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The world never stops running, even during a pandemic, and we are always in a hurry, trying to be perfect, high-performing and reliable. Every time I feel overwhelmed, I like lying on the couch looking for some good stories in a book, or in a photograph: and it was during the lockdown, on a lazy afternoon spent looking for new stories to tell, that I found Bart Kuykens on Instagram. He is a Belgian photographer that shoots analogue and black and white. Photo by Bart Kuykens (IG: @bartkuykens) The first time I saw his works I was particularly struck by their power: every single picture is dark, rough, a bit dirty, but at the same time so full of grace. We are so used to shooting tirelessly with our smartphone that we have almost forgotten what it means to wait for our roll to be developed, and to see our photographs for the first time already printed. This is a good lesson of slowness we should all learn, and Bart is an outsider in today’s ever-changing digital work. He had never dreamed of becoming a photographer in particular, but he always felt he needed to tell stories in a visual way. Through still images or video. That’s what an artist does, because it’s the mirror of his feelings, his thoughts and emotions. Bart became known as a professional photographer after the release of his art-quality automotive books called 'A Flat6 love affair': flat 6 like the iconic engine of the classic Porsches. In fact, these volumes celebrate the bond between a Porsche and its driver. Each volume documents memorable owners and their car, and the beauty of these portraits is so stunning that for a while you forget about the presence of a celebrity like Jason Kay - known as Jay Kay, frontman, leader and founder of the band Jamiroquai - and stay focused on the photograph that seems to be part of another world. Bart confesses to me that carrying on such a complex project means not including everyone you want. And the more you travel and meet people, the more interesting people you meet as well. He also finds it difficult to go back to the first two volumes because he feels his photography has changed over the years, which is a good thing, but looking back at the first images he is not entirely pleased anymore because he wants to do better. That’s exactly the same thing for a writer when he reads his own book back after ten years, for example: stories develop and change together with their authors. Talking about Porsches, he tells me that he wasn’t really into cars until in his early thirties. Mostly he gets obsessed and passionate from the moment he owns something, so this passion really started after he bought his very first one: a burgundy 3.2 Carrera. He always tells people he would miss his cameras more than his Porsche and that’s a fact. However, he loves his 1970 2.2T with its 3.2 Carrera engine: it is like an unfinished painting, and he enjoys adding or deleting things. Thinking about his work, I asked him which cameras he uses: Hasselblad and Leica, because they are reliable and fit his style of personality. The Hasselblad H1 645 is his favourite at the moment for car photography for his books. As for Leica, he loves the R7 with Summilux lenses - i.e. 35mm f/1.4 and 80mm f/1.4 - as well as the Leica CM, a pocket camera with a fixed 40mm lens. Today, many people think they are professional photographers only because they have expensive cameras, so I really appreciated what Bart told me: “Never let anybody tell you an expensive camera will give you better pictures, it’s always about the content, never about the pixels”. The first time I looked at his portraits, I immediately thought about characters from a Kent Haruf book, people who live away from the hustle and bustle of the modern world. A timeless dimension: this is the power of black and white photos. About his “old school” approach to photography, he tells me that it slows him down in the process. When shooting digital he just shoots too much and ends up with fewer good pictures. Another positive aspect is that you differentiate yourself from mainstream cultural expectations: everything is so volatile these days. Even though his works, especially the portraits, seem to be part of a past era, Bart admits that his life goes so fast. He is always looking for opportunities and new challenges, and he needs this adrenaline to feel relaxed. For this reason, he is attached only to future projects. Few people really know that behind the scenes of a good photographic project there are study and research, and every single picture hides talent and a lesson learnt. Every time I interview a professional, I’m curious to know if there is something he would suggest to a person who loves photography and wants to become a pro. “Stay true to yourself. Shoot what you love to shoot. Your own way. And have patience. And go all in”. A good picture should let you think: “Let’s stop and dream”. And here they are. A dusty and ready-to-restore Porsche and you immediately remember how many new lives are waiting for us; a kid wearing a flat cap has the sulks, and he’s irresistible, he would be perfect in The Paul Street Boys novel. And then a picture taken at Morro Bay, a man and his dog playing on the ocean shore, and nothing else matters; a girl standing close to her horse, a mutual love and no words needed. Thank you for your grace, Bart.

He once raced for Enzo Ferrari and won the 24H of Le Mans, but today his life is devoted to art. We met Stefan Johansson, 65 years old, on his recent trip to France, on Zoom: although there was a screen between us, the Swedish ex-driver told his story with no filters. Photos courtesy of Stefan Johansson (IG: @stefanjohanssonofficial) I have always imagined artists dressed in white, as if such candour could make them pure, freeing their mind from superstructures, clearing it of all pointless baggage. Ready to colour their thoughts with emotions, just like a bright, clean canvas waiting to welcome new forms. And of course, Stefan joined our Zoom meeting wearing a white t-shirt. He has just come from California, where he lives today, to spend some time in Europe. And he is in France, for a bit of rest but also to create. On the wall behind him I can see two brightly coloured paintings. Although this politely smiling man now devotes much of his life to painting, it is certainly not his first love. His surname is Johansson: a man who spent over ten years as a Formula One driver, in 1985 and 1986 at the wheel of anyone’s dream car, the Ferrari. I was born and raised in Modena, and as a child in the Eighties I spent my summer days in the countryside, just a few miles from the legendary track in Fiorano: my playtime was accompanied by the powerful roar in the background, brought by the wind to my ears. “Can’t you just hear the Red car racing,” my grandmother would say. I tell Stefan this anecdote, and his eyes widen, filled with a light that they didn’t have before, and I can see it, even though the screen between us acts as a barrier. “That was me, training on the track,” he tells me with an understandable dash of pride. “Of course, at that time there were no simulators, everything had to be tested on the car and so I spent entire days driving round the track, in the summer we went on till ten in the evening, when it got dark. For me, that was a dream come true.” At this point, I just have to ask him when and how this adventure began. He replies that it all happened very quickly. One Monday he received a phone call from Marco Piccinini, the then-sports director of Ferrari, inviting him to Modena. Two days later he was on a flight from London to Bologna and then on to the factory in Maranello, surrounded by cars covered in white cloths, like works of art to be hidden until the right time. He was led along a poorly-lit corridor, photos of racing legends like Nuvolari and Fangio hanging on the walls, to the office where Enzo Ferrari was waiting for him. From a distance, the man, the legend, was no more than a silhouette, like in a Fellini film, but here it was all real, and Stefan became a driver for the ‘Rearing Horse’ when Ferrari asked him a single question: “Are you hungry?” And then: “You’re hired.” That was it. On Friday that same week, the adventure began with the Portuguese Gran Prix, alongside Michele Alboreto, a great friend and team mate. Not only did he spend two unforgettable years at Maranello with him, but – with Tom Christensen – he competed in and won the 24 Hours of Le Mans in 1997. Still today, it was one of his most authentic, thrilling and incredible races, so I ask him how it felt to climb up to the top step on the podium. Modestly, and with a dash of humility, he replies that it was fantastic. These are the subtleties we can see in people with a big heart. He still likes to attend races today, the 24 Hours, Indianapolis (which he considers technically the most difficult race) and the Munich GP, the three competitions he thinks are the toughest in the world. How did Stefan become a driver? The passion for engines was in his blood, his father Roland was an amateur racing driver. Watching the races was something that came naturally to him, and at the age of eight he began driving a kart, and was racing by the age of twelve. From there to racing on the world’s top Formula One circuits was just a matter of time, and the rest is history. But today, I’m talking to the man who also turned his profound artistic sensitivity into a profession: the art world was always one of his passions, but at one point in the life of a driver something happens, and changes everything. On 14 May 1986, during a practice session on the French F1 circuit Paul Ricard in Le Castellet, the rear spoiler came off the Brabham BT55, travelling at high speed, driven by Elio De Angelis. The car became unstable, hit a barrier and set on fire. Stefan watched the accident, involving his best friend, who died in hospital the following day. “He was an elegant, sophisticated man, a great person. He was my best friend,” he tells me, his voice dropping a tone. We can never find a reason for death, but we can think beyond, processing our pain and turning it into something beautiful. And he decided to start painting, and painting became a therapy that placated his grief. “Painting is like driving, you need rhythm,” he says. For the past six years, his studio has been in Santa Monica, California. The perfect climate, luxuriant nature, the ocean a stone’s throw away: an unbeatable source of inspiration. Browsing his website, I note that his paintings bear the name of stretches of famous circuits: an explosion of colours that make you feel the speed, as if the world slips by carrying with it the landscapes and the people, becoming one before your eyes. This was exactly the effect Stefan wanted to obtain: to make the public understand what it means to drive a Formula One car. My favourite is Tosa, the name of one of the bends at the Imola Race Track, and I see that it is dedicated to his friend Elio De Angelis. Blue is the dominant colour: blue like the sky, blue like infinity. Cars are still a part of Stefan’s life today, managing some IndyCar drivers. But when I ask him if he feels more a manager or an artist, he confesses that today he is certainly more an artist: he loves to collect works of art, but not cars – he adds, laughing – because they take up far more space, and far more time on maintenance. Our time is up, virtually I leave Stefan in the damp warmth of France, where I know he is working on some new artistic projects. The meeting ends. Click. I think back over his stories and suddenly the haiku of a Japanese poet springs to mind. “Barn’s burnt down - now I can see the moon”. Elio De Angelis’ death brought ruins to Johansson’s life, but those very ruins opened a new world to him, made of art and new opportunities. His love of speed hits his canvases hard, and with a little imagination you can see what it must be like to be inside a blender, right before your eyes. Light and colours. I think that Stefan has found his moon.

