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In the year of the sixtieth anniversary of the foundation of Alfa Romeo’s glorious “racing department”, Luigi Marmiroli remembers to return of the Milan-based car manufacturer to Formula 1 racing and the personality of the great Tuscan designer, a gruff and explosive character but at the same time ironic and modest man. And with a huge love for dogs Pictures courtesy of Luigi Marmiroli Archive As I already mentioned in previous articles, I met many people from the car world during my career, and particularly in the competition field. Carlo Chiti (1924-1994), aeronautic engineer, occupies an important place, not only because of his physical size but above all for his genius and his technical yet human personality. This year is the 60th anniversary of Autodelta, which he founded in Udine in 1963. The company was soon bought out by Alfa Romeo and, once moved to Settimo Milanese, in practice became its racing department. The department that was unexpectedly closed in 1951. Many cars designed by Carlo Chiti left the newly-founded production site, and for over twenty years were protagonists in a number of championships. The main ones are shown on the cover page: from the first versions of the Alfa Romeo road cars to the 1977 Formula1. At the time, Alfa Romeo was a state-owned company, stuffed with bureaucracy, slow decision-making, personalism and intrusive trade unions. Chiti spent a long time defending himself from these issues, which somehow slowed down and hindered his work that, on the contrary, required fast, flexible decisions. Many drivers raced with Chiti’s Autodelta cars: I counted over eighty, almost all famous, both Italian and foreign. The pictures here are only of the drivers who I assisted on the track. There are other interesting stories to be told of the others. One in particular concerns Niki Lauda. Chiti and Autodelta joined the Formula 1 world supplying engines to Bernie Ecclestone’s Brabham-Alfa Romeo, the team for which Niki Lauda was the main driver. Then, the Alfa Romeo directors, who soon became unsatisfied with the partnership with Brabham, allowed Chiti to design an all-Italian Formula 1 car: the 177, AKA the Alfa-Alfa. But they asked Niki Lauda to assess the design. Niki Lauda got on his soap box after testing the car at the Le Castellet circuit in France and immediately gave his peremptory opinion: “It’s like driving a tank!”. Clearly surprised and annoyed, Chiti got his own back when, on the Zolder circuit in Belgium, his Alfa-Alfa 177, with Giacomelli on his début – it was 1979 – recorded practically the same time obtained during the test runs by the pouting world champion Niki Lauda. Despite this great début, soon afterwards Chiti almost risked seeing his Formula 1 dream disappear. Only the great popular consensus expressed during the Monza G.P., literally submerged in thousands of flyers like the one in the photograph here, allowed him to continue with his adventure. Starting from 1977, I had the pleasure and the honour - along with my partner Giacomo Caliri at Fly-Studio in Modena - to become an external technical consultant for Chiti, until the end of 1984. I therefore had all the time in the world to get to know him well. This is why I would like to devote this article to him. I remember that when we went to meet Chiti for the first time, during the journey to Settimo Milanese we had imagined we would be welcomed by an elegant secretary and accompanied into his grand executive office. Quite the opposite. Chiti was sitting behind a small black desk overflowing with folders containing his many projects “in progress”. He played nervously with the folders as he spoke. The office was a small room where, in addition to two simple chairs, there was a glass cabinet and a coffee table with a telephone on it. A small window poorly lit the room, stuck between the Design office and the Workshop. Ironic and gruff, like many Tuscans, we were immediately bowled over by his warmth and great modesty. An unrepentant dog-lover, next to Autodelta he had set up a kennels for stray dogs, looked after by his veterinary friends. The left-overs from the employees’ canteen ended up directly in the kennels, and some of these dogs wandered freely around the site. Often he would invite me for dinner at home, where his mother-in-law was a splendid cook. This was how I had the chance to appreciate his immense culture, that went beyond the technical. After dinner he would relax in an armchair with one of his two beloved dogs. With his permission, I took a photo - attached here - where you can see all his huge passion for these animals. He was always hungry, and loved to eat with friends. During the lunch breaks at the grand prix, he would quickly wolf down what was in his own plate and then reach over with his fork to steal the food from the other people’s plates. A free spirit, during his career Chiti came up against much criticism, which he always thought to be absolutely unfounded. His reaction to this was often immediate and explosive. But he calmed down quickly, with a wonderful phrase that derived from his Tuscan origins. Although hard to translate, I hope the contents can be understood. Of his critics, he would say: “They’re so stupid that even in the stupid championships they’d come in second.”

