The Robb Report Collection

Restorative Notes: The Meter Is Running

Robert Ross

04/28/2003

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.

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.
Six side-draft Weber carburetors, so archaic in our fuel-injected age, have been rebuilt, with all their delicate hardware properly refinished in cadmium, black oxide, zinc, or raw aluminum. If the engine were a cake, these would be its icing, their induction roar sweeter than sugar.

Anointed by the witch doctor, the differential is so original it's frightening. (Click image to enlarge)

The 5-speed gearbox, Lamborghini’s own and not the ZF used in earlier cars, fared better, requiring much labor to inspect and rebuild, but only two syncros to be put right. The Lamborghini differential is nearly indestructible and, after inspection and cleaning, quietly waits to be reunited with its dependent shafts. But what an ugly thing it is, corresponding, I suppose, to certain parts of the human anatomy. The iron lump, marbled with a mist of rust and casting imperfections, was originally installed after receiving its maker’s mark: a rude swath of pea green paint hysterically brushed on one side of the case. Every worker had a different color to identify his handiwork, and a special batch of this nauseating green was mixed and freshly applied to replicate the original, which was stripped off during the refurbishment. That such an indignity would be intentionally reproduced begs the question of originality, and to what extent the neurotic mind will obsess, weighing what the factory did against modern standards of fit and finish. And what a prickly problem it is. While things like panel gaps, paint, plating, and upholstery work are allowed to approach perfection, quaint eccentricities involving undercoating, overspray, inspection marks, and the like are precisely the details coveted for correctness by concours judges and those of us desperately searching for a life. Painted like some tribal fetish, it will eventually be secreted in the nether regions of the automobile, never to be seen again. But I know it is in there, and I will bead blast that hideous differential in my dreams.

One of the many valves that did not make an encore. (Click image to enlarge)

Next up are the suspension and brakes, and soon the wire wheels will be sent out for rebuild. For now, there is research to be done. I was recently introduced to Jack Robbins, a master mechanic and retired Nether-cutt restorer who worked forthe late Bob Estes, the West Coast distributor for Lamborghini, during the 1960s and early 1970s. Jack is a wealth of information, and he graciously shared anecdotes and details not found in any marque literature. For instance, what I had assumed to be an incorrect headlight modification was, in fact, an interim design straight from the factory. In its early years, the factory made changes on the fly, and small differences abound between different examples of the same model car. Some changes were deliberate, and some, it seems, were just a matter of expediency. Jack told a story of a visit he made to the factory back in the ’60s, where he watched a workman make a wiring harness for one lucky Lamborghini. A schematic was laid out on a large wooden board, with nails at each bend and at the point of termination for all the different colored wires. His spool of red wire ran out before it reached its termination, so the diligent craftsman, fresh out of red, merely spliced on a length of green wire to complete the run. I am sure that somewhere, 35 years later, a befuddled soul with a meter is cursing those magicians, who, with wild green paintbrush in hand, conjured up the cars that so enchant admirers today.