Our story of the life and heroics of Consalvo Sanesi continues with the breath-taking account of the Milan Grand Prix in 1946. A race that definitively confirmed him as an official driver of the Alfa Romeo Racing Team. Photos by Sanesi Family, Alfa Blue Team, Fabio Morlacchi Archives At last, the war is over in Northern Italy, freed from the ex-German allies on April 25th, 1945. The Alfa Romeo factory in Portello, Milan, was partially destroyed, particularly following the Allied bombings of October 20th, 1944, when the US B.24 Liberators dropped 65 tonnes of bombs on the industrial area to the north of Milan: around 29% of the bombs hit Alfa Romeo. The result? The end of the production of airplane engines, along with the servicing activities, reduced to around 30%. The design and engineering department had been transferred some time before to the banks of Lake Orta to the north of Milan, in the Upper Novara area. The materials for the 158 and 512 racing cars, along with many spare parts, were taken to non-strategic factories in Melzo, a town to the east of Milan, to Abbiategrasso, a small town to the south-west of the Lombardy capital and to warehouses near Lake Orta. The aeronautic factory in San Martino, Pomigliano D'Arco, was also destroyed. After the war, the production resumed slowly only in Milan, with the sophisticated military-version of the 430 truck and a simplified, updated range of 6C 2500 cars. Following the national referendum on June 2nd and 3rd, 1946, Italy became a Republic. On September 1st, the first post-war race was held in Italy. This was the Turin G.P., held at the city race circuit in the Valentino Park. Alfa Romeo raced with the Alfetta 158, still in its pre-war version. The drivers were Nino Farina, Carlo Felice Trossi, Achille Varzi, Jean-Pierre Wimille, plus one new driver: Consalvo Sanesi. Varzi won the race, while Sanesi finished six laps behind. One interesting fact: on the same day, the Coppa Brezzi, a collateral race for Sport cars, marked the début of the Cisitalia D46, the small single-seater designed by Dante Giacosa. Nuvolari, the driver for the brand founded by Pietro Dusio, ended the race a legend, having thrown the steering wheel out of the car during the race and using the lever that fixed it to the steering column. September 27th, 1946, Milan. Over a million flyers printed, hundreds of cubic metres of timber, two thousand bales of straw, hundreds of reams of paper for press releases, a whole army of workers mobilised in the area near Castello Sforzesco, in the city’s central Parco Sempione. In 1910, one of the symbols of the newly-founded ALFA brand – later to become Alfa Romeo – was in fact taken from a decoration on the tower above the main entrance to the castle, the House of Visconti “Biscione” snake. The Alfa factory in Portello, then on the outskirts of Milan, was around 3 kilometres away as the crow flies, to the north-west along the axis that passes from the Arch of Peace along Corso Sempione, the straight, wide city avenue created by Napoleon Bonaparte to link Milan to Paris. It was the first day of the official practice sessions on the III Automobile Circuit in Milan, after the pre-war editions in 1936 and 1937, both won by Nuvolari in the Alfa Romeo in the top “over 1500 cc” category. With the war just over, the Monza Circuit was occupied by remnants of war put up for sale by the State. The choice of track was therefore quite limited. Due to the track being slow and short, the race was held in two 56 km-heats, 20 laps with 11 drivers each, the first 5 of which went on to the 84 km, 30-lap final. Around 80,000 spectators lined up along the tree-lined avenues in the park, most of them arriving by tram or, as they used to say, “on Shank’s pony”, on foot. The tickets for the small grandstands along the route were exorbitant, from 1,100 to 1,500 lire. At 2.15 pm, Prince Caracciolo, President of the Automobile Club d'Italia, lowered the chequered flag. The race set off with a fierce duel between Trossi and Varzi, in Alfetta 158s, Nuvolari and Villoresi in 16-valve Maserati 4CLs. Varzi won the heat, followed by Trossi, Nuvolari and Villoresi. At 3.20 pm the Minister of Foreign Trade, Pietro Campilli, lowered the chequered flag for the 2nd heat, but Farina had a false start, and was followed by all the other drivers. The angry race director, Renzo Castagneto, one of the minds behind the Mille Miglia, stood in the middle of the track waving the red flag. Sanesi started in the second row, and perhaps knocked by another driver, spun the car round and off the track, causing some minor damage to the rear of his 158. He jumped out of his Alfetta, number 32, trying to set it back on the track. He was helped, and this would have been cause for disqualification if the race hadn't been stopped. Starting the race again, Farina was once again quick on the trigger and set off slightly ahead of the others. But this time, the race continued. Farina headed full-throttle into the tortuous track, followed by Sanesi, and Sommer and Cortese in their Maseratis. Sanesi and Sommer battled head-to-head, overtaking each other several times, while Cortese was forced to withdraw from the race with mechanical troubles. Crossing the finishing line were Farina, Sanesi, Sommer. But Farina was given a minute's penalty, and was pushed back into third place. Sanesi couldn’t believe it when he came first in the second heat. At 6.00 pm, Sanesi was in the first row, between Trossi and Varzi. Nuvolari was behind them. Friends and drivers saw Tazio in a pitiful state, coughing and covering his mouth with a handkerchief with traces of blood. The Alfa mechanics arrived. They placed the electric starter shaft into the hole at the base of the grille. The mechanic signalled to Sanesi to set the contact with the magnet. Consalvo turned the switch on the dashboard. After a few revs, the Alfetta engine fired up into life, a cloud of pale blue smoke coming from the exhaust. And a smell of castor oil. In fact, the oil was Ricinavio, also used in aircraft engines. Sanesi saw Marquis Brivio lower the flag, released the clutch and forced the engine to 4,500 rpm. He shot into second place behind Trossi. Farina tried to pass him on the right, getting dangerously close to the edge of the track, where Castagneto - still angry over the Farina’s false starts, waved the rolled-up red flag at him like a club, making him slow down and fall to mid-group. First gear at 7,300 rpm, second gear, first left-hand bend, raising the foot in the turn towards the Arena, then back down on the accelerator, third gear passing through the slight bends in front of the old city stadium, then fourth gear for a short while before turning left towards the Arch of Peace. Consalvo saw Count Trossi head off slowly but surely, and was overtaken by Varzi. Farina put his foot down flat out, and Sanesi could see him in the small rectangular rear-view mirror on the dashboard. Farina overtook him, and then overtook a very surprised Varzi. The track was in good condition, but it was the hard, smooth asphalt used during the Fascist period, long-lasting but without much grip. And what was more, the roads inside the park had quite a humpback camber, to drain the rainwater off