piazza Arduino from Portello in Via Traiano, driven by an Alfa test driver. No more than 500 metres. We really were racing just outside the front door! On the starting line, Consalvo and I had my sister .111 to our left, with Count Trossi. Next to her, in the front row, was the Ambrosiana Maserati 4 CLT driven by Gigi Villoresi. I was quite worried about this Maserati. We had 275 HP 158/46B engines with dual-stage compressor, but she must have had at least 300 HP! Four cylinders rather than our 8, but with 4 valves per cylinder! At one point I saw Count Trossi put his pipe in his pocket and put his gloves on. Here we go! But Castagneto still didn’t start the race, it was minutes and minutes of anxiety... Sorry, am I going on too much? No? Just as well! Finally we were told to switch the engines on. Consalvo turned the switch on my dashboard. I got a bit of a shock, what you humans would call adrenaline! The electric starter turned my engine, then I thought about the rest The chequered flag was lowered... The Maserati burned rubber as it set off, followed by my sister .111. Consalvo didn't hit the floor, I could feel the accelerator still had something to give! The Maserati with Villoresi was in front, followed by the .111 with Count Trossi, then us (the .109 with Sanesi) and the .110 with Achille Varzi, which set off behind us. In a flash we reached the slight left-hand bend leading into Ciale Scarampo, second gear as we braked, then first gear for the right-hand 90° bend leading into Via Colleoni, the accelerator flat out and rapid gear changes, then back on the brakes as we hit the large roundabout at Piazza Damiano Chiesa on the wrong side of the road, passing in front of the Alfa Romeo Branch on the corner of Via Emanuele Filiberto. A left turn into Viale Alcuino and back again towards the Trade Fair wall, a left bend and along the Monza stands, set up right there outside. The Vigorelli racing track ran along the left, then quite a wide right-hand bend into Viale Boezio, full acceleration with progressive gear changes and passing in front of the Palazzetto dello Sport in Piazza 6 Febbraio, where the Motor Show was held before the war. An energic brake, dropping down into first gear, a 90° right-hand bend and flat out on the accelerator along the straight in front of the Trade Fair entrance in Piazza Giulio Cesare, along Via Senofonte and Via Spinola, another quick brake, back down into first gear, another right-hand bend and into the final straight. As we passed in front of the Palazzetto dello Sport on the straight we had the .111 (Trossi) in front, which overtook Gigi Villoresi’s Maserati quite easily. The Maserati’s exhaust was in front of my nose. Was the engine already popping? Behind me was Raimond Sommer’s Maserati, then the .110 with Varzi... From the pits, which in my day were called “stalls”, they were signalling the 5th lap of the planned 100. By this time, the Maserati and Gigi were just a few metres ahead. The engine wasn’t the problem of the 4-cylinders, it was always ahead of the braking. The Maserati’s problem was the brakes! Consalvo, shall we take over while braking? Even Varzi had reached and overtaken Gigi Villoresi. Now there were Alfettas in the first three places. I was between Trossi and Varzi, behind was Berto Ascari’s Maserati, also racing just a few hundred yards from its home. Consalvo knew that he couldn’t insist, and then Varzi in the .110 was always Varzi, it was hard to stand up to the guy from Galliate driving one of my sisters. And then, the company orders must never be questioned! At Alfa Corse, before the race, the chairman of Alfa Romeo, Pasquale Gallo, talking to the drivers, gave clear orders, in his calm and courteous manner with a vague Naples accent, with Guidotti (Giovanni Battista), the company director, on his right listening and approving with nods of the head, hands on hips and shirt sleeves rolled up. On the eleventh lap, we had Varzi’s .110 right up to the exhaust. Turning into Viale Berengario, Consalvo changed into second gear, a few engine revs first, 7,200 rather than 7,400, not many people noticed. Varzi and the .110 came out from behind us and overtook. Count Trossi with the .111 had crossed the finishing line a few seconds earlier, then Varzi and Ascari’s Maserati. Berto insisted hard, for 14 laps he swapped third place with me and Consalvo. In front, Varzi and Trossi with my sisters continued to overtake each other, they were pushing hard, the fight was between two Piemontesi and two Milanesi! We could see them duelling in the distance. It seemed like they were enjoying it! From a few metres distance they looked at each other, sometimes side by side, the Alfettas were having fun! The drivers weren’t smiling, their serious faces hidden by glasses, but they were laughing inside, I knew them all too well! In the end, the two champions ahead overtook each other 16 times! Ascari’s Maserati however had some problems. Parts of the bodywork tended to come off, the tank leaked and the 4-cylinder engine coughed sometimes, forcing them to stop in the pits frequently. And so we reached the finishing line, Trossi’s .111, Varzi’s .110, me and Sanesi, and Gaboardi’s .119! Nobody noticed, but we four Alfettas were very happy! A victory parade, here, just a stone’s throw from home! Fantastic! What a race! Thanks Consalvo, sometimes I can feel you near in this dark room in the museum in Turin, I like it. Really. They told me that the Alfa race report referred to a “boring race due to the clear superiority of our cars”... noblesse! .109 – At the Berne Grand Prix on 4 July 1948 we raced with death in our engines. During the first practice sessions on 1 July, Achille Varzi took one of my sisters off the road, I can't remember which one. I won the race, driven by Count Trossi, behind me was one of my sisters with Jean Pierre Wimille, a Maserati and Sanesi with another of my sisters. The official Alfa Corse report explains the dynamics of the accident: “The accident, which occurred immediately after the Eicholz descent, was not due to sudden technical problems, Sanesi having previously completed three laps of the circuit, but to the unlucky track conditions. After the rain, and due to the rain itself (which was particularly heavy at that moment) the driver did not have a perfect view of the road (sic). After the driver lost control, the car crossed a stretch of the track and the rear collided with the side embankment. Straightening up suddenly, the car ran up the opposite back and rolled over, landing straight back in a normal position on the track; it is thought that Varzi received the mortal blow to the head as the car overturned on the bank.” The Alfetta was the .114, which was later repaired. Reims 18 July: the .109 was driven by Sanesi, race number 28, and came second behind the sister driven by