Based on the Topolino, the early work of the great Tuscan designer anticipated many of the cornerstones of his vision, starting from the concept that a car must be designed to serve aerodynamics, and not vice versa Drawings courtesy of Massimo Grandi The little car – AKA the “Macchinetta”, as it was called – came about as a study/prototype, and is still the only example existing today. It was assembled between 1952 and 1953 by Giotto Bizzarrini while he was finishing his mechanical engineering degree at Pisa University, but contrary to what we have frequently read, it wasn’t the subject of his thesis. His thesis was on the theoretical and practical study of the engine of the Nimbus 750 motorcycle, a 4-cylinder, air-cooled model, examining possible modifications to obtain greater performance and how to adapt the chassis of the Fiat 500 to install the engine. During his thesis, Bizzarrini envisaged the possibility of using the Nimbus 750 engine for his Topolino, but as we will see he gave up on this idea. This was a car that in 1948 was adapted as a "Sports Type Barchetta" by the previous owner Amedeo Menegon; Bizzarrini bought it in 1952 and rebuilt it with the mechanic Oreste Pasqualetti from Pisa, who assembled the new aluminium bodywork designed by Giotto himself. The engine used was a 1952 500 B (No. 347591) which originally had a cast iron head (while the 500 C had an aluminium head): this was a 569 cm3 straight 4-cylinder with 16.5 HP. To increase the power, Bizzarrini replaced the head with one developed by Siata (Società Italiana Applicazioni Tecniche Auto Aviatorie) in Turin: with 2 Dell'Orto carburettors, it had a pneumatic injection system that cut in when the rpm and intake manifold depression were low, thus giving the “Macchinetta” a variable power of between 25 and 30 HP and a maximum speed of 145-155 km/h. Compared to the original position, the engine/gearbox unit was moved closer to the passenger compartment to improve the balancing of the weights of the car and use a shorter drive shaft, which would allow the front bonnet profile to be lowered. The radiator was then moved in front of and no longer behind the engine, allowing the engine to be moved closer to the bulkhead: this was the same arrangement we find in Bizzarrini’s elaboration of the Ferrari 250 Boano to set up the 1961 GTO prototype, the so-called “Papera”, and again in the Ferrari 250 Breadvan adapted from a Ferrari 250 SWB previously owned by the driver Olivier Gendebien. It is from these solutions based on purely aerodynamic choices that we have to interpret all the works of Giotto Bizzarrini the designer: this goes for his Topolino as well as all his subsequent car production. The idea was always the same: the aerodynamics had to guide the design, and therefore the shape of the car, not vice versa. “My passion for aerodynamics,” he said, referring precisely to the Macchinetta, “comes from my time at university in Pisa, where I had built an aerodynamic little car based on a FIAT Topolino chassis, which reached 150 km/h. It was there that I first heard of Kamm’s theories on the K-tail.” Giotto always based his passion for aerodynamics more on experiment than on theory. Certainly, as he states himself, he learned the theories of Kamm, Koenig and Jaray, with his 1921 patent, but from the Macchinetta onwards he applied principles that also remained unchanged in the “Papera”, the Breadvan and his Bizzarrini 5300 road version: a low front, the engine as central as possible (obviously we’re talking about front-engine cars) and a high K-tail. He said, “In the late Fifties, sports cars were still based on aerodynamics that were 40 years old, which tried to give the bodywork a winged profile, a winged profile on 4 wheels. The result was high, solid rounded fronts, hosting a front engine and low, tapered tails. I was convinced that we had to do the exact opposite: a low, tapered front to reduce the drag and prevent it from lifting up, a high K-tail to reduce the wake turbulence, improving the drag even more, as Prof. Kamm demonstrated. The cars of the time would have run better in reverse!!!” Of course, he was referring to the famous “thick wing” line that was very common from the late 1930s to the 1950s, as we can see in this example of a Fiat Stanguellini. In Bizzarrini’s very first work, in any case, we can see his special attention to Kamm’s experiments. If for instance we look at the K2 prototype designed by Kamm and built by Wendler on a 1938 Mercedes 170 V chassis, certain similarities can be found, even though Bizzarrini’s design is a modern interpretation of this. The rear end design, for example, with the rear window divided into three parts, even seems to anticipate that of the 1958 twin-shaft Fiat-Abarth 750 Monza Zagato. A similar solution had however already been seen in the 1939 Alfa Romeo 2900 8C Touring Superleggera. The rounded, egg-shaped tail is of course reminiscent of the 1951 Ferrari 166 MM/212 Berlinetta “Uovo”, designed by Franco Reggiani for Carrozzeria Fontana on specific instruction of Count Giannino Marzotto. And if we look more generally at the “Topolino”- based sports berlinettas, such as the 1949 Patriarca 750 Sport Faina or the 1948 Fiat 500 Berlinetta Maestri, we can immediately see how Bizzarrini’s shapes are far more different, already looking to a new season of Italian design. The only berlinettas that, only in design terms, can be likened to that of Bizzarrini are the 1951 Giannini 750 berlinetta, clearly inspired by the Ferrari 166 berlinetta “Panoramica” Zagato, and the Topolino 500 Panoramica, again by Zagato. Certainly, the Macchinetta was a work of his youth, and cannot be compared to his later works, but it remains a small masterpiece of design and genius. Indeed, when Enzo Ferrari welcomed Bizzarrini to Maranello in 1956, seeing his Topolino, he exclaimed: "When you have built this car and driven it over the Abetone Pass and down to Modena, you can come and work at Ferrari.” -- Massimo Grandi, architect and designer, previously director of the Car Design laboratory at the Design Campus of the Department of Architecture at the University of Florence. Member of the ASI Culture Commission. Among his published works: “La forma della memoria: il progetto della Ferrari Alaspessa”, “Car design workshop”, “Dreaming American Cars”, “Ferrari 550 Alaspessa: dall’idea al progetto”, “Quando le disegnava il vento”, “Il paradigma Scaglione”, “La più veloce: breve storia dei record mondiali di velocità su strada” (with others).