towards the flower beds. You had to hold firmly onto the steering wheel, tackling the park roads in the three lower gears; using 4th gear was impossible even though the ratios were short and the diameter of the rear wheels was smaller than usual. Nuvolari’s Maserati didn’t make it, and perhaps did him a favour; he probably wouldn’t have been able to finish the race, having practically lost all his strength. Farina spun off the track near the Arch of Peace. Sanesi drove past him, and saw that people were helping him to get back in the race. Disqualified. At the end of the 30th lap, Sanesi was 34” behind Trossi and 18” behind Varzi. He turned into the final straight, Viale Gadio, just 430 metres long, the finishing line almost exactly half way along Piazza Del Cannone, where Alfa Romeo often took the official photos of its cars. Second, third, chequered flag, and onto the podium! Behind drivers of the calibre of Trossi and Varzi, he couldn’t believe his eyes! Finally the adrenalin began to wane. On his second G.P. in the top formula, the ex-mechanic of Count Brilli Peri, a practically unknown test driver, was finally chatting with the greatest drivers in the pits, and even asked Nuvolari, “How’s it going?” The hugs from the Alfa Romeo directors, mechanics and the public paid him back for all his efforts. Even the usually tight-lipped English described him as “The Man of the Future” in the authoritative magazine ‘The Autocar’. The following day, Sanesi was back at work at Alfa Romeo, head of the experimental vehicle testing department. At the factory, all the workers were over the moon about their colleague’s achievement. The “Alfettas” won first, second and third place, but even more important, one of their own was on the podium. Consalvo Sanesi was a member of the Alfa Romeo Racing Team until the end of Alfa’s grand prix adventure, which ended with the victories in the two first World F1 Championships in 1950 and 1951. Then, on February 15th, 1952, the company board decided to end their F1 participation. Alfa Romeo in any case decided to continue racing in the Sport category, in the Mille Miglia, the Carrera Panamericana, the 24 Hours of Le Mans, and Sanesi was always at the wheel. In the following years, the Hall of Fame of the “Casa di Portello” continued to mark up an impressive number of races of all kinds, with wins and rankings, even by private drivers, helping to consolidate the legend of the company as the manufacturer of sportscars that win everywhere. Sanesi not only continued to work as a test driver, but also continued to race. (To be continued…)

1964 began with a heavy blow: in the first race in Monza I was behind the fierce new Simca Abarths by almost a lap. My Giulietta SZ had seen better days, and so I asked my father to buy me an Abarth 1000, the one with Fiat 600 bodywork and the large radiator protruding from the front. He agreed, though somewhat reluctantly, as he was very fond of the Alfa Romeo brand. This is why I kept the SZ, which I used as a service vehicle. I went to see my friend Pirovano at his body shop and had a tow hook welded to the Giulietta to tow the trailer with the Abarth to races around Europe. Then, at the end of the year, a driver called Mario Saruggia asked me to be his second driver for the Nürburgring 500 km. I had beaten him more than once that season, and perhaps that was why he decided to bring his most feared opponent on board. Saruggia was quite a character, he once told me he had paid an advance of 500,000 lire for a trip to the moon when they started taking civilian passengers… Just like today, at that time there were 120 cars on the starting grid of the Nürburgring 500 km. We were there with Saruggia’s own “Millino” (the Abarth 1000’s nickname, ed.). And then there were Ferraris, Jaguars, Abarth Sports and others. The practice sessions were held on Friday and Saturday, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. On the first day, I woke up at 8 and went straight to the pit. There I was, in my suit and helmet, but Saruggia wouldn’t even let me drive a lap. He said I had to get to know the track first. After all, I was the “guest” and during the race I wouldn’t have driven more than three or four laps. The important thing was that he was prepared and ready. On Saturday morning, the same thing happened. At that point I was very frustrated, and he let me drive two laps in the afternoon. I did the first lap, then the second, and then went back to the pit as agreed. Everyone there was speechless: I was between 5 and 10 seconds faster than the official Abarth drivers. Half an hour later, a man came up to me. “My name is Renzo Avidano,” he said. “I know who you are,” I replied. Avidano was Carlo Abarth’s right-hand man. Then I only knew him by sight, but I had a lot of respect for men like him. At that time, I was little more than twenty, and the fact of being physically small made me seem even younger. “Mr Abarth asked me if you could come to dinner with us this evening,” he said. At the time I didn't pay much attention to the invitation, and as I didn’t want to abandon my own group, I suggested we meet in Turin the following week. Avidano reported back to Abarth and then came back to me. “Mr Abarth is very sorry you can’t make it this evening, but looks forward to seeing you in Turin.” I thought he wanted to offer me a discount on spare parts, but in fact he offered me a contract: five years, 182,000 Lire a month (200,000 less the insurance fee) plus 45% of any prize money. At Abarth they also used to keep 5% for the mechanics too. This was divided among all of them, even those with the humblest tasks. And I carried on this respectful tradition later at Ferrari and Alfa Romeo as well. I went home. I got married. And then, just to ruin it all, I was called up for military service, which kept me away from the race track for eighteen months. But Abarth kept his word, and my place. A great period began with the team when I was discharged, and lasted until 1969, when I was hired by Enzo Ferrari. Carlo Abarth’s knowledge of mechanics was so great that if a driver didn’t give him enough information, he would climb into the cockpit and try the car himself. I remember one particular episode. We were in Vallelunga, where we had to test a particular modification to the front end. He was so convinced that it would work that he stood right in the middle of the Roma Curve, just outside the trajectory, with a newspaper under his feet. I was supposed to drive past him, the car just twenty centimetres away, and tear the newspaper from under his feet with the wheel. Clearly, he trusted his driver and his car, but most of all he trusted himself and his theories. He was a very direct person, with a big heart. More than once, he withdrew from a competition when he didn’t think that the conditions were safe enough for us drivers. Looking back, I think Abarth taught me some great lessons in life. I came from a wealthy family, and I must admit that sometimes I was quite cocky. Abarth took me down a peg or two, he made me realise that if I wanted to do things properly, I would have to behave differently. Thanks to him, I became not only a professional driver but above all a more responsible person.