Wimille, having overtaken Alberto Ascari’s Alfetta on the last straight and winning by just a few metres. The Italian Grand Prix, Turin, the Valentino circuit, 5 September, the .109 was driven by Sanesi, but who withdrew from the race on the 51st of the race’s 75 laps. Wimille’s Alfetta come first. Monza Grand Prix, 17 September, four Alfettas in the first 4 places, Wimille, the .109 with Trossi, then Sanesi and Taruffi. .109 – May I? I have a couple of interesting stories to tell: in the race we drink between 60 and 100 litres every 100 kilometres. And I mean fuel, not simple petrol! Listen to what we had to digest! Methyl alcohol 94°-98°, 83.5%, acetone 6%, petroleum ether 30°-60°, 7.5%, castor oil 1.5%. To avoid corroding the compressors, this mixture had around 1.5% of a special, top-secret ingredient, discovered by chance during repeated tests. Today I can tell you, but at the time the name was shrouded in secrecy. What was it? Well, Portello tap water, from the Milan mains water supply... Up until that year (1948) we used Ricinavio, an oil made with castor oil, the same used for our radial aviation engine brothers manufactured at Portello. Then, they used Castrol R, and after also Shell Super Heavy. Modern mineral stuff, and at last less dirt and incrustations formed in the engine. A bit like when you have bronchitis and tons of catarrh, just to make it clear. 13 May 1950, European Grand Prix at Silverstone, UK, the .109, with race number 3, was driven by the not-so-young Luigi Fagioli, one of the famous “3 Fs” with Farina and Fangio. It came second, behind Farina’s .110, ahead of the .114 driven by Reg Parnell, who ran over a poor hare, damaging the front of the 158. .109 – Do you want to know what was written in the race report? “A race governed brilliantly by our drivers, and won with ease due to the inferiority of the competing cars”... In Monaco a few days later, on 21 May, the Silverstone cars, including the .109, were used as reserve cars for the practice, the engines still efficient. French Grand Prix, Reims, 2 July. The .109 was used as a reserve car. Grand Prix des Nations, Geneva, the .109, race number 2, was driven by Fangio, who led her to victory, followed by the .114 with De Graffenried and the .112 with Taruffi. Alfa Romeo and Ferrari were the main rivals in the race, according to the specialised press, and all the others had to put up with following at a distance. Fangio and the .109 had an impeccable race, in terms of speed and regularity. .109 – Thank you, dear. The 158s needed refuelling, the Ferraris didn't. However, Alberto Ascari’s Ferrari was forced to withdraw, and Gigi Villoresi had an accident with the other Ferrari. International Daily Express Trophy, Silverstone, 26 August. The .109 was driven by Fangio, race number 2, and came in second place behind her sister .111 with Farina. The next year, 1951, the 158s received their new numbering, with the prefix 159 for the chassis and engines. The chassis were similar to those used the previous year, still with a “Porsche” type rear pendulum axle but with even more aggressive engines, delivering 385 to 403 HP at 8100-8900 rpm depending on the gear ratio, with the possibility to reach 9200 rpm. Not bad for long racing engines designed 14 years earlier! The side fuel tanks were larger, the back widened to fit a larger tank there too. Trophy Race, 5 May 1951, the .109 was driven by Felice Bonetto, race number 3. A race with 2 heats and a final, which however was stopped at the 6th out of 35 laps due to heavy rain and hail. The .109 was tenth at the early stop, while Sanesi’s Alfetta stopped when the electrical system went up the creek due to the downpour. Berne Grand Prix, 25 May, the De Dion rear axle was used in the practice sessions for the first time, the .117 had the De Dion rear axle but still with the 158 small tail. The .117 was also in the race, with Sanesi at the wheel, and came in fourth place. First and third place, other Alfettas with the rear pendulum axle, second place a Ferrari 4500 aspirated engine. Belgian Grand Prix in Spa, 17 June, the .109 was driven by Sanesi, race number 6, again with the 158 small tail and small tanks, which it still has today. In 5th place, it was forced to withdraw from the race. UK Grand Prix in Silverstone, 17 July, the .109 was driven by Felice Bonetto, race number 4, and came in fourth. The .115 with Fangio, again with the pendulum axle, came in second, the .116 with Sanesi in 6th place, the .117, the only one with the De Dion axle, driven by Farina came in eighth. .109 – It was my last race. After that they retired me. The German Grand Prix at the Nürburgring on 29 July saw the participation of four Alfettas, three with the De Dion axle, two of which with “wide hips”. From then onwards, the last races of the season were run by “pure” 159s, with a widened, reinforced chassis, De Dion axle, large tanks. So the 159 “wide hips”, or also the tipo 160. .109 - I raced for 12 years, less two years testing at the start of the war and three years resting during the delocalisation and 1949, when we didn’t race. If I’m correct, I’m not very good at maths, I spent 6, SIX, years racing! My sisters and I always won a whole load of races! And the first two World F1 Championships! But here in the museum, I’ve heard people stand in front of me and say that our adversaries were not up to our level! I felt like running them over! We had plenty of worthy adversaries! One driver who I remember in particular behind my wheel? Well, I’ll give you a name: Juan Manuel Fangio. Is that enough? OK, he pushed us to the limit, but never went beyond that, with his cool calm that reassured us. But sorry, my favourite was Consalvo Sanesi. He was always very respectful of us and the orders from above, but he was very fast. Nino Farina pulled us about a bit, as did poor old Achille Varzi. Count Carlo Felice Trossi was respectful, but he pushed down hard, and so did the Frenchman Jean Pierre Wimille. They retired me in late 1951, then brought me here to Turin. In fact, I was actually tired of racing. Come and visit me here in the museum, I enjoy it. Stop by my side, ask me questions, if you know how to listen, I’ll be pleased to answer you... Goodbye everyone, see you soon... P.S.: I went to MAUTO in Turin a few years ago, with Mr Stefano Agazzi from Alfa Romeo Automobilismo Storico. Welcomed in the semi-dark room where the racing cars are on display, we asked the 159.109 if she felt homesick. She told us, yes, she got a bit melancholy every now and again, but luckily she could talk to the Alfa C.52 Disco Volante 3000: “...can you see her, down there!” And in the dark, we thought we saw a slight flash of headlights. -- Thanks to MAUTO – Museo dell'Automobile of Turin, for having made available to SpeedHolics the Alfetta "159.109" kept in its prestigious collection.