In the year in which the Bull blew out its first sixty candles, the engineer Marmiroli remembers the genesis and “behind the scenes” of the car that was born to celebrate its thirty years: a brutal, uncompromising car that hides a detail that warms even the hardest hearts. Pictures courtesy of Luigi Marmiroli Archive In 1963, Ferruccio Lamborghini set up the company that still bears his name today, and soon after presented its first creation: the 365 GTV. In 2023, celebrating the 60th anniversary of the founding of Automobili Lamborghini, under the aegis of the Audi Group, it has unveiled the brand-new Revuelto. Well, in 1993 - exactly in the middle of these two dates - with the then-owners of the US Chrysler, we presented the Diablo SE30 Special Edition to celebrate the 30thanniversary of the foundation of Automobili Lamborghini, as the official poster shows. Only 150 SEs, derived from the Diablo, were built, and were numbered with a silver plate affixed beneath the left-hand side window. Instantly christened a car that was even more of a “Diablo” than the original Diablo, it became the competition version even though it was type-approved for road use. Once again with the style input of Marcello Gandini, the aerodynamics of the base car were significantly improved. What changed the appearance was an original front bumper, a winged profile bonnet, the rear spoiler with an adjustable flap. The innovative and unusual interiors, the same for all 150 cars, came in an egregious purple colour. The specially designed paint varied the colour shade depending on the point of observation, as shown in the pictures here. The doors were made from lightweight plastic and had a small wind-up window like the closed competition cars. We deliberately removed the ashtray, the cigar lighter, the hi-fi and aircon systems: in our opinion, true drivers of a brutal car like the Diablo SE30 had to sacrifice comfort for performance. On the other hand, we added three major components that were typical of competition cars, including four-point seat belts that held both driver and passenger in rigid seats, making them feel at one with the car. In the event of an emergency, a protected button activated an extinguisher system, like the ones in Formula1 cars. A roll-over bar, required by competition regulations, and an electronic inertial system that cut off the petrol circuit in the event of a collision, made the car even safer. The test driver Valentino Balboni, alongside an engineer who was recording the data, found himself involuntarily having to check (and luckily pass) the safety test. On a country road, as ever pushing the car to the limit, he ran off the road and hit a full row of pear trees. Under the disbelieving eyes of the farmer, both men got out of the car unharmed. The over 525 HP available were hard to manage, and for this reason we adopted a brand-new TCS (Traction Control System) derived from the Formula1, which made the car stable even with sudden variations in the road hold. At a maximum speed of over 330 km/h and a 0 to 100 km/h acceleration under 4 seconds, the performance was very impressive. The S.E. significantly increased the technological contents, but I explicitly wanted to add an old, poor and non-technological component, positioned emphatically right in front of the driver. In the centre of the brand-new, ergonomic steering wheel, I had a horn button, bearing the Bull, fitted, the same one used on the first Automobili Lamborghini car, the 1963 350 GTV. The button was recovered from a dusty old warehouse… The intention was to remind the lucky Diablo S.E. owner that there was a continuity with the past that had to be maintained over time, the same mission that Automobili Lamborgini has always had: to thrill its customers.