It happens very rarely if ever, that a designer gets a chance to freely express himself. Free from the Marketing people with their benchmark comparisons of the competitor's offerings, that produce long “check-lists of features” to follow... Yes, exactly, “to follow”! Photos courtesy of Zbigniew Maurer Archive And try to explain them that this practice, while safe and fine for the “followers”, will never result in an original, innovative design and that every designer strives to become a trend-setter rather than a follower. Free from the production engineers with their rigid, platform-based synergies and production-plant related technologies to adopt. They might be satisfactory for the short-sighted economics of production processes but are inherently very limiting for the project. Quite often I had an impression that this great attention paid almost exclusively to the procedures and processes, pushed to the second place the actual final product, the car itself. Free from various “suggestions” which in reality translate into rigid impositions to execute blindly “if you know what's good for you...”. Especially when coming from highly ranked persons, not always competent in design. Nobody in no Design Center will likely serve you an ideal project in total freedom “on a silver plate”. To paraphrase The Rolling Stones “You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometime you find , you just might find you get what you need”. The Diva project was just that. It started in a very circumstantial manner, as an off-shoot of the official concept-car project named Sportività Evoluta or Evolved Sportiness. I was not lucky enough to participate in this very desirable adventure because I was busy leading two “bread and butter” or real production projects, the 938, new “Duetto” spider and 936, Alfa 166 restyling. I can't say I was suffering this exclusion because both mentioned projects were fully absorbing all my energies and were giving me many problems to resolve but also many professional satisfactions. Obviously I was curious about the progress of our Sportività Evoluta concept car project but the more I followed its development the more I realized I didn't quite agree with its philosophy. It was becoming more and more theoretical and detached from the principal rules of good sports car design. It was like a typical “Car Styling School project”, big, heavy and over-complicated. Just the opposite of my idea of Alfa Romeo spirit. In the meantime some big changes happened. The divorce of Fiat Group and General Motors declared, among other things, the sudden death of my Spider project, already at an advanced stage of industrialization. I have already been used to the fact that a good part of the projects started at Centro Stile would stop at some point of their development but still, it was a hard blow. I was very personally and emotionally involved in the Spider project. It was my proposal that first won the internal competition at Centro Stile and later with Pininfarina. Another big change was a sudden change of the responsible of our Centro Stile. As often happens in these occasions, the new boss stopped all the current projects to reorganize them and give them his imprint. This included the Sportivita Evoluta project. It was re-started from the beginning. For me it was an occasion to express my interpretation of the sportiness in the Alfa Romeo way. I had my ideas ready and clear and they were very different from the “official” project which, even under the new direction of Centro Stile, continued as big and heavy car with big, powerful engine, a typical muscle-car. My idea was a sophisticated but compact and lightweight sports car, much in the Alfa Romeo Tipo 33 Stradale spirit. Alfas have always been relatively small and light cars that would often outperform bigger and much more powerful competitors with agility and balanced handling. It was the lap time rather than top speed and acceleration in the straight line that mattered. The official project that later became 8c Competizione with Ferrari/Maserati-derived power train and chassis, was absorbing all attention and resources of Centro Stile with the lighter version gradually abandoned but never definitively stopped. The only way to continue its development was to work on it myself between other official projects with only occasional and limited help since it didn't have its own project number nor the budget and hence officially it didn't exist. It was hard enough to justify the costs of development of one sports car concept, let alone two! But this peculiar situation had its bright sides, because it was a “ghost” project, nobody cared to intervene and I enjoyed an almost total freedom in taking decisions, not only in the styling of the exterior shape but also in the general lay-out. It was a perfect example of Total Design and it became a clear homage to the Tipo 33 Stradale. Now we return to the “white sheet of paper“ situation in which a total freedom can actually be detrimental to the healthy development of any project. To proceed in absence of directives I decided to self-impose a set of strict rules, based on purely technical aspects. It simply followed the traditional Alfa Romeo approach to car design: start with the ideal racing car and then adapt it to the open road use. This was the secret of success of Alfa Romeo sports and granturismo cars in the glorious past. The big problem was that nowadays every competition category is extremely specialized and conditioned by a myriad of peculiar rules what results in racing cars being totally useless outside of their particular category. This situation caused a total detachment of racing cars from road-going cars. So I imagined to design an ideal racing car, not following any specific category but with the only goal to provide the best all-around performance with active driving pleasure in a street-legal, usable and reasonably priced sports car. Naturally I wanted to keep it as much Alfa Romeo as possible. At this time we still had our V6 “Busso” engine in production, few hundred meters from our Centro Stile, actually it was the very last manufacturing activity of the Arese plant... So it seemed natural to develop the car “around” this engine. To keep the project feasible I decided to adopt the entire power train from the contemporary 156/147 GTA cars, gearbox, diff and semi-axles included, simply translated backwards to the rear, centrally located position. I preferred this ready, compact and zero development costs solution to the more “purist” architecture with longitudinal engine location and a Hewland or similarly “exotic” transmission with all relative complications. It was my self-imposed synergy. It also guaranteed perfect proportions and ideal position of the driver and passenger in relation to the wheels. I also decided right from the beginning to respect all the ergonomic and regulatory prescriptions, just like on any production car because for me it was not just another concept car but a serious and fully realistic project. The only “concept” was to prove that it was still possible to design a True Alfa Romeo sports car.

Called to manage the design of the Lamborghini, I felt the need to meet Ferruccio. That was the only way I could absorb that authentic spirit of the cars from Sant’Agata, and find out about the secret of their founder: the obsession for speed. Photos courtesy of Luigi Marmiroli Archive It was January 1985 when Mimran brothers, shareholders in Lamborghini at that time, called me to Sant’Agata Bolognese offering me a job as technical director of the company which, under their jurisdiction, had been renamed “Nuova Automobili Lamborghini”. Eleven years earlier, in a moment of economic difficulty due mainly to Lamborghini Trattori, the founder Ferruccio had sold off shares in his car manufacturing business. Thereafter, he gave it all up, never looked back and retired to a large estate called “La Fiorita”, in Panicale, in the province of Perugia, a lovely little place near Lake Trasimeno. After so many years, the aura of his persona in any case continued to be felt in Sant’Agata Bolognese. His memory remains in the models designed under his management, still in production, as well as the historical cars that came to the company for servicing. Questioned by me, the skilled engineers, workers and managers spoke of him with enthusiasm and warm sentiment. A notice still hung on the wall by the final station on the assembly lines, a message he had put there to encourage quality in everyone’s work. It read: “The next test will be done by the customer.” So I decided to go and visit Ferruccio, to understand the spirit that drove him to create those splendid cars, which I had both the honour and the duty to continue designing. And so, one sunny Easter Monday afternoon, I turned up at “La Fiorita” pretending to want to buy a few bottles of his wine, advertised on the billboards along the roads nearby. Of course, I didn't tell him who I was, not only a new employee of his old business but also an ex-Ferrari engineer from Maranello. I knew the whole story of his row with Commendatore Ferrari. Legend has it that, due to a poorly working clutch mounted on Ferruccio’s own “Prancing Horse”, Ferrari told him he would do better to think about his tractors. At that point, Ferruccio challenged him, saying that he could build much better cars if he wanted to. However the story actually went, Ferruccio really couldn’t stand Ferrari’s arrogance towards him. As Easter Monday is a bank holiday, Ferruccio was on his own at La Fiorita and was more than happy to have someone to chat to. He invited me into the kitchen and offered me a glass of wine. He seemed very proud of his farming origins. He told me how, when he came back from the war, he started to spend time in the ARAR camps (which sold off war materials confiscated from the enemy or war surplus supplies, TN) where the military vehicles abandoned not only by the Germans but also the Allies were stored. He wanted to start building tractors. I told him that, like many farmers from Emilia, my father-in-law had also built a strange self-propelled vehicle using the same components, which he named after the first Lamborghini tractor, “Carioca”. When I got him talking about cars, his already bright eyes lit up even more. He too was a real “Speedholic”! Indeed, and rightly so, he immediately boasted that his cars were the most beautiful and fastest in the world. Ironically, he said they should be fined for speeding even when they were parked in a car park. I instantly realised that this was the first principle of his philosophy that I absolutely had to take on board. What he wanted was for his cars, with their unique, aggressive style, their technology and performance, to stand out against all the other more famous sports car brands of the era. This was the second principle. When he took me to see his garage where, in addition to some of his tractors, on show there were a white Countach and a Miura, he gave the impression that he still owned the company in Sant’Agata. Of course, this wasn’t true, but it was hard for him to admit it. The pride of all he had done in the car world had led him, charmingly, to call the wine he made “Sangue di Miura” (“blood of Miura”). So, the third principle was pride: the pride of belonging to Lamborghini, the pride of designing and building cars that transmitted the glory and thrills of the brand. I left “La Fiorita” with my bottles of wine, which I almost left behind, so pleased for having met a man who was as simple as he was brilliant. As I write these notes, I look through fresh eyes at the painting hanging on the wall opposite. It is dedicated to Ferruccio, from a great friend of his, and now a good friend of mine, Giorgio Gnesda. The drawing is done with great virtuosity, using just a biro. This painting technique is in fact known as “Hyperrealism Ballpoint Pen Drawing”. In a single glance, the painting sums up the life of Ferruccio Lamborghini, who we can certainly place amongst the highest ranks of the automobile stars of the 20th century.