With single-seaters, the style of the car is designed entirely to suit its function. So can we talk of design for Formula 1 cars? Paolo Martin remembers when, during his time at the Centro Stile Pininfarina, he worked on the study of a car – still considered today a superlative example – that was designed not so much for its beauty but for driving safety on the track Photos and Drawings courtesy of Paolo Martin Archive According to Stephen Bayley, The Aesthete of Octane magazine, a car design expert and founding director of the Design Museum in London, “Artistically speaking, a F1 car is poor stuff. The cars are not even distinguished by ugliness; they simply lack that impossible-to-define element – an unstable mixture of surprise, desire, delight and memory that makes something beautiful. When technology alone dominates any product, there is small room for art”. This is the fault of the regulations which, today, in contrast to those in force in the 1960s, leave small room for the imagination. At that time, in fact, Bayley states, the less-strict regulations allowed beautiful single-seaters, such as the 1961 Ferrari 156 “Squalo” and the 1964 Lotus 33 to come to light. These cars however were born beautiful, without any contribution from stylists or designers whose creativity added a touch of imagination and diversity to an object that, ultimately, only had to be fast. And the 1969 Sigma Grand Prix was perhaps the only exception. In my day, the need for beauty in a single-seater came second. Its primary function was not to please but to go fast, faster than the others. Single-seaters were built by putting them together one piece at a time. And then, beauty is a subjective concept that depends on the culture of people and peoples, their history and traditions, how they have lived and live certain historical moments. Indeed, for me there is no such thing as beauty. Something is beautiful when it is well-proportioned; proportions alone dictate the style of an object, in any field: if something is in proportion then it is beautiful, because its lines do not disturb. As for the Sigma Grand Prix, the main aim was to develop a research prototype in order to offer new concepts of active and passive safety for single-seaters, as towards the late 1960s these cars were often involved in dramatic accidents. Fires were one of the most frequent causes of death (first and foremost that of Lorenzo Bandini in the Montecarlo GP in 1967), but their overall fragility was behind many sporting tragedies. The Swiss magazine Automobile Revue raised the issue, pushing the engineering world to look for a solution. Pininfarina accepted this challenge when the load-bearing structure of a Ferrari 312 F1 was brought in: a dismantled tubular chassis, a pedal box, four wheels, a 60° V12 2,990cc engine (with 400 HP at 9,200 rpm) and the RM 5-speed gearbox. “Try to invent something that won’t hurt people during the race” were the instructions I received from Franco Martinengo, then head of the Pininfarina Style Centre, when he tasked me with the job. I don’t think that one person has ever had to tackle an issue not intended for the public but for a specialised, technical sector like the Formula 1 world. Astonished, initially I treated the instruction as a joke, but then I threw myself head-first into the project. I thought and thought again and, among my youthful fancies, I who had never seen an F1 close up, the idea grew and grew to build a deformable sub-chassis with a rigid cell fitted on the top. But I soon realised that it would be too complicated to make, because of the related weight problems. And so I built a mock-up chassis in polystyrene, just to see what impression it gave. I had four 10 cm wooden shims placed under the engine and under the pedal box and empirically decided on the length of the wheelbase. I sat down in the centre on a wooden block, with the steering wheel in my hand, and began to dream of being on the track, even making engine noises (you might laugh, but that’s exactly what I did). And as I did this, some workers pushed the engine against my back. When it felt right, I said: “stop there”. And that’s how I set the wheelbase of 2,400 mm! Slowly but surely, with tons of sketches, discussions and doubts shared with the workshop manager Morra, I personally created a very no-frills and quite pitiful chassis in polystyrene. But the funny thing was, when I asked the various managers how the job was going, I realised that everyone knew even less than I did. I received some “valid” help from Martinengo, the director, who in Piedmont dialect, said: “caro Martin cà fasa l'on c'à vol!” – "do what you like - in any case nobody understands a thing”. A few words, but it was better than nothing. And so came the Sigma Grand Prix: it was 4,200 mm long; 1.940 mm wide; 930 mm high, with front and rear axle track measuring 1,550/1,580 mm; the 2,400 mm wheelbase and 590 kg weight were decided after some obscure safety studies and guesswork. I must say that, still today, I, and later Mr. Theo Page, specialist in details and transparency, are the only ones who knew how this car is assembled internally. Everything is sealed with rivets, and the assumptions triggered afterwards are merely the fruit of imagination. In the pictures accompanying this article, one shows what lies underneath, but I drew it myself from memory. To know how it is made inside, you would have to unrivet the whole thing. My Sigma is also the fruit of pure imagination, because basically I am a creative guy who acts on a problem trying to solve it. The Sigma was pure imagination, but its concept was revolutionary, as it was the first car built in aluminium alloy, applying an aeronautical criterion, and no longer using a tubular chassis. On top of this, other solutions were adopted as recommendations for construction. In fact, the Sigma is built entirely in Avional, with all the sections riveted, while the single-seaters of the time were made with welded 15 mm pipes, which were awful in safety terms. And then, as far as the style is concerned, I don’t know what to say: I had never seen a Formula 1 close up, and I invented everything. The line was functional to safety, so that the front parts could be repaired easily, making it safe in the rain, also using rubber, and inventing the hook to block the helmet. But how much this imagination was really functional at speed I never had a change to find out: the car never actually ran; it was purely for theoretical purposes. I agree that it was different, but I never thought about beauty when I was designing it. When I work, I toss ideas around, make a sketch, and if I