With Audi dominating endurance races, diesel has earned the respect of motorsport only in recent times. But there is a story that dates back to before the Second World War, when a group of designers managed to show the world that diesel engines could do much more than merely power tractors… Drawings courtesy of Massimo Grandi On 27 February 1892, Rudolf Diesel obtained the German patent no. 67207 for his engine: “Neue rationelle Wärmekraftmaschine“, the “diesel” engine. The idea was to increase the efficiency of steam engines and the first petrol engines which needed only the high temperature generated by the air compressed in the combustion chamber to ignite the fuel, thus eliminating the ignition device used in internal combustion engines. This new engine offered many advantages in terms of performance, especially its weight, but unfortunately initially it could only be used in fixed installations. And indeed we had to wait until 1903 to see the first applications of the diesel engine in the nautical field, and in 1912 for its first application on a train in Germany. After the Great War, the use of diesel engines spread quickly among heavy-duty vehicles, trucks and agricultural machinery. The first flight of a plane with a diesel engine took place in Michigan in 1928, the Stinson SM-1DX with a Packard Aero diesel engine. In the second half of the 1920s, diesel engines for cars began to be considered for production in Germany and in France, as this offered both lower consumption and the production of diesel required fewer refining processes than petrol. Finally, in February 1936 at the Berlin Motor Show, Mercedes presented the first mass-produced car with a diesel engine, the 260 D. Again in 1936, in October, at the Paris Motor Show another German company, Hanomag, presented its diesel car, the Tipo Rekord D 19. Hanomag was founded in Hanover, Germany, in 1835. The company was specialised in steam engines, but soon moved on to trains, rolling stock and agricultural equipment. In 1925, Hanomag ventured into the car market with a small utility car that was officially called the 2/10 CV, but was better known as the "Kommissbrot". Built mostly from plywood covered in fake leather to waterproof it, it was powered by a single-cylinder 500 cc engine mounted at the rear, and the Kommissbrot was one of the typical cyclecars of the time. However, it became highly popular, selling almost 16,000 cars. The success of the Kommissbrot led Hanomag to expand into the mass-production of cars. In 1928, they introduced a more conventional car, the 3/16 CV. This was replaced in 1931 by a new, small car called 1.1 Litre. However, it was the introduction in 1934 of the 1.5 litre Hanomag Rekord that led the company to success in the German car market. The Hanomag Rekord was the company’s first mid-range model, introduced as the 6/32 PS in the autumn of 1933 and taking the name Rekord in February 1934. As early as 1928, Hanomag had begun works and studies to develop a diesel engine. Initially, the engine was designed for tractors and agricultural machinery, because the then “defects” of the diesel engine, high noise levels and strong vibrations, limited its use to vehicles that didn’t have to ensure comfort for the driver. In 1936, however, the designers succeeded in creating a compact 1600 cc four-cylinder unit, suitable for installation on a road car. The engine was shown to the public at the Berlin Motor Show in 1936, but where, as mentioned, Mercedes presented a finished diesel car, the 260 D. In fact, even when the complete car was launched in October of the same year, in Paris, the Hanomag Rekord D 19 A Diesel was not in direct competition with the Mercedes 260 D, which was in a different segment, in the mid-car range and so with a lower and more accessible price for the general public. But on the market things didn't go as planned, the diesel version was hard to sell, and of the 19,000 Hanomag Rekords sold only 1,097 were powered by a diesel engine, and so wishing to promote and advertise the efficiency of its diesel engine, the Hanomag management decided to look to the sportscar world, aiming to conquer the speed record in the under two litres diesel car category. And thus came the Hanomag-Diesel-Stromlinien-Sportwagen, obtained by coupling a standard Hanomag Diesel Rekord chassis with a 1900 cc D engine. The standard D engine was designed to save fuel, not for high performance. In fact, the difficulties in adapting the technology of the first fuel injectors to achieve more power was seen as one of the weak points of the diesel engine. In any case, the team of engineers were able to develop the engine, giving it a bit more punch, but with its 40 HP it could certainly not be described as a high-performance engine, so to compensate the lack of power Hanomag worked on the weight and the aerodynamics, adopting aluminium bodywork with a tubular over-chassis. To produce and assemble the body, Hanomag turned to Wendler in Reutlingen, while for the aerodynamic design they hired Lazar Schargorodsky, and especially the man who we can consider as one of the fathers of, if not the absolute father of, the scientific application of the principles of the principles of aerodynamics to cars: the Austrian aeronautic engineer of Hungarian origins, Paul Jaray. As explained, the Sportwagen was based on the chassis and mechanics of the Rekord D19. An over-chassis in aluminium pipes was then welded to the chassis to support the body. The car designed by Jaray faithfully reproduces the diagrams in his patent which, as we know, was substantially based on the principle of a car consisting of two volumes: one bodywork base with different shapes, but with a constant winged profile, on which a second, drop-shaped volume rested. But Jaray didn’t only patent a car shape, but even a kind of handbook of aerodynamic shapes divided into longitudinal, transversal, front, rear and plan sections that could be cross-referenced and recomposed while always assuring excellent aerodynamic functions. Our Hanomag, for example, corresponds exactly to the combination QA-AA-og-511 of the patent. This same combination had been applied by Paul Jaray in a previous project: the 1923 Ley Stromlinien-Wagen. 