LANCIA FULVIA 1.3S Rallye: She’s Italian, San Pellegrino will cool her down.

“I didn’t recognize you; you are never this impulsive, but you were happy. “

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but now that she’s gone, I will admit that it was not very much like you to go this route.”

Surely, someone could have voiced their opposition at the time, but none did.

I am not referring to a romantic fling. I am referring to the equally enthralling, pulse-racing, heart-pounding, sensation that is finding a few blocks from your home, for sale, a Lancia Fulvia Coupe. Bright red, of course, as the gods have forever willed it.

A rally champ, a legend.

The Italian Affair – as it will come to be known - with its joys and struggles, inevitably, as with most affairs of the heart, arrived with the feeling that this would end in tears.

She - for no Italian automobile will ever be referred to as a “he”– was exactly as Jeremy Clarkson eloquently observed when referring to the Fulvia Coupe: “It is as beautiful as the sun setting on Charlize Theron.”

My wife named her Francesca – bless the woman. Fiery, feisty, and steamy… indeed, for upon parking her in front of our house on the first night the radiator began to steam. Molto strano. But I am getting way ahead of myself.

My brother texted me an ad for a Lancia Fulvia. To my astonishment, the photos were taken on a beautiful and quite recognizable street that was a mere two blocks away from my home. After looking at the add a few days, I called the seller and we agreed to meet.

“meow….no”

On the accorded time and day, my wife and I arrived only to find the Fulvia alone in the street. After standing around like idiots for twenty minutes I received a text from the seller saying he was on his way. A few minutes later he appeared. An Italian man with his American wife. He opened the Fulvia, and I sat in the driver’s seat and turned to fire up the Italian. The engine turned but there was no ignition. I stopped, found the choke – he had no idea what it was – pulled it out a bit, and gave the key a few more turns, but the Fulvia, like my cat when asked to do anything, refused. The Italian replaced me at the helm and after saying a few choice words began to turn the key whilst mashing the accelerator, on and on until smoke rose from the starter motor. At this point, I asked him to stop for he might do irreparable damage to the starter. He ignored me until the smoke rising from the engine bay resembled a Parisian nightclub in 1972.

We left, sad to see a poor beauty in the hands of a brute but thought no more of it.

A few days later, the Italian man called to tell me he had the Lancia picked up and taken to a “European auto specialist”. A problem with the ignition switch which didn’t allow the coil to spark had been “resolved”. She was at the shop in case I wanted to test drive it. It was close enough to home, so it felt silly not to do so.

I could have headed the warning signs and clear messages the auto gods had been sending me, but no, passion will not be denied.

This time though, the Lancia started immediately, yet settled into a hoarse murmur. Nonetheless, to be inside of her – ahem – to hear and feel her beating mechanical heart was a special moment.

Once we got underway, and even though the acceleration felt a bit rough, the Fulvia felt direct, as if one had strapped the vehicle on, instead of sat in it, akin to a go-kart. She backfired a few times – like an old beauty who smoked too much and had just been awakened and asked to go jogging - so it needed to be looked at. But the “European auto specialist” gave her a clean bill of health…umm... how do you say bullshit in Italian?

My wife took photos of me as I drove her and said I looked “so happy and cute” driving her. She continued: “If you really like her, make him an offer that you feel comfortable with, given the unknowns.”. A very rational thing to say within the irrationality of the entire ordeal, so I offered 40% less than what he was asking for and he said yes.

The steamy affair, per the radiator, was truly Francesca saying “ayuta!”. It was a Fellini beauty crying out for help, to be saved, to be loved. I was not prepared for this. Who is? So, like a Marcello Mastroeni wanna-be after being slapped, come to her aid I did.

To say her radiator and cooling were merely in need of a flush would be akin to saying the Medici family of Florence were merely affluent. After seeing the fluid in the radiator look brown and noticing some parts had radically different temperatures – an obvious sign of clogging - I removed it and had it repaired, while I took care of other things.

Those other things in the cooling system meant a complete overhaul. Fortunately, the idiot who had recently driven or “serviced” the Fulvia had not driven it enough to overheat and damage the engine as the cylinders were ok and no fluid, water or coolant, had passed into the chambers.

Porca miseria…

Fluid is a generous term. I firmly believe the prior owner – from Palermo where the Fulvia had lived its entire life– used San Pellegrino for coolant. This was clear – a silly word to use here – as the entire system had so much calcium deposits it could qualify as a mineral mine.

Cazzo!

I took the cooling system apart and replaced the upper cooling manifold and found, to my astonishment, that the thermostat inside was missing and that the old manifold was narrowed down to about 10% from all the calcium deposits, you know, from all that San Pellegrino!

The same idiot had reasoned that removing the thermostat, thus allowing the “free-flow” of coolant (or piss) would be enough to cool the engine. Besides, who would know? Unless someone took the entire cooling system apart. This imbecilic solution reminded me of the days when I lived in Italy – a lovely country, do not get me wrong, but… - and the prevalent mentality that, hey, if no one sees it, it never happened.