believe in it then I continue. I never do two versions. Sometimes I don't even make a sketch. I built the Sigma in two months, thinking only about its functions, so the deformation, how the spars were positioned, the external tanks and so on, and more than anything it all seemed logic to me. Like the four 50 litre tanks made by Pirelli in open-cell foam rubber, or the fire-fighting system, the four-point belts, the deformable dashboard that would open on impact and various purely instinctive solutions deriving from creativity and the desire to succeed. The front is “full width”, with the front wheels partially faired, a solution that was used the following year by Tecno in the Formula 2 and in 1971 by Tyrrell-Ford. The sides are very wide, so that they cannot catch on other cars, and the tanks separated in the sides, protected from each other by a buffer zone. The rear spoiler was placed forward and anchored directly to the chassis to prevent it from coming away, while the pilot’s helmet was fixed to the roll-bar with a belt. And this is how the Sigma was born, spur-of-the-moment. The car was put on display at the Geneva Motor Show on Thursday 13 March 1969. Unpainted at the time, it was only painted white afterwards.

Everyone knows: the cars in Sant’Agata Bolognese would never have been born without the now-famous dispute between Ferruccio Lamborghini and Enzo Ferrari. And history reminds us that, from that day onwards, the pair never spoke to each other again. Luigi Marmiroli has tried to imagine a new meeting, at dinner: a exhilarating and at times emotional story, where rivalry is toned down and the humanity of these two legendary manufacturers comes to the fore. Pictures courtesy of Luigi Marmiroli Archive I can immediately see that the cover story is false. And yet, I have personally known and admired both Enzo Ferrari and Ferruccio Lamborghini, so I can assure my readers that, in this “virtual” meeting, both express their true personality and talk about facts that really occurred. The professional lives of Enzo Ferrari (1898-1988) and Ferruccio Lamborghini (1916-1993) overlapped for a period of around fifty years. However, despite working close to each other (Maranello is around twenty miles from Sant’Agata Bolognese), apparently - though we cannot say for sure - they only met once. First of all, please forgive my short digression into local history. For some time in Italy, both small towns and cities would compete with neighbouring municipalities, and the rivalry was fierce. Those with the highest towers, the largest cathedrals, the relics of the most important saints, the greatest artists, as well as the most interesting culinary traditions, stood out from the crowd. And while this all contributed to the creation of an infinite number of artistic and cultural works across the “Bel Paese”, it also certainly fuelled feuds and juxtapositions that still exist today, at least in part. Ferrari, the son of a steelworker, was born in Modena; Ferruccio, the son of a farmer, in the province of Bologna. It is worth mentioning that, in the Middle Ages, a battle between Modena and Bologna caused over a thousand deaths. This innate competition between Ferrari and Lamborghini, already based on these historical facts, was to grow further, due to the fact that they both built similar products. A competition that, starting from its founders, would soon spread to the workers, designers, suppliers and clients of these two distinctive brands. When out on test drives, the testers of the two companies deliberately sought out impromptu races on the local roads. This rivalry between the two companies had - and I think still has today - positive effects. I experienced this first-hand: when designing Lamborghinis, our (not entirely concealed) aim was to compete with the style, technology and general performance of the other international car makers, but with a very specific focus on Ferrari. I imagined a meeting over dinner, on one of the typical damp, foggy days the area is renowned for, towards the late 1970s when Ferruccio Lamborghini had already sold his company and was about to retire to an estate on the banks of Lake Trasimeno to grow grapes. Ferrari, in turn, had sold the industrial part to Fiat Auto, keeping the Racing Department for himself. The restaurant, lying half way between the two companies, is famous for its owner’s strange behaviour, and for being frequented by supercar enthusiasts and personalities from all over the world. To avoid indiscreet eyes and ears, they met there on the day the restaurant was normally closed. Ferrari arrived in his classic 400 GT/4 2+2 driven by his loyal driver Dino. Lamborghini drove up in his own white Countach. Both cars were hidden in an inner courtyard. Lamborghini: Good evening Commendatore, or would you prefer Ingegnere? Ferrari: Good evening to you, Cavaliere. My staff call me "Grande Capo", the press Commendatore, Ingegnere, Drake… Let’s leave the titles to one side, and simply be Ferrari and Lamborghini. L: I agree. Fifteen years have passed since our last and only meeting. I must admit I was surprised to receive the invitation; I seem to remember we didn’t leave on the best of terms before. F: Of course, you came to talk to me about one of my cars that you had bought that had irreparable problems with the clutch… L: Your spare parts didn’t do the job. F: You told me you had solved the problem using a clutch from one of your tractors. And, I remember well, I told you that you weren’t able to drive my powerful cars, and invited you to go back to driving tractors. L: That’s right, in fact I remember your arrogance perfectly well, and that I promised that I would make cars better than yours. Things were heating up, but luckily the owner came over to take the orders. Ferrari, as any good Modenese, usually dined at the Cavallino (a famous restaurant opposite the entrance to his company) and didn’t stray too far from his traditional cuisine. Lamborghini, who on the other hand always had lunch with his staff in an old restaurant in Cento, obviously preferred Bolognese cooking. Ferrari ordered the "tortellini" with cream, rather than the classic version in capon broth, mixed boiled meats and "zuppa inglese" (ndr. an Italian-style trifle). Lamborghini ordered "tagliatelle alla bolognese", "cotoletta" and classic "torta di riso". Once again the local rivalry came to the fore. They agreed only on the Parmigiano Reggiano and a bottle of good Lambrusco. And then they got back to the discussion: F: I advised you to stay with your tractors, indeed I have to say that in less than ten years you abandoned the car business. L: It’s true