The Germans at Audi were gob-smacked: a car with full rear-wheel-drive couldn’t possibly beat their "Quattro" 4WD. But the Lancia 037 managed to do just that, when in 1983 it outperformed its adversaries and won the World Championship. SpeedHolics had an exclusive interview with engineer Sergio Limone, the father of the Lancia 037, to remember how the Turin-based manufacturer’s first Group B was born, and all its Italian creativity. The prototype of this car – code name SE037-001 – will be auctioned on 15 June 2021 at Sotheby’s. Photos courtesy of Sergio Limone Archive - RM Sotheby's “The ugly duckling wasn’t so ugly after all. Perhaps a little clumsy, because function was more important that aesthetics, but it had its own strong and resolute personality, that it would be able to express as soon as the opportunity arose.” There is something sweet in the words of Sergio Limone, graduate from Turin Polytechnic and a career at Abarth, when he talks of the SE037-001, the prototype that was a forerunner of the Lancia Rally of the same name, winner of the 1983 World Championship, which he developed during a very special period in the history of rallying and the FIAT Group. In the early 1980s, after the decline of the 131 Rally, when the regulations were changing, the racing department in Turin had to decide how to replace its battle horse with a car that could be prepared quickly and, of course, be a winner. Among the various design prospects, Cesare Fiorio – deus ex machina of the long and fruitful sporting season of FIAT Auto – opted both to use the Lancia brand he was particularly fond of and which, with the Fulvia and the Stratos, had a glorious past to be relaunched, leaving FIAT to race in Group A with the Ritmo Abarth, and to use a technical layout with a mid-engine and rear-wheel-drive. “This was a very brave choice, but it was necessary because we didn’t have much time. Although the rally world was shifting towards four-wheel drives, we had to make do with what we had,” Limone recalls, “but we were convinced that the 037 would be competitive off-road and winning on the tarmac, as indeed happened in 1983.” A great responsibility for him too, who meanwhile, aged 32, had become racing car design director, taking over from Mario Colucci who had held the position for years, and who resigned following divergences with the legendary Aurelio Lampredi, then sole director of Abarth. “We certainly couldn’t ground a whole team of engineers, mechanics and drivers for two years, waiting for four-wheel drive to be developed!” Having set up the SE036 model, a prototype with a reticular chassis designed to house a Ferrari V8 engine, the forefather of the SE037 (from the early 1960s, Abarth prototypes used the codes ES and SE) began in partnership with Dallara. At that time, he was working on the Lancia Montecarlo Group 5 Endurance, a mixed-structure chassis with a central body borrowed from the Beta Montecarlo (the only coupé with a steel sheet roof, the following models had bodies with a fold-down canvas roof, in the SE037 replaced with one in plastic) fixed to two front and rear tubular subframes, supporting independent suspensions, front end, engine and transmission. In particular, a lot of precision-work went into every component in the double wishbone suspensions, with very long arms, multi-linked to the chassis to control not only the geometry but also the excursion, all to the advantage of versatility in future suspension adjustments and set-up. “The SE037 prototype is to all extents and purposes a Montecarlo that I modified to suit my needs: it was available immediately, and so it was the quickest to work on.” Sergio Limone joined forces with a model builder, who like a Sabaudian Steve Jobs, worked in a tiny shed no bigger than four home garages. He asked him to widen and lengthen the bodywork, to enhance it and make it appear fiercer, and he placed four round Ferrari-style lights on the rear and four over-sized headlights on the front that made Leonardo Fioravanti, then director of the Pininfarina Style Centre, laugh: “He told me I couldn’t put the outside lights lower than the inside ones, as it made the front look rather sad. But with my inexperience, I had done nothing more than follow the lines of the Montecarlo bonnet.” The SE037, the start and end of Sergio Limone’s career as a stylist, was however the basis for the development of an extraordinary car in many aspects. Starting from winning the World Rally Manufacturers Championship in 1983, the last win by a two-wheel drive in a world that was shifting rapidly towards four-wheel drives, and indeed that same year Hannu Mikkola won the World Drivers’ Championship behind the wheel of the Audi Quattro. The strength of the 037 was the speed at which it was built. First test in 1980, on the day before Christmas Eve, and its racing début in April ‘82: “It was a very short development, considering that everything had to be done, from road homologation to the production of 200 models distributed pretty much everywhere: the fibreglass bodywork was built by Viberti, specialised in industrial vehicles and with a large production capacity. The front chassis, made by Cecomp, and the rear one, produced by Marchesi, were sent to Pininfarina where they were welded to the Montecarlo safety cell before cataphoresis, painting and seat fitting. The prepared cars were then sent to the ex-Lancia San Paolo site, where there was a shed used for small series, and where the SE037s were fitted with the engine, which came from Abarth with the suspensions, and the gearbox, which came from ZF” in Germany. They chose the supercharged engine used in the 131 Rally, but with a Roots-type super-charger, which wasn't available on the market and was built and experimented from scratch: “We had built a turbocharged 037, but it was undrivable. At that time, Abarth also had Lancia Corse, which had experience with this type of turbocharging, but applying it to a rally car was impossible: with the typical ‘heel and toe’ driving style of road racing, the engine couldn’t guarantee the necessary continuous delivery of power”. By adopting the supercharger, the objective of 300 HP and the torque target were easily achieved, making the car perfect to drive. Another advantage of the 037 was its essentiality and the accessibility of the mechanics: “During the race, you could replace the gearbox in 13 minutes, including the stopping time, with the gearbox still hot.” Two curious facts about the project: as the spider bodies had no roof, the racing version was fitted with a roof with two bubbles, “so that two beanpoles like Alen and Röhrl, both over six feet tall, could fit in with their helmets”; and then, in the series version there was no space on the dashboard for the radio, which was “absolutely useless as it was so noisy in the passenger compartment, with the supercharger belts whistling all the time”. The racing début was in 1982, and was a disaster. “We were practically racing with a road car, and we had to pull out of the Rally Costa Smeralda due to a problem with the gear selector.” Without a racing car available, the prototype was also used as a reserve car in the Acropolis Rally, with a temporary A6 plate. The 037’s first success came with a private driver, Teodoro Perugini, in the uphill Svolte di Popoli race in August, while the first rally win came a few months later, in October, at the Pace Petroleum, an English national race that Alen used to gain some experience ahead of the RAC, where the 037 came in fourth place. Not bad for a début in the World Championships. “In ‘83 we got off to a great start with the Montecarlo, also because Fiorio came up with the idea of changing the tyres on the special stage (which was allowed at that time) using spike tyres only on the rear and on the first icy, snow-covered bends, and four slicks on the following stretches of sun-dried tarmac.” A challenging technique that was later developed further, and which required a team of 11/12 mechanics and two trucks, already experimented by Lancia in the longer races with the Fulvia. Then came the wins at the Tour de Corse, the Acropolis, in New Zealand and at Sanremo and the long-awaited Manufacturers’ World title. “On fast ground we were competitive, less so on slower stretches with lots of bends, where the four-wheel-drives had the advantage. I have to say though that we were up against the Audi Quattro, which in its second evolution had a few problems. It was another matter when the Peugeot 205 T16 came on the scene: compact, 4WD, with a mid-rear engine, and nobody could beat that.” But that’s another story, and one that only helps to exalt the story of the 037, the last champion of rear-wheel-drive and the purest essence of motorsport.