15 years had passed between the two models, yet little had changed and Jaray remained true to his language. Here it is not a matter of style codes, but rather the continuity of the application of those shapes and those solid geometries that he felt were more aerodynamically efficient, with no concessions to appearance. However, as I wrote in previous articles, the absolute search for aerodynamic efficiency can add a personal touch of consistent beauty to these special cars, giving them an undoubted charm that still remains today, almost a century later. In any case, whatever the appearance, the aerodynamic efficiency of the Hanomag Stromlinien was demonstrated by its performance. Despite its small engine, from 8 to 9 February 1939, on a brand-new stretch of the motorway near Dessau, the Hanomag D19 Rekordwagen Diesel driven by Karl Haeberle, a Hanomag engineer, broke a total of four records: the flying 5 km at an average speed of 155.954 km/h, the flying Mile at an average speed of 155.450 km/h, and the kilometre and mile from a standing start with respective averages of 86.87 km/h and 94.481 km/h. Despite this success, the Hanomag D19 Rekordwagen Diesel fell quickly into oblivion and was later destroyed when the Hanomag facilities in Hanover were bombed, but the Rekordwagen had done what its manufacturers set out to do: to demonstrate to the world that diesel engines were able to do much more than simply power tractors, and that Hanomag was on the front line in diesel engine design. -- Massimo Grandi, architect and designer, previously director of the Car Design laboratory at the Design Campus of the Department of Architecture at the University of Florence. Member of the ASI Culture Commission. Among his published works: “La forma della memoria: il progetto della Ferrari Alaspessa”, “Car design workshop”, “Dreaming American Cars”, “Ferrari 550 Alaspessa: dall’idea al progetto”, “Quando le disegnava il vento”, “Il paradigma Scaglione”, “La più veloce: breve storia dei record mondiali di velocità su strada” (with others).

After three years of design and enhancement, the German model maker has launched a 1/18 scale model of the famous "Berlinetta" in its exclusive “Competizione” version: based on the standard 275 GTB, and with a special eye on racing, only twelve of them were built. This miniature car is dedicated to the only two road versions fitted out. Photos courtesy of CMC - Classic Model Cars Scale reproductions continue to reach higher quality levels today. Technologies such as 3D scanning and printing, CAD and prototypes made directly from digital models have assured excellent results in both form and detail. Standing out in a market where the quality of a model is determined more by the IT skills of a technician than the sculptural skills of a craftsman may seem less fascinating than in the past. However, some brands still seem able to add that unique personal touch: fine details that make a model something that goes beyond the mere pleasure of the aesthetic reproduction, it becomes an emotion. The German CMC is one of those model manufacturers that never ceases to amaze. Each of its reproductions reveals an attention to detail - from the choice of the materials to the skill in replicating tiny parts and mechanisms to scale - that goes further than the eye can see. Simply observe the hinges used to open the bonnets, examine the attention paid to replicating the car underside, stop to admire the details of how the suspensions were fastened and how they work. Or the spare wheel, in a boot with an opening mechanism and shape that makes it almost impossible to see. What counts is knowing that if a part or detail was present on the original car, you will also find it on the model. And if the reproduction is of such a unique and exclusive car like a Ferrari, your expectations are bound to be very high. After three years of development and enhancement, physical and on-line model shops are able to start selling the Ferrari 275 GTB/C, reproduced by CMC in scale 1/18. We’re talking about one of Ferrari’s most iconic cars ever, both because it is considered the heir of the legendary Ferrari 250 GTO, and due to the objective beauty of its lines: so many personalities from the jazz set of the time wanted one, starting from the Hollywood stars Clint Eastwood and Steve McQueen, who even had two. And what makes the “Speedholics” fans and readers even more envious is the fact that the model made by CMC presented in this article is something even more exclusive: it is a “C” version Gran Turismo Berlinetta, the C standing for “Competizione”. As the name suggests, it is the variant made in 1966 with a special outfitting for racing. It is said that twelve cars were built, with aluminium bodywork on a tubular steel