that for financial reasons I had to retire to a farm, but I have showed the world how capable I am of building exceptional cars. I promoted my brand, with the unmistakeable style and technology of my cars: today the "Toro Furioso" is worth no less than the "Cavallino Rampante". I am sure that my competition caused you suffering. You are surely aware that our respective testers have often raced on the roads, with my Miura frequently beating your Daytona. Some of your staff told me something you said, Ferrari: ”It’s lucky that the Miura is built by Lamborghini, otherwise it would be trouble for us”. I know that, for you, saying this was an appreciation of the style and mechanics of the Miura, but at the same time you were highly critical of my industrial skills. F: And yet, to design your cars you took on many engineers who had left Ferrari: Giotto Bizzarrini for the engine, Giampaolo Dallara for the chassis and even Giancarlo Guerra for the bodywork. L: Of course, I admit this, but you too, seeing the success of our Urraco, commissioned your Dino 308 GT/4 from our historical stylist, Marcello Gandini. F: That was not my choice, but came from the industrial side, and in any case the Dino 308 was never very successful. The style of all my cars, thanks to Pininfarina, on the other hand, has become a classic benchmark all over the world, and popular with famous people, even kings and queens. L: This is why I do not consider myself a competitor: my clients are far less noble, but younger, rich and proud to drive aggressive cars that get them noticed. As the stomachs gradually filled, the rivalry stepped aside and they began to talk about their children: Ferrari about Dino, who died young, and Lamborghini about Tonino, who was studying at university. Leaving them to their conversation, I thought that there has always been a certain rivalry among their clients too, like that between the fans of two football teams. I can confirm this with a photo taken many years ago of a beautiful red Countach at the Festival of Speed in Goodwood, England. On one side, the owner had ironically marked a black cross over all the Ferrari badges he said that he had out-classed on the English roads. An endearing way of comparing himself to the Red Baron, the First World War ace pilot, who when returning from the dogfights would mark crosses on the fuselage to show how many planes he had shot down.

Gandini and Lamborghini are two inseparable entities, and together they have developed authentic style legends, including the Miura, the Countach and the Diablo, but there have been some hiccups along the way. Luigi Marmiroli pays homage to the extraordinary Turin-based designer Pictures courtesy of Luigi Marmiroli Archive When I met Marcello for the first time, the name Gandini “still” rhymed with Lamborghini. Marcello Gandini, the historical father of the Lamborghini style, began working with the manufacturer from Sant’Agata Bolognese a few years after it was founded by Ferruccio. He joined the staff at Carrozzeria Bertone in Turin as a young man, and designed their first flagship car: the Miura. Then, after moving on to the legendary Countach, he reached the Diablo and some of its many versions. Then - and here we take a leap to our times - for the celebration of the 50th anniversary of the Countach, Automobili Lamborghini launched the new Countach LPI - 800 - 4 on the market. To many, the car seemed more the result of a commercial operation than a celebration car. And the main critic was Marcello Gandini himself, the father of the original model. As explained by the managers of Lamborghini, not only he was not involved in the project, but he was also rather disappointed with the result. As the media told, Gandini stated that “his” Lamborghinis were based on different concepts, and for him this new Countach was the denial of the founding principles of his DNA as a designer. I have no idea how the disagreement ended, but I think that from that day on, after exactly 50 years of cooperation, Gandini no longer rhymes with Lamborghini… In the past, there had already been an episode of misunderstanding that I can tell you, because I saw it with my own eyes. When I was appointed to design the Diablo and the time came to choose the style, I was firmly convinced that the final choice would have been made by the historical designer Marcello Gandini, considering his brilliant past with Lamborghini. But I was told that he had already been contacted and had refused the job. Apparently, before commissioning a new car from Gandini, the person who contacted him, who probably was not very familiar with his history, asked him to demonstrate his skills, showing him some sketches of supercars. It seems that Gandini wasn’t too happy about this, and sent him off with a flea in his ear saying that his sketches were already on the market: Miura, Countach, Urraco, Espada… Despite this misguided attempt, it wasn’t too hard to bring Gandini back to design the new Lamborghini, that which was to become the Diablo. The Diablo which - as already mentioned in another article - was the only Lamborghini to bear his name on the bodywork. On the cover, I wanted to show off the “Trilogy” of Lamborghini flagship cars, also because it seems that the media often neglects the Diablo, preferring its predecessors the Miura and the Countach. Beneath the bodywork, all three cars have equally thrilling mechanics, and for this reason, I think it’s only right to underline the style of the three different engineers who were their main designers: Giampaolo Dallara, Paolo Stanzani and myself. I must acknowledge that Gandini always facilitated the work of the mechanical designers, as his creativity was based on his significant engineering culture. This meant that whenever he became aware of the inevitable problems found during the prototype tests that could affect the style, he always came up with some very clever aesthetic solutions. This is why I believe that we owe the philosophy of the Lamborghini style to him, that love at first sight on seeing the car, the celebration of the mechanics and the direct communication of power and speed, even when the car is parked. Furthermore, the low, streamlined body, the strong, pure lines and the aversion to parts added merely for aesthetic purposes, such as chrome-plating, two colours, mouldings, etc., highlight the aggressiveness, exclusivity and that fantastic difference compared to the cars of the competition. The only thing I still have to investigate, and I promise to do it next time, is that peculiar and distinctive shape of the rear wheel arches, which he repeated on many of his designs.

