Restorative Notes: The Meter Is Running
April 28, 2003
More than two months had elapsed since I last viewed the disparate parts once recognizable as our restoration subject, the Lamborghini 400GT. As you may recall in the February 2003 issue, our restorer, fueled by regular installments and a deadline to meet, swiftly commenced upon the stately old GT like the Donner Party fell upon their dinner. The car—not unlike the author, at times—was reduced to an empty shell of its former self and still awaits the ministrations of body-man Al, who at present is putting the finishing touches on a deserving Miura. He will have begun his artistry in metal by the time this goes to print.
Meanwhile, I kept recalling my early conversations with the restorer. Gary, a man economical of word, is not inclined to hyperbole. In a matter-of-fact tone, he outlined the details of our 11-month project, painting a picture of a car that would ultimately reach a state of perfection. And he ominously added, “It will get a lot worse before it gets better.” Staring at the remains before me, his prediction came home to roost like so many chickens in their barn, hiding a precious basket case under bales of hay.
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Lamborghinis, Maseratis, and De Tomasos lurk among the Ferraris. The shop is host to an abundance of Italian rolling stock. (Click image to enlarge)But hands have not been idle in the interim. The mechanicals have been the focus of attention, attended to between the partaking of copious holiday fare, celebrations, and travels hither and yon. And with the start of the New Year, work on the drivetrain has begun in earnest. When I last encountered the engine, it was an oily lump on a furniture dolly with its transmission cantilevered over one edge. Gray and lifeless, it brought back memories of the well-worn mechanical elephant in front of our grocery store that would lethargically buck up and down when children eager to ride fed a nickel into its slot. The elephant was nowhere to be seen, but instead, engine #0409 (Lamborghini engines do not share identical numbers with their chassis) has been stripped into a million bits. Or about 422, to be more precise. The crank and connecting rods have come back from the testing center, magnafluxed and with a clean bill of health. Upon examination, both heads revealed that 17 of the 24 valves were not fit to report for further duty, and the cam followers could stand to be exchanged in the bargain. The bargain, it turned out, was a $3,500 box of replacement parts—a box that would barely contain a pair of very small Italian loafers. Shocked, I naively asked whether these trivial pieces were not included in the original estimate. Not so—the rebuild includes such wear items as bearings, rings, valve guides, timing chains, and a host of other innards, but not—let’s be clear—items the health of which only an oracle could predict. Fair enough, I supposed, as we awaited the verdict on four cams. Naturally, I thought of Giotto Bizzarrini and his enthusiasm for the Chevrolet 327 that made such cheap, delicious horsepower in his eponymous 5300 and Corvette-engined Iso cars. For the cost of my paltry shoebox of parts, one could have a fire-breathing American motor, complete with all the trimmings. But then, it wouldn’t be an Italian V-12, and that, I reminded myself, was the magic of the cars from Sant’Agata.
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