chassis, lightened and reinforced compared to the “standard” 275. Of the eight made with left-hand drive, two were intended for road use (chassis #9067 and #9085). And the CMC reproduction is dedicated to these. CMC’s expert designers and shapers took nothing for granted, in the three years they worked on the design and finish of this model, not content with the forms generated by the initial 3D print of the prototype. Using period photos and drawings, they were able to interpret and internalise the original forms, producing a model with the same sensuality and the same smoothness of the actual Ferrari. In particular, special care was paid to the rear mudguard, with its pronounced, rounded shape, which characterises and gives balance to the line of the whole car. Talking of details, we would like to take a look at the door handles. The special shape forced the CMC technicians to carefully analyse it, seeking the best solution in terms of construction, aesthetics and solidity. Plastic would have been the simplest material to use, given that it is easier to replicate the correct shape of the component, but the result would have been too cheap and fragile. Having also excluded aluminium, considered too rough, an attempt was made at photoengraving, but this could not guarantee the required three-dimensionality. And so they decided on the stainless steel solution: pressed and modelled, a perfect handle was reproduced to scale. As the component is solid, and to prevent it from falling off when opening the doors, each handle is carefully fixed inside the door. The “Competizione” was fitted with Borrani wire wheels, the only exception being the two road cars that were fitted with Campagnolo magnesium alloy wheels, which are those you will find on the CMC reproduction. Also in this case, this is the result of a careful analysis and meticulous refining. True to CMC tradition, like the original car, the central locks are screwable with right and left thread. Looking closely, we wonder how it was possible to achieve such fine detail: using a magnifying glass, the Ferrari rearing horse and the wording Ruote Borrani, as well as the instructions for dismantling, engraved on the central lock are all perfectly legible. The same goes for the plates on the sides of the car: laser engraved on a stainless steel plaque less than a millimetre high, you can easily read the words “Disegno di Pininfarina”. In addition to the race-like design of the passenger compartment, with rollbars and four-point seat belts, another distinctive element of the 275 GTB/C is the flap along the front right fender that hides the oil cap, which was needed for the dry sump lubrication engine that this version featured and which CMC faithfully reproduced. Beneath the bonnet is the legendary V12 Ferrari engine. On the cars produced in Maranello in the Sixties, this dry sump lubrication variant of the “275” engine, with 3286 cc displacement, reached 290 HP at 7600 rpm. According to the declared data, the car could reach a maximum speed of 275 km/h, accelerating from 0 to 100 in 4.9 seconds. Once again, in the models made by CMC everything is in its place, with an amazing attention to the reproduced details and the materials used. Six spark plug cables run from each of the two distributors; the water hoses are really flexible. Finally, three Weber 40 DF13 carburettors with two parallel rows of trumpets, made in special steel that could be flared and shaped like the originals. “Our goal is perfection, perfection is endless”, CMC states. Certainly none of the 781 pieces making up this Ferrari 275 GTB/C was left to chance. Quite the opposite. It would appear that this work is not limited to mere aesthetic accuracy, but behind this reproduction work lies that same passion that once drove the noble skills of the designers and manufacturers of unique and extraordinary cars like the 275 GTB. One more reason for reserving it a place in the front row of our display cabinets and - why not - feeling part of the legend. [The model presented in this article can be ordered from the official CMC website]

Directly from the memories of Paolo Martin, the story of two Bugattis that never saw the light. SpeedHolics readers can judge the quality of the Turin-based designer’s design in relation to the EB110 we all know and love Photos and Drawings courtesy of Paolo Martin Archive A premise: today, the EB110 is one of the most sought-after models by collectors, selling at figures that have practically doubled in a couple of years. Yet its gestation, and its short life, were not so simple. In-house rivalry, disputes between partners, second thoughts on the design and economic problems affected its development right from the outset. Especially as concerns the bodywork lines and design: in fact, before tasking the architect Benedini (a former designer at the Bugatti factory in Campogalliano, Modena) with the revision of Marcello Gandini’s unsatisfactory design, in 1989 the initial partners (the engineer Paolo Stanzani and the industrialist Romano Artioli) had called in three other stylists in addition to Gandini: Paolo Martin, Giorgetto Giugiaro and Nuccio Bertone. In the end, Gandini’s model was chosen, he had already designed the Lamborghini Miura and Countach with Stanzani. Bertone pulled out of the competition early, while Giugiaro’s proposal was deemed unsuitable. On the other hand, Artioli liked Paolo Martin’s model very much, but for time reasons (Gandini’s model was in a more advanced design phase and