Considered the most revered test driver in the history of Alfa Romeo, he was an accomplished racing driver in both the F1 and the Mille Miglia. Photos by Sanesi Family, Alfa Blue Team, Fabio Morlacchi Archives On the banks of the Arno River in Arezzo, Tuscany’s easternmost province, rests the sleepy comune of Terranuova Bracciolini — 35 kilometers from Florence, population 12,000. A decent spot for a quiet, uneventful weekend getaway — quaint, beautiful in parts, unassuming. All things told, Terranuova Bracciolini isn’t the kind of place you’d think of when pondering the origin stories of a cult racing hero. But it was here that on March 28th, 1911, Consalvo Sanesi was born. He was raised on Via Concini, a narrow back street off the main road. A characterless, low-key part of town. But Terranuova Bracciolini, for all its understatedness, makes a pretty fitting birthplace for Sanesi. Though he remains the most revered test driver in the history of Casa del Portello (The first Alfa Romeo factory), as well as an accomplished racing driver in both the F1 and the Mille Miglia, Sanesi himself was unassuming and short on public words. Thus, little is actually known about Sanesi the man and his life away from the track, despite his famous name. During my research at the Alfa Romeo Documentation Center I found only a handful of dry documents bearing mention of him. But I’m lucky to be on speaking terms with his daughter Edda, who could provide a better insight into her father’s character. By her account, Consalvo was shy and reserved, deeply attached to Alfa Romeo and grateful for them having taken him in. It’s as though he felt he owed them more than they owed him, even for all his contributions to their greatness. Directly across the Arno River from Terranuova Bracciolini is the town of Montevarchi. Just like it’s neighbour, Montevarchi is not the kind of town you’d associate with breakneck speed, but it too harbours a racing legacy that ties into the origin story of Consalvo Sanesi. Count Gastrone Enrico Brilli Peri was born into a noble Florence family in1893. After serving as a motorcyclist during the Great War he brought his talents to the race track after. Six years later, Count Gastrone would be crowned the Italian Grand Prix champion while racing an Alfa Romeo P2. With his winnings, and no doubt a fair helping of the family fortune, he bought himself a country home in Montevarchi. Thus, the story of the Brili Peri family and Consalvo Sanesi intertwine. No one knows how the young Sanesi came to find his way into the Brili Peri home garage. But it’s safe to assume that the presence of a nobleman, his part-time home and his collection of race cars wouldn't stay secret for very long in these parts. Speculation aside, the teenage Sanesi gradually became an ever present in the corner of the car workshop, making himself useful where he could, watching, learning and letting his passion for roaring engines grow. The boy’s fervour wasn’t lost on Count Brilli Peri either, who would later help him find work in an auto-repair shop on the busy Via Porpora in Milan, just a click away from Central Station. That was in 1928. The following year Sanesi received word that Alfa Romeo was on the lookout for mechanics in their racing department, and once again using his connections to the Count, he secured an interview with Technical Director Vittorio Jano. In a reluctant, sparsely-worded and unpublished 1960 memoir dictated to his secretary, Sanesi recounts this period of his life, “I joined the Alfa Romeo racing department as a mechanic, working on cars driven by the likes of Nuvolari, Campari, Varzi, Borzacchini and Zender (sic).” But as Sanesi’s life in motor racing was beginning to gather steam, another was about to grind to a halt. Count Gastone Brilli Peri lost control of his Talbot 1500 and flew off the road in Libya in 1930, during his test laps for the Tripoli Grand Prix. “He had already done seven or eight laps when the wind picked up and blew sand from the nearby dunes onto the track. Having felt the track out and not knowing what there was now to know, he arrived at the corner too fast and went off the track…” explained Sanesi simply in an interview. No fancy turns of phrase or rhetoric. When asked to speak of others though, Sanesi seemed more willing to open up a little. On Giuseppe Campari, the first ALFA test driver and later Alfa Romeo race driver, Sanesi said, “ Campari… was a great materialone (an Italian term for someone simple, pragmatic but often heavy-handed or inelegant). As he was in person he was in the car - good but rudimentary. I’d go with him in the car often… he’d grind the gearbox unlike the more deft drivers. But he was a daredevil on the street and on the track, and we clocked up some great times.” Sanesi would sit in the car with Campari as they tested its limits, tightening the steering wheel and making running adjustments as Campari indelicately stamped on the pedals and paid little heed to the needs of the engine. Campari was a big and burly man, and Sanesi was often forced to wrap one arm around his shoulder and hold on to the car's outer bodywork with the other as he sat in the mechanic’s seat, set back slightly from the driver’s in the narrow cockpit. From here he’d cling on for dear life and keep half an eye on the revs, tapping Campari’s shoulder to alert him to regular over-revs. But if that was a chastening experience, sharing a car with Borzacchini was downright traumatic. So much so that the mechanic who had to go out on the track with him was jeered by his colleagues. “We considered Borzacchini an unsafe driver, even dangerous... He used