Photos by Davide Saporiti Three fascinating, terrible and for better or worse, unforgettable days… We came together this Ferrari F40 and I. We each drew the scorn of the other, and then we found peace. I didn’t drive this F40 – I only photographed it. Given the chance to get behind the wheel, I would still have declined. Clay Regazzoni was the owner, and I wouldn’t have dared drive this machine without a closer bond to his family. But believe it or not, the passenger seat was good enough. Witnessing her power and precision through the lens as she slices through the air in the most sensual ways drew more than enough emotion from me. I first discovered the F40 in the early 1990s, when she was new on the scene and I was just a kid. Fiercely red, that imposingly low center of gravity, and those huge 335 rear tires. Bonnet grills opening up to the sky to reveal the complex innards of a thirsty machine, lusting for petrol and speed. 25 years later, I visit the Clay Regazzoni Memorial in Lugano, Switzerland. It’s an underground garage, a cozy and modest nest, a precious sanctuary that collects the legendary driver Clay's efforts and emotions, without fanfare and without fireworks. There is a mixture of awe and bitterness: it welcomes fascinating relics - vintage helmets marked by battles on the track, countless trophies, memorabilia - but it is so different from any other museum, so "homely" that it really feels like visiting the garage of Clay; it is not just any other museum with cars as perfect as models and the life of a person freeze-dried in the text of an exhibition panel. Regazzoni's own cars are still there, as if he left just yesterday and still hadn't had time to prepare them for the guests. And his death was so sudden, absurd and unjust that you can't blame him. Although he was paraplegic, Clay did not give up the pleasure of sitting in his F40, having her spit blood from the exhaust: he had turned to Guidosimplex to modify his cars with controls that could only be carried out with the hands. Thus, he realized the dream of returning to driving. While racing towards the famous Nufenen pass in his very own Rossa, I observe my colleague Benjiamin at the wheel. The "normal" controls are all there, but he struggles to drive it because the horizontal lever under the steering wheel, with which Clay operated the clutch, is really quite a task for a person who still has the good fortune functioning legs. I think about those who can no longer use their legs and I wonder if I might be able to understand what it feels like to reset everything you have learned in years of driving, perhaps when you are a driver like Clay, who had for years moved his own limbs in a perfect dance – now forced to dance with half a body. I look at my feet struggling to find space in the narrow compartment reserved for them - mostly occupied by the photographic equipment - and I force myself not to complain about the luck I have and take for granted. We are inside Clay Regazzoni's very own F40. The last Ferrari wanted and built by Enzo Ferrari himself. The man who wanted Clay for his team, at all costs. We are talking about a Formula 1 ere that was still raw and merciless. For superior men only. Titans. I don't think I deserve it. And I am ashamed of myself as I observe the cockpit and criticize -- the material of the headliner that is unstuck and the right door that does not close well and the engine that, under three thousand rpm, coughs and sputters like a Beetle struggling to take pace due to the long rest in the garage. What right do I have to judge? What can I know about cars compared to a man who has dedicated his entire life to motors and who has risen to the glory of succes? This is not the usual car of any press office: it is the supercar of a man with whom I have nothing to impress. What am I doing here? The feeling doesn’t linger though. It can’t. Before long, we’re in step, entranced by the majestic pace of this piece of treasure. I come back to my senses as I read terror in Benjiamin's eyes -- he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, while the twin-turbo V8 gallops up to the limiter. There it remains, roaring and firing cannon shots from the exhausts. What the hell is going on? And then I understand: Ben has his foot on the clutch. Try to slow down the car because the accelerator is stuck. Out of pure instinct, I grab the key in the ignition and turn it OFF. The monster calms down and rolls to an inert stop. Silence falls as the accelerator pedal comes back up. We look at each other. We exhale. We will then discover that the fault lies with that cylinder of the manual controls that acts on the gas: every now and then, it blocks the pedal preventing it from returning to the rest position. Quite a scare. This Sword of Damocles, the harbinger of doom, has largely ruined the experience. A shame, because the F40, in itself, is certainly a wild animal, but much more approachable than I imagined: I can only express judgment as a passenger, but I didn’t find the car unmanageable or indomitable as it’s been described by many (stuck throttle aside). Benjiamin also considers it very precise and true. The same boost of the turbo, although really only present over 4000 rpm, is never as violent as many journalists describe it; indeed, it is rather progressive and constant up to the limiter. Of course these are still the turbo of the past, nothing in comparison to the cleanliness and progression of today's supercharged versions. But it is a truly perfect character for a racing car, because the F40 is a real racing car: despite its unsuspected qualities as a traveler (it's a bit like a big Lotus), it is, in fact, a carbon frame covered with more carbon and Kevlar, exotic materials barely covered with a layer of deliberately very thin paint; a huge contrast with the austerity of the leather case for documents, an object too elegant for a car that shouldn't even leave the circuit. The F40 emits a sound which is at times disappointing but undoubtedly Ferrari, with the characteristic Maranello timbre that comes out especially around 3000 rpms; the incessant blowing of the turbo, the bellowing of the wastegate, but above all the cannon fire that it emits in release - barrels that make the hair stand on end, so much so that at first we thought we had lost the exhaust on the street (from the same exhaust, with these eyes I saw leaking fireballs and flames of thirty centimeters). Although the radiators do an excellent job of keeping the hot spirits of the F40 at bay, the heat from the engine behind your back is clearly felt inside the cabin. The more you press on the accelerator, the more the environment fills with petrol and exhaust fumes, which only adds to the feeling of being on board a racing car. It is a mix of conflicting emotions: if on the one hand you feel in the belly of the monster, in a dangerous environment like the beaches of Normandy on 6 June 1944, on the other you realize that the F40 knows perfectly what it is doing and only asks you to be heard. “Don't be afraid” he seems to say, “I'll teach you how to go really fast”. The Nufenen pass like almost all Swiss passes, in all its highly variable weather conditions, is a fantastic location for driving and photographing. Driving through the curves in an F40 in the late afternoon, as the fog slides over the mountainsides and the Ferrari opens its way with the retractable headlights, is an image that I will hardly forget. I couldn't stop smiling while shooting, because, however I framed her, she always made the most of it: there is not a single element of that car that I don't find attractive. Not a single atom of a Ferrari F40 is out of place. And the many curious and passionate people we met, who greeted us and expressed their approval, seem to think the same way – even the envious one who showed us two fingers! After all, he too knows that an F40 is not a simple car to show off at the bar. Day one ended at 9pm, when the tank was empty and our strength gone. By now we had learned to know and respect her and, perhaps, she too seemed to have accepted the thankless task of hosting us for a few hours, because she ran better and no longer tried to kill us. The second day gets off to a bad start though, and ends even worse. Running very late due to unusually intense traffic, I arrive to some tension from everyone. Today, the idea is to take dynamic shots with a support car, so Benjiamin and I are aboard a Golf R and meet the Ferrari at the gas station along the highway, driven by Fabio its trusted caretaker. Filling up both tanks and hitting the highway, we watch that gorgeous rear end whiz north, but quickly we notice a carbon bottom panel is cracked. I suspect we did some damage the previous day, causing an intense rattle to come from the front. Fabio pulls over and stops in the emergency lane. But it’s not for the carbon crack that he’s stopped. He spreads his arms and mutters: "Game over. The clutch is gone". It just makes me think that she, the F40, is showing us who the boss is. She doesn’t want to drive, so she won’t. We open the hood to look for the origin of the problem, while an oil stain of unequivocal origin begins to spread out on the asphalt ... Here is the leaking oil pipe ... It leaks above the engine. Above the hot exhaust and, probably partly from the heat and partly from the morning breeze, an intense yellow flame comes to life and explodes in the engine compartment. "FIRE EXTINGUISHER!" screams Fabio. Benjiamin sprints to the Golf, opens the tailgate, fumbles in the trunk and returns with a small powder fire extinguisher. The precious cylinder passes into the hands of Fabio; a blue puff follows, apparently harmless but robust enough to suffocate the beginning of the fire. I only realize at that moment that I had stopped breathing. Glances cross in silence while the traffic flows on the A2. All eyes are on the small fire extinguisher. Fabio turns it around in his hands with the delicacy and respect he would have reserved for an ancient jewel of inestimable value. What would have happened if Ben hadn't thought about loading it in the car? Maybe nothing; after all, the engine compartment of an F40 is all aeronautical tubes and steel frame. But the speed with which the fire was developing makes me think that there would be a good chance of seeing the F40 up in smoke in minutes, even considering the fact that it was filled to the brim with petrol. Considering that a Ferrari F40 is worth around one million euros today, in bad luck it was a real miracle. Also because, as we soon discover, that old extinguisher has only enough life in it for that one effort, that one puff of powder. Just enough. The Ferrari is wounded in pride as we load it onto the roadside assistance trolley. We have to push it up by hand, since there is no way to screw the tow hook onto the thread. Perhaps this makes her reflect on her temper. A month later, after having made the necessary repairs, she’s back on the road for the third day of shooting – brilliant, sleek and at peace with herself. That’s great for her and us, as we’re able to complete the work and bring you these images. Heartfelt thanks to Clay's family, in particular to his daughter Alessia, for allowing us to live this incredible experience. Visit the Clay Regazzoni Memorial Room: all information on www.clayregazzoni.com.