Ma, scuzzi, signori, if the radiator is clogged, thermostat or not, open flow or not, it will never cool….cazzo!

Bene…bravo!

Before reassembling, I decided to change the electric engine fan, and the temperature fan switch, clean the starter motor – which to my amazement had survived the brute’s foot mashing - flush the entire cooling chambers, replace all the hoses, and change the spark plugs and wires. This later part was an open-jaw-to-the-floor moment, as the plugs were all ill-fitting and an incorrect mix of brands and temperature ratings, probably chosen after a grappa drinking challenge. It stands to reason that I also replaced the engine oil, all filters, and transmission oil. After fixing an electric gremlin and replacing all the torpedo fuses it was time to fire her up. Finally!

And her first drive was… magical.

The sound of the V4’s intake, the toss-ability of her steering and suspension, the unbelievably tall and vast visibility out of her greenhouse, and the fantastic comfort and support of her seats. It was heavenly. And heavenly too was seeing the engine temperature always stay in the sweet spot, which is about 80C, for regardless of how hard I pushed her, the temperature would always settle back.

And push her hard I did.

“Never change gears below 4000 RPM, this way she will always run and burn smoothly.” Said my newly discovered friend and master Italian mechanic, Luciano from Auto Veloce in Miami. And correct he was with his “Italian tune-up” advice, as the smoothness of the engine and dogleg gearbox, once warmed up, and at high RPMs, was as delicious and smooth as unfiltered virgin olive oil.

Outings in the Bella Italiana were always met with praise and photos from strangers. I would even park her near current Ferraris and Lamborghinis, just to spite them, for people would neglect the newer gaudy, overdone, and exaggerated cars and take photos next to our Italian beauty of yesteryear.

She still needed some work. Luciano replaced and repaired her entire braking system with parts from another new friend and savior, Adan from LaLancia.com.

I am still amazed at how well the Gerling discs in all 4 corners worked, and that the front had dual pistons! Truly a work of brilliance.

Yet, it is not surprising, none of this, since the entire Fulvia is a work of brilliance. Its lines are perfectly crafted. Just look at how the sheet metal’s lines and creases add drama to the design and continue seamlessly around the car, only to meet in and precipitously drop 90 degrees when reaching the rear, ending in that wonderfully chopped-off rear-end.

Its doors, perfectly weighed, closing like vaults, perfectly aligned with minimal gaps (I am looking at you, Tesla) are a thing to behold. It was clear, that the Fulvia’s design and engineering was dictated by designers and engineers, and not bean counters and suits. It was made by people who loved what they were doing and cared to do it well.

Take the 1.3 liter V4 engine. Yes, you read that right, it is a V engine, so small and narrow though that both banks of 2 cylinders share the same head. This is decades before VW’s venerable VR6 engine. The Lancia V4 is the size of a sewing machine, yet it so perfectly balanced and beautiful. Longitudinally placed and tilted a few degrees to the side in order to fit inside the bay, it is housed ahead of the front wheels! Ma che? Yes, daft, I know, but brilliant!

And its sonorous singing… oh it’s singing, is matched by its eagerness to play.

And play we did.

Expecting an insane amount of torque steer – less we forget this is a front wheel drive car, with more weight ahead of the driving wheels - I found none. The cynics will say it has so “little” power that this would never be an issue. “Niente!”. With only 900 kilos to move, the 90HP is surely enough to do a lot, so credit must go to the engineers, again, because driving her you forget your biases against front wheel drive sports cars. It is enough power to have fun, get you into trouble, but not enough where the chassis is out-matched – I am looking at you SUV world.

Ciao bella mia…

Washing her was one of the loveliest times, as it is with most beautiful things, for it is the time when you can truly understand its shape and features. The design becomes physical and visceral as those dramatic folds in the metal come to life as you pass your hands over them. It is a truly sensual experience, and one any lover of design must let himself/herself experience.

Did I foresee the end would come one day? Yes. I don’t know why. And come it did, on a sad January day - six years after she entered our life - due to consequences beyond her control and my ability, she had to leave.

Addio, Anouk Aimée… 1932-2024

I had made my peace with this decision and was calm and more concerned with having her not fall out of the trailer that was picking her up. I did not though expect my wife’s reaction. As tears flowed down her cheek, Francesca blew a kiss back to us, like a glamorous Italian star of old, her beauty unfaded, her dignity intact, and appreciative of the love we had given her, for it had afforded her another chance to stand up and shine again.

But I also knew she understood that in helping her, it was, in fact, she who had helped us.

I for one learned many things with her that I would never have learned had the Italian Affair not happened, both mechanically and about design, and love. As with all affairs of the heart, you learn what you are made of, and what you really want.