to make great lurching movements with the steering when cornering, he “rowed” as we say... He also had a habit of screaming when he entered a curve, and this didn't give you an impression of security when you were sitting next to him…” Sanesi worked in the racing department until 1933, when management passed to Scuderia Ferrari. Vittorio Jano, head of the project office, transferred Sanesi to the race car testing team, directly under the stewardship of Attilio Marinoni. But it didn’t last, as Marinoni and his operation were transferred to Modena. Jano wanted to keep Sanesi in Milan, so he gave him a new position testing series cars under the direction of Gianbattista Guidotti. In 1938, racing management returned under the direct direction of Alfa, and Sanesi returned to dealing with racing cars. The first tests of the new GP car, the 158 Alfetta, were carried out by Sanesi, with a view to him participating in the races with Enrico Nardi, who helped with the fine-tuning. The little single-seater was built to race in the small car category (up to 1500cc), and it vastly improved the fortunes of Alfa Romeo, whose reputation had been tarnished by poor performances in the wake of the fantastic Alfa P3. Vittorio Jano was forced to leave Casa del Portello after years of designing production cars, Grand Prix cars, industrial vehicles and aviation engines. His replacement was the Spaniard Wifredo Ricart, who with the help of Jano’s old team including Sanesi and Gioachino Colombo, designed and developed the Alfa Romeo 158. The 158 proved a hit, with its 195hp engine capable of reaching 230 km/ h at 195 hp and 7,200 rpm. Its run lasted thirteen years, by which time its capabilities had been surpassed by engines that could reach 390 km/h at 9,300 rpm. Still, a great run while it lasted. On its debut in 1938, at the Coppa Ciano in Livorno, Emilio Villoresi was chosen to drive the 158. His selection made a great narrative as his older brother Gigi was also racing that day (in a Maserati). Emilio overtook his brother who retired in lap 13, and roared home to victory on its first appearance — Just like its predecessors the P2 (1924) and the Tipo B P3 (1932). Emilio Villoresi’s life came to an end in June of the following year though, in yet another stark reminder that, in those days especially, great speed came with even greater risk. Enzo Ferrari would claim that he’d taken ill while throttling the car too enthusiastically after a hearty lunch, but Consalvo Sanesi had another explanation. When Sanesi met Gigi Villoresi later, he told him how his brother Emilio was really killed: “S'è rott el sterz (the steering broke)”. I digress... back to Sanesi. He made his official race debut a few months prior to Villoresi’s death, in a sprint Tobruk-Tripoli as the second driver of one Ercole Boratto, the personal driver of Benito Mussolini. The pair took home gold in the Alfa Romeo 6C 2500SS "Thick Wing”, hurtling along Via Balbia, the scenic Libyan coastal road built by infamous transatlantic pilot and air marshal Italo Balbo, who’d been appointed Governor General of Libya in 1933. In May 1940, Sanesi was second driver to Carlo Maria Pintacuda, in a 6C 2500 SS Spider Touring car in a rather odd edition of the Mille Miglia, which was to be completed over 9 laps of a 165km road circuit. The pair finished a modest 7th place, behind the likes of Bartolomeo “Meo” Costantini and Nello Ugolini. And then came the war. June 10, 1940 was the day that Italy entered the fray. Racing on hold, Alfa Romeo pivoted into aircraft engine development. They built in-line cylinder engines at their new plant in Pomigliano D'Arco, and radial engines at Casa del Portello. Thus continued Alfa Romeo’s race, now in the skies, powering the Regia Aeronautica (Italian Royal Air Force). The Macchi C.202, and the fearsome three-engine bomber Savoia Marchetti S.79 both came in part from Alfa Romeo. Though testing continued for a little while on Richart’s new creation, the type 512 racing car, the plans were soon shelved as the country plunged further into the darkness of conflict. So it was that aviation became a part of Consalvo Sanesi’s life. In 1938 he’d married Vittoria Salandini, an employee at EIAR (Italian Radio Auditions Authority) and the widow of an aviator who’d disappeared in the skies of Cairo en route to Eritrean minister Luigi Razza. They two met when she was studying for her driving license (he was her instructor). In return, she’d helped him study for a diploma to become a technical designer. In 1939, the aforementioned daughter Edda was born. But it was after the end of World War II that Sanesi became, in a way, the essence of Casa del Portello. The company went from strength to strength, led by a team of fantastic test drivers, engineers and racing drivers. The Alfetta 158 of the late 30s was quickly surpassed by superior versions of cars such as the 1900, the Giulia, the Giulietta, the 2600, and various upgrades of the Alfetta. Sanesi’s racing career would continue until 1964. He was 53 years of age when he entered what would be his final race. At the 12 hours of Sebring, his Alfa Romeo Giulia TZ crashed and burst into flames. Racing driver Jocko Maggiacomo was spectating nearby, and rushed to drag the imperiled Sanesi from the flames. Though his racing career ended that day, Sanesi’s life rolled on. Not the type to go out in a dramatic blaze of glory like some of his less fortunate, though more bombastic colleagues, Sanesi lived until the ripe old age of 87, passing away in July 1998—Never saying too much, never making too big a deal of things. A very Sanesian way of doing things. (To be continued...)