the production times were tight) it couldn’t be taken into due consideration. This story is therefore the story of a design that could have led to a different Bugatti EB110 to the one that was built, certainly more innovative and highly original in style terms, but which remained in the book of dreams. Afterwards, Paolo Martin was also asked to design a small sports Bugatti with a 1300 cc central rear engine, but the events that led to the bankruptcy of Bugatti prevented it from being made. So here is the story, the behind-the-scenes and the technical and style solutions, told by Paolo Martin himself. PM1 If I remember well, I was asked to work on the study and production of a 1:4 scale model of a Bugatti super sports car in late March 1989. That was when I received a visit from Romano Artioli, accompanied by Paolo Stanzani and Dario Trucco who had been put in charge of the bodywork development. They wanted to know how I planned to interpret the theme of a car with advanced characteristics, with a view to potential production. The chassis was the one on which the EB110 was then made. This project had been commissioned also to Giorgetto Giugiaro and Marcello Gandini, who had already developed their scale 1:1 proposal. And so I interpreted the decision to contact me as the result of Artioli and Stanzani not being fully satisfied of the work done by our two famous colleagues. I threw myself into it, and in May that year (two months after the initial request) I submitted a 1:4 scale model made entirely by me on the basis of the Bugatti EB 110 technical drawings I had received at the end of March. I should say that my final design was not an exercise in style but rather a proposal suited to the taste of the time, a project that considered all the ergonomic demands, the regulations in force in the various countries, the realistic feasibility and the construction economy: so a project ready for production. In fact, I remember that when Artioli saw the model he was enthusiastic, but said he was sorry that he couldn’t take it into consideration as the development programmes of the Bugatti revival were too tight to allow second thoughts. It was a shame, because I had also designed the internal set-up, with lots of original ideas. The design philosophy was basically that of creating two separate sections between the traction area and the passenger compartment, which had a light shape ideally detached from the body. As with my other works, this design wasn’t inspired by anything. Initially it was a two-seater coupé, then transformed into a single-seater when, after Bugatti’s refusal, a small Japanese manufacturer asked me to adapt the design to their needs (they wanted to repropose the Cobra brand). But as often happens, this idea also came to nothing. The passenger compartment consisted of a tetragonal capsule, in which the steering wheel, with no steering column, was replaced by two synchronous flywheels located on the arm rests, offering a more ergonomic drive. The driver entered the car by sliding back part of the roof and lifting the windscreen. In addition, the car was transformed into a ‘barchetta’ by removing the mobile part. As regards the safety belt, the driver had a four-point seat belt incorporating an abdominal airbag which expanded outwards and one in the front seat cushion to reduce the impact of the chest on the knees. It was a simple and ergonomic design to produce. Today the style may seem a little dated, with certain aerodynamic appendages that would no longer be fashionable, but we have to remember that it is a design from 34 years ago. After the disappointments, I began to develop the idea independently, using extremely simple resources (wood, resins, plenty of elbow grease and self-confidence) and completed the job, making a real 1:1 scale model of my idea, which I called the PM1. A project that complied with the dimensions and sizes of the EB110 that many will have seen at the Turin Motor Show in 2005, or at the Essen Motor Show in 2017 or at the Turin Car Museum in 2020. BUGATTI 1300 Some time after the decision not to produce my idea of the EB110, in 1990, Artioli asked me to design a small sports coupé. Bugatti wanted to make the model on a chassis and with a 1300 cc Suzuki engine, located in the rear central part, like the Lancia Beta Montecarlo. We worked on the designs and the 1:4 scale model, which was also tested in the wind tunnel with good results. At that time, small sports coupés were all the rage, and many manufacturers saw potential future developments in this segment. Unfortunately, this project also remained only an idea, as in the meantime Bugatti had gone bust. In this case I must say I didn’t express myself to my full potential. Nothing special came out of it in style terms, other than one more car. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the project right from the start. When you start off with ideas that are not focused, things don’t come out well. You start to have constraints, you start to think, everyone chips in with their ideas. I did it, but wasn’t entirely convinced. I had realised that it was an attempt with no concrete potential for production, and so I didn’t make much effort. In my idea, there was some very minor formal research, and some rather fashionable appendices. The interesting thing was the solution for the tilt-up door, which allowed you to get out of the passenger compartment despite the little side space, as the doors of the coupé are conventionally longer.