I never thought I would be a driver. I loved speed and mechanics, but I never imagined that I would have a career in racing. My family worked in the construction field, and my father made no mystery of the fact that one day I was to carry on the business. And in fact, it all happened by chance, after the first race, the Coppa FISA d’Autunno in Monza. I still remember the exact date: 14th June 1962. I was racing in the family Alfa Romeo Giulietta Spider Veloce, wearing race number 300, and I stood my ground against the many more expert drivers and more competitive cars in the race. At that time, the benchmark car was the Giulietta SZ, and after that first race I convinced my father to buy the one that I call the “drop” model, with the round tail. It was white, and to give it a sportier look I painted coloured circles on the bodywork where the race numbers could be applied. The circles were orange or green, and I matched them with a set of wheels in the same colour. I remember that all this work was done at the Pirovano body shop in Erba. The owner’s son was a friend of mine, and on Saturday afternoons, when the business was closed, we could use all the equipment to freely express all our creativity. I also remember that they were the first in the area to have a jig for repairing the Giulietta. It all seemed like science fiction. The first race I took part in with the SZ was the 1963 Coppa Intereuropa. Then I went on to the Tour de Corse, which went something like this: first bend, second bend, end. I went off the road. It was really embarrassing, and you have no idea how difficult it was getting the car home. Then Mario Angiolini, founder of the Jolly Club, called me. He was one of those people who at the time we called “patrons”. Just like in the art world, he was someone who scouted and supported talented young drivers. And he gave me the chance to take part in the Rally of Sardinia, and paid for the petrol, the trip and the hotel. It was my first official engagement, and I was in seventh heaven. I came first in the “GT up to 1300” category. A few days later, a registered letter addressed to me was delivered to my house (in Civenna, in the province of Como ed.). My mother signed for it. “Here,” she said, “let’s see what you’ve been up to this time.” I was twenty years old, and I must admit I was a bit of a tearaway. In the envelope there was a cheque for 1,750,000 lire: it was the prize money from the Rally of Sardinia. To give you an idea, the average salary of a worker at that time was around 80,000 lire. I was still getting over the joy of feeling like a professional driver when I received a phone call from the Jolly Club. They asked me to go in as soon as possible and hand over the cheque, because the prize money belonged to the Club and not the driver. I went in the following Wednesday, in the evening, when the weekly meetings were usually held. I found myself in a room with some of the legends of the time, drivers who raced in some of the most important competition cars. Mario Angiolini was there too. Well, I’d always been a bit of a rebel and so in front of everyone I said that the cheque had my name on it, so it was mine. I left, closing the door behind me, certain that that was the end of my career. Waiting for me in the car downstairs was Anna, my future wife. At that moment, I had my whole life ahead of me. (To be continued…)

A legendary Miura stripped to metal during its revival. Photo by EanoFoto

Photos by Alessandro Barteletti (IG: @alessandrobarteletti) We met Nicola a few weeks ago in Milan. We'd spotted his car on Instagram in June --a Ford GT40 replica with its own profile, detailing the passion and dedication he's put into the project. After a brief exchange of messages and a phone call, we knew we'd have to talk in more depth. You can immediately recognize people who are passionate about cars even from the first call. A few words to introduce ourselves, then a deep dive into the story of the car itself. Here's what we talked about when we met up in Milan: "The GT40 is a legendary car, an icon" SpeedHolics: The Ford GT40 is something of a milestone car in motor sport history. It's the embodiment of the very human passion for speed, races and cars. How would you sum it up? Nicola: The GT40 is a legendary car, an icon. Even someone with no concern for sports cars can see this. If you saw it in the GULF livery, without even knowing it's a Ford, without even knowing about those 4 consecutive Le Mans victories, you'd still recognize that it's a symbolic car. I first recognized this when I was a child, and it's stayed with me ever since. SH: So how did you come to own this replica? Nicola: My passion for cars has led me to having an understanding of their value, so actually owning one was always beyond me -- it was just a dream. But over the years, thanks to some of my own achievements, as well as some fortunate events, I've been able to own a few cars great sentimental and historical value for me. These have alternated between Italian super sports cars and American muscle cars, both of which I'm deeply fond of. Of course, the GT40 is one of these. "I had to own a GT40 MKI Wide Body." SH: What is so special about the GT40? Nicola: As I said, the GT40 has been always in my dreams, and I still believe she represents the two aspects that I like the most in cars: the instinctive and unfiltered driving feeling of super sport racing cars, and the charm and elegance of a classic car. Then there's the legacy of the car -- its most famous victory is certainly the one at Le Mans in '66, also known for the popular movies made about it. However, the most incredible and unexpected victories came with John Wyer and the legendary GT40 p1075, the only car that won for two consecutive years at Le Mans with the same chassis number. In 1968, a change in regulations increased the allowed engine cubic capacity to 3 litres for prototypes and to 5 liters for sports cars. This resulted in the abandonment of the MIRAGE, and the JWA team resumed the "old" GT40 MKI, modifying it and widening it heavily, and coming to mount rims with 10" and 14" channels. It was a project born four years before in 1964 which had to compete with the Porsche 908, and in 1969 with the brand new 917 long tail! Nevertheless, two wins came which are somehow unbelievable, two romantic victories, so I never had doubts: I had to own a GT40 MKI Wide Body. SH: Few companies make good replicas of the GT40, as is often the case for extraordinary cars built in very small series. Where did you find yours? Nicola: During my research, in which I scoured the world, the replicas I found did not properly represent my idea of the GT40. In my personal opinion, 17" rims, electronic injections, internal alcantara, and A/C do not do justice to a car born and developed to race on the track. So buying one of those replicas with the intention of re-building it from scratch anyway made no sense to me. At the end of 2015, in my obsessive search on the web, I found a Tornado chassis + body kit of an MKI to be built from scratch. It was for sale from a mechanical workshop, they were experts in vintage car restorations. I immediately gave them a call and the day after, I drove to Veneto. When I go there, I fell in love with that rough piece of a GT40. I also met its owner, a wonderful man called Giampaolo, a true enthusiast and lover of the GT40. He sold it to me with a broken heart, but the good news was that the rebuild project was underway! The goal of the restoration and construction project was set from the beginning: create a GT40 that "smelled" of races, that drove like the original one from the late 60s -- a tribute to the incredible victories of 68 and 69. "There is no original GT40 with a perfectly symmetrical camber." SH: There seems to be something special with the wheels? Nicola: Yes. The normal commercial kits, even if they're a wide body, do not exceed 10 inches of channel. We therefore turned to a specialized company and had the replica of a single-nut BRM, able to accommodate 345/35 R15 tires. However, to accommodate such wheel size, the rear suspension tie rods had to be optimized and reinforced with more generously sized arms and new pivoting heads. The entire front axle has also been redone from scratch, creating a castle to attach the triangles of the front suspension, as the original one was undersized. Having to widen the rear fenders, instead of giving in to the convenience of a kit for sale, I preferred to modify the fenders by hand, as it was done at the time. This is why, as is well known, there is no original GT40 with perfectly symmetrical camber, simply because they were not derived from molds. "The use of an electronic injection or a classic single carburettor was unthinkable." SH: What about the Engine, and the injection? Nicola: The engine is an original Ford 302 which I got disassembled from a '69 Mustang. It has been completely revised and prepared for racing up to stage 2. We expect a power of about 430 hp, a test will be done after proper run in. Another strong point of the project was the carburettors. The use of electronic injection or a classic single carburettor was unthinkable! The car required the eight trumpets. Being a racing car, the choice was obligatory: Weber IDA 48, notoriously difficult for carburetion. But after a couple of specific jet kits for the characteristics of the 302 Ford and the mounted camshaft, they started to perform better. The engine mounts have also been cut and modified to lower the power plant as low as possible, thus lowering the center of gravity of the car, significantly increasing the dynamic balance. "Driving this car is a visceral, physical sensation." SH: How does it feel on the road? Nicola: Direct steering without power steering, without electric aids, can be terribly hard to maneuver, but also perfect in movement. It's almost as though you're touching the asphalt with your hands. Through the steering wheel you can perceive every little imperfection of the road. No power steering, no air conditioning and, at the beginning, NO power brakes. It was hard, and after various tests and modifications I had to give in to make the car safer. But, I can still turn off the brake master cylinder from inside the passenger compartment, to give a driving experience as similar as possible to the original one. The control is located right next to the mechanical braking distributor. The driving experience is enhanced by the interiors, no alcantara, no leather on the dashboard, just painted metal and written commands made with the dynamo in vintage style. I could keep describing details of construction and design but I would still not be able to convey the intensity of the driving experience. It is not just driving a super sports car or a vintage car -- it's a visceral, physical sensation, where everything brings us back to a lost era dominated by the smell of gasoline, passion and madness. SH: Will you ever bring her to the race track? Nicola: Of course yes, she was made for that purpose "After this GT40, another GT40!" SH: What's next for you after this GT40? Nicola: Another GT40?! SpeedHolics carried out this interview in July 2020 in Milan, Italy. Our special thanks go to: Nicola, (IG @gt40milano) who made the car available and contributed to the texts; Alessandro Barteletti, (IG @alessandrobarteletti) who brought it to visual life. The effort he spent on the photo shoot was remarkable, as well as the study of light and shadow and the scenery. Everything he did brought even more life to this GT40, like it was just out of a racing mechanical garage; GP Autofficina, (www.gp-autofficina.com) who supported Nicola on building the car and on making it available for the shoot.