"One wonders that if people like Frank had not been around in the early days, whether Formula One would have survived today.” So go the words of Bernie Ecclestone to PA News Agency in memory of Sir Frank Williams, the motorsports icon who passed away on Sunday, November 28 this year. Photos Alamy Stock Photo “He was one of the people that built Formula One,” continues Ecclestone. “It’s the end of an era.” Since his passing, the tributes to the Williams Racing Formula 1 team founder have been flowing in. Lewis Hamilton wrote not just of his racing prestige, but of his humanity. “Sir Frank Williams was one of the kindest people I had the pleasure of meeting in this sport. What he achieved is something truly special. Until his last days I know he remained a racer and a fighter at heart. His legacy will live on forever.” Considering the fact that Williams suffered an injury that left him paralyzed all the way back in 1986, it’s no overstatement for Hamilton to call him a fighter. Just imagine the strength of spirit required from Williams to keep on pushing through physical challenges to build not just one of the world’s best known racing teams, but to help shape Formula One into the cultural behemoth it is today. Before even considering his achievements in the racing world, to simply live until the age of 79 as a tetraplegic beggars belief. A fighter. It’s almost poetic that Williams would sustain his injuries behind the wheel of a car. While rushing to make the airport in time for a flight out of Marseilles, France, Williams crashed his rented Ford Sierra into a wall. Though his passenger Peter Windsor came away unhurt, Williams was trapped – the time spent under the crushed car exterior almost killing him. He spent six weeks on life support, during which the medics attending to him implored his wife Virginia, often known as “Ginny” to give in, to allow the machines to be switched off, but she refused. Just six weeks later, the “fighter at heart” was given a raucous ovation when he showed up for the British Grand Prix in his wheelchair. Williams appeared completely undeterred in his work despite his physical ailments – in fact his resolve was only steeled by the incident in ‘86. He wasn’t long returning to work, keen to innovate and commit to glory. The Williams team went on to claim more victories than it ever had from ‘86 through the 90s. Behind the wheel of his cars, names like Nelson Piquet, Nigel Mansell, Damon Hill, Alain Prost and Jacque Villeneuve were inscribed in the history books. Frank Williams was born to an RAF pilot and a teacher in South Shields in 1942, though his parents break-up led to him being raised by his grandparents. At boarding school in Dumfries in Scotland, it became apparent that young Frank was more enamoured with cars than textbooks – the lust for speed rammed home when he drove in a Jaguar XK150 as a teenager. When he left school, he took up a sales job for the Campbell’s Soup Company, and wouldn’t you know, his company car didn’t last too long. Williams’ daring seemed better suited to the race track, and so he climbed into an Austin 40, stepped on the gas on track day, and quickly climbed the ranks to Formula Three. Crash after crash came, until he was eventually convinced to step up into management. Always determined to succeed no matter the job description, he founded Frank Williams Racing in 1967, and entered Formula One just three years later – with little but an old Brabham and some Cosworth engines. Piers Courage was the driver in those days, a close friend of Williams’, who was courageous by name and nature alike. Tragically, Courage died in the Dutch Grand Prix in 1970. Success came slowly for Williams – no head starts ever given or earned. Even when help seemed to appear, he always went his own way. Call it stubbornness, or call it vision. His team had been sold to the Canadian oil baron Walter Wolf in 1976, and Williams took his leave – no outside interference welcome. He founded Williams Grand Prix Engineering and began from scratch with the help of revered designer Patrick Head. The two innovated and worked for marginal gains everywhere, and once Saudi Airlines agreed to sponsor the team, they were ready to thrive. The Argentine Grand Prix was their first foray, in 1978, and a first win came soon after at Silverstone with the now legendary Clay Regazzoni behind the wheel. Intermittent success followed through the 1980s, with constructors' championships as well as Alan Jones’ drivers’ title in 1980. Then came Keke Rosberg in ‘82, and another constructor’s championship in ‘86. 1986, you’ll remember, was the same year William’s life would change irrevocably, one day in Marseilles. Those post-crash years of Mansell, Prost, Hill et al came thick and fast. The success was heady. But they weren’t without their heartbreaks. In 1994, one year after Prost’s world title and two before that of Hill, the San Marino Grand Prix was the scene of one of racing's greatest tragedies – the death of Ayrton Senna. He was a three time world champion, and the ace in the William’s pack. On lap seven, he hit a wall at a fatal 265 km/h. He didn’t stand a chance. One of the world’s best loved racers was gone, and the blame was placed by a local prosecutor squarely at the feet of Williams, Head and designer Adrian Newey. It would take three years for each to be acquitted of any crime. Throughout this time, the Williams team continued to honour their leading driver – with every Williams race car displaying a Senna logo from 1995 until 2012. After coming through the trials and tribulations of the Senna Trial, after battling his paralysis for over a decade, after elevating the sport at one of its lowest ebbs, and after forging one of the world’s most successful Grand Prix teams at a time when Ferrari and McLaren were also on top of the world, Frank Williams became Sir Frank Williams in 1999. His legacy had been written. In 2012, Sir Frank Williams finally stepped away from his role on the board of the Williams Racing Team, and was duly replaced by his daughter Claire. The name will live on. Always.