As the Italian Air Force celebrates its hundredth anniversary, we would like to tell you about the time Gilles Villeneuve, Nelson Piquet, Bruno Giacomelli and Riccardo Patrese challenged the F-104 Starfighter fighter planes to race against their Formula 1 single seaters: it was 1981, and it was one of the most famous challenges between the knights of the air and the knights of risk Photos courtesy of Aeronautica Militare Archive When you put yourself to the test, when you approach the limits of human skill and you feel it’s still not enough. That’s when it happens: something is triggered in the mind and in the heart, a sensation of healthy and uncontrollable omnipotence of the individual, which feels like a mission on behalf of all of humanity. Going beyond is that one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind, sharing the thrill and the words of the US astronaut Neil Armstrong when he left the first human footprint on the surface of the moon. All in all, challenges are the driver of mankind. Without them, there would be no discovery, no evolution. This is why man has always been bewitched, charmed and indeed obsessed by two - both abstract yet concrete - emotions that have always fuelled our dreams: flight and speed. And while it is true that flight and speed go hand in hand in the aeronautic world, it is equally true that speed has always been identified with cars. And this is why, in the week in which the Aeronautica Militare - the Italian Air Force - celebrates its first century of history (it was founded on 28 March 1923), I have been thinking about some epic challenges between planes and cars. Authentic duels of their time, when a knight of risk, in his car, battled against a knight of the air, at the controls of his flying machine. The first in Italy to throw down the gauntlet to the sky was none other than Tazio Nuvolari: in 1931, his Alfa Romeo 8C 2300 "Monza" raced against a biplane, Vittorio Suster’s Caproni CA 100, on the Caracalla circuit. Five laps, the car on the ground and the plane in the air: the plane won. But the duel that has remained dearest to enthusiasts took place fifty years later, on 21 November 1981. The idea came from Marcello Sabbatini, chief editor of the Italian weekly motorsport magazine Rombo: the racing challenge was between the Formula 1 single-seaters of the time (Bruno Giacomelli’s Alfa Romeo, Nelson Piquet and Riccardo Patrese’s Brabhams, Gilles Villeneuve’s Ferrari) against the F-104 Starfighter fighter planes, born to intercept other planes in the sky and capable of flying at over twice the speed of sound. The race was held this time on the track at Istrana military airport (Treviso), home to the 51st Wing of the Italian Air Force. To relive the thrill of this story, I chose to use the words and memories of a man who played a key role in that day, recovering a long interview from a few years ago with the then-Major - now General - Leandro De Vincenti: not only the Starfighter’s pilot but also the man in charge of coordinating the event. “With the involvement of the Alfa Romeo engineer Carlo Chiti, we immediately assessed the performance of the Formula 1 cars: it was clear that over a short distance the cars would win, but a longer distance would have benefited the planes. And so we established that one thousand metres would be the right distance, and the duel would take place with the wheels on the ground: an acceleration contest, divided into six races". Six F-104s were in the race, with the following configurations: two in their ‘heavy-duty’ set-up, with tanks on the wing ends and two beneath the wings, which was certainly a disadvantage; two ‘clean’ planes with no external tanks, which certainly had an advantage; and two ‘intermediates’ with tanks on the end of the wings, which were more up to the challenge. Fuel allowance on board: 7000 pounds for the heavier planes, around half for the two lighter ones.” “The weather forecast for 21 November was quite good, but when we woke up there was thick fog and visibility was less than 1500 metres. Aviano, our alternative airport, where the planes would have headed for in the event of an emergency after take-off, was also covered in fog. So this wasn’t feasible either, and this is why we chose Grosseto, but which was much further away. This meant adding an extra reserve of 3000 pounds of fuel to the two ‘clean’ Starfighters". "And so I proposed a little trick to my colleagues to make a play for it in any case. The afterburner on the 104 guaranteed 60% extra thrust, but with the normal take-off up to five seconds were lost before reaching full power. Too long! But with a little play on the throttle, we could anticipate the afterburner cut-in to practically as soon as the brakes were released.” The best fighter plane performance was obtained by De Vincenti, obviously in the ‘light’ set-up (18”05). The fastest of the Formula 1 cars was Gilles Villeneuve’s Ferrari 126 CK (16”55), which had the spoilers removed to reduce the aerodynamic drag. Nelson Piquet, just crowned world champion, obtained a time of 17”45 with his Brabham BT 49C. Bruno Giacomelli’s Alfa Romeo 179C came in at 17”75, and Patrese at 19”98. “Seen from the cockpit of our fighter plan, the Formula 1s seemed like mosquitoes with the speed of a bullet: over the first 2-300 metres, they were unbeatable, no question. But then the afterburner cut in and the situation was upturned; in the end, the Formula 1s won five out of the six trials". It was a unique experience for everyone, including the audience: someone estimated that there were around 100,000 people watching. I can remember seeing people everywhere, and when Villeneuve started spinning in his Ferrari, he was literally swamped by the fans. I also remember that Gilles was the most interested in our planes, you could tell he was an enthusiast.” The challenge was launched again in 2003, in Grosseto, at the base of the 4th Wing of the Italian Air Force. This time the duel was between Michael Schumacher, who had just won his sixth world title, at the wheel of his Formula 1 Ferrari, and Maurizio Cheli, astronaut and test pilot, at the controls of his Eurofighter fighter plane. But that’s another story, which we will tell you another time. -- Alessandro Barteletti is a photographer and journalist. Through his photos, he has been revealing the reality behind news stories, as well as social and sports events, for almost 20 years. Being keen on anything that can be driven fast, on the roads or flying in the sky, he has specialized in the auto, aviation and space industries. Among his clients: National Geographic, Dallara and Italian Air Force. Alessandro currently lives between Rome - where he was born - and Modena, the heart of Motor Valley; he is the editor-in-chief of SpeedHolics Magazine.

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.