The race-ready version of the Lancia Fulvia Sport Zagato was built in only 27 examples. One of those was apparently lost, until some time ago. Photo by Alessandro Barteletti (IG: @alessandrobarteletti) The Lancia Fulvia is a multi-faceted phenomenon -- a car that, in its various guises, is inextricably linked to the cultures of both motor racing and everyday life in the 60s and 70s. Those who lived through that era may remember it as the sedan for family outings. Others may remember it as the Coupé that fanciful young men took for a spin along the busy promenade -- the road their catwalk. Characters like Sandro Munari, Sergio Barbasio and Harry Källström will think of the HF versions and see it as the vessel that delivered them to pinnacle of the rallying. And for those who really wanted to stand out there was the Sport, the version developed by Zagato. Launched in 1965, the Fulvia Sport was a coupé as elegant as it was original and successful. The first series of car built by Milan-based Zagato with over 7,000 units, it was also the very first Zagato car with a to boast a steel body. Only the first 900 built were hand-beaten aluminum, as per tradition. But not everyone knows that among these, there are 27 that are even more special and precious: The unofficially titled "Sport Competizione". It's a cult object today and an extremely rare specimen, and it's one we're lucky to have some great images of. The Sport, and more particularly the "Competizione", was built in a light aluminum frame, reminiscent of the poetry of Italian motoring in the late 60s. A blend of beauty and performance as the signature, refined look of Zagato chief stylist Ercole Spada meets the genesis of the Lancia Racing Department, whose birth and success owes a great deal to the Fulvia Sport. Elio Zagato himself played a role in the origin story of the Sport. It was he who followed his intuition and tasked the young Ercole Spada, a promising young talent with some pedigree, to design a more aerodynamic profile for the Fulvia. Spada took up the challenge with gusto, tying everything together with a characteristic sharp edge which runs around the perimeter of the car. This served a dual-purpose, stiffening the panels and emphasizing the geometric component of the design, including the grille shape and headlight fairing. When it debuted in 1965, the Sport inherited the mechanics of the 1.2 Coupé. While the horsepower remained at the standard 79, the lighter weight peraluman bodywork coupled with the new aerodynamics and new bridge ratio boosted the Zagato's top speed to 168km/h. It may only have been an 8 km/h improvement, but it was enough to pique the interest of Cesare Fiorio, sporting director of the Chivasso company at the time. Cesare suggested to his father Alessandro, himself a Lancia manager, to commission a first "laboratory" car with lightened bodywork to spearhead a small series for the Racing Team and interested private racers. Thus, the first "Competizione" was born. The car was assembled to several specifications, including the plexiglass windows (except for the windscreen), the enlarged wheel arches with riveted tail ends, and Campagnolo 6Jx13 magnesium alloy wheels. The most evident feature of the Competizione would be the drilling of the sheets, performed by hand by the Zagato engineers. Side members, cross members, steering box, sills, the works -- even the left and right sides were often treated differently, based on the tracks on which the cars would run. The first three Competizione featured a customized “Amaranto Montebello” livery, already seen on the Fulvia HF. On the fourth, the brand new "Rosso San Siro" made its debut -- a deep orange that would characterize the rest of the production (with the exception of one white offering). The interior was reduced to the essentials -- door panels, side bolsters and seats covered in nautical-inspired stretch vinyl fabric and characterized by an unusual bright turquoise color. Althrough created for competition, the Sport Competizione was supplied to customers by hiding the more modest Fulvia mechanics under the hood. The 1.2 and 1.3 liter engines were on occasion prepared to obtain different cubic sizes and powers. This was the case for the most famous Competizione, the 1911 chassis. It was the very last Sport with an aluminum body. Equipped with an upgraded 1.6-liter engine and 154 horsepower, Claudio Maglioli and Lele Pinto won their class in 1969 at the 12 Hours of Sebring (11th place overall) and at the 24 Hours of Daytona (17th overall) in this model. The following month, the same crew also took first place in their class at the 12 Hours of Sebring. The Sport Competizione also earned itself respected in Europe, collecting several category victories in grueling endurance races such as the 1000 km of Monza or the 1000 km of the Nürburgring, as well as the always fascinating Targa Florio, won in 1968, 1969 and 1971. Owning an original “Competizione” today is a privilege for only a select few. It's a car for true lovers and connoisseurs, the kind reserved for those who are willing to wait years before owning it. In some cases, chasing it by following scattered clues traces left by the vicissitudes of a specific chassis number. This is the story of the Fulvia Sport 1.3 Competizione, chassis 1904 -- featured in these images. Sold new in March 1968 by Saicar of Milan, the only dealership in charge of dealing with the Lancias built by Zagato, the car was purchased by Stefano Salvi, a gentleman driver in force at the famous Jolly Club. The engine was then developed according to the regulations of the time by Gino De Sanctis, and it included a side exhaust, a short-ratio gearbox for uphill racing, roll bar and an increased 90-liter tank, useful for "long" races such as the Mugello Road Circuit. Salvi and his "Competizione" (with the original plate "Roma", as shown here below) competed for a couple of seasons on the circuits and hill climbs all over Italy: Mugello Grand Prix, Svolte di Popoli, Rieti Terminillo, Camucia Cortona, before finally stepping away from racing. Photos by Archivio Actualfoto Bologna The car then ended up in the hands of a Roman playboy and sports car collector. An amateur driver, he had the Fulvia further developed at the famous Macciocca workshop in Rome, adding oversized carburetors, a short-lever gearbox, lowered set-up and other tricks for use on the track. But the new owner was fickle, and quickly fell for other models. Thus, he sold the Fulvia not long after investing in it. Our Competizione then changed hands a couple of times before finding a home, in 1975, in the garage of a certain Claudio Grazioli, who converted it for road use. He removed the roll bar, added a rear seat and repainted it in an unlikely metallic green. Alas, it was in an accident, and had to be dismantled and abandoned in a field. Then came the years where the Fulvia Sport lost value and was bought and sold for pennies. What no one suspected was a rare racing specimen hiding under the hood of that ruined, abandoned car. Nobody except Giorgio, the current owner, that is. A Lancia Fulvia enthusiast, Giorgio says that at least twenty have passed through his garage. But for Giorgio, the "Competizione" had long been an unfulfilled obsession. Giorgio painstakingly searched for Chassis 1904 in speciality books, and patiently traced its movements over the years. After 40 years, he located the 1904 in the exact spot where Grazioli has left it -- falling into ruin. It was in a pitiful state, but the original plates and documents had survived. Giorgio entrusted his adopted "Competizione" to the skilled hands of the Ligurian specialist Roberto Ratto, a reputed name in the Lancia restoration world. Ratto, in turn, sought out the help of Gianni Tonti, at the time technical manager of the Racing Department. Thus, work began. And now it is done. Thanks to rigorous research, and total care, "Competizione" chassis 1904 has been returned to its former glory, meeting the technical configuration set up in Rome by Macciocca in 1970. The result? 128 horsepower, 850 kilos, countless value.