Ramblings of an Automotive Enthusiast in Italy: When Passion is Lost, the Machine Dies
Italy once defined desire in motion—now it risks losing everything.
My trip to Italy was meant to be all business—meetings, strategy sessions, and deep discussions with a client on the future of mobility, technology, and innovation. And it was. But as always, in the moments bookending those meetings, I found myself lost in the streets, the machines, and the culture—because in Italy, it’s impossible not to.
This country doesn’t just produce—it creates. Every espresso is made with care, every meal is an experience, and even the most functional objects carry a sense of artistry. And yet, as I moved from city to city, I saw something that left me unsettled. I saw young Italians choosing Japanese scooters over Vespas. I saw iconic automotive brands slipping into mediocrity. I saw magnificent factories crumbling to the ground. I saw a country that once defined desire in motion now struggling to justify its own legacy.
And so, after all the business meetings were done, my mind was still racing. These are my ramblings—a mix of frustration, passion, and unwavering belief that Italy can reclaim what made it great, if only it chooses to.
A Country Built on Passion—Now at a Crossroads
The first sip of an espresso in Italy isn’t just about caffeine—it’s about ceremony. The crema clings to the porcelain, the heat of the cup settles in your hands, the bitterness lingers before a wave of sweetness. It’s a moment, not a task.
That’s Italy.
Everything here is deliberate, intentional, crafted. The way a plate of pasta is plated, the way a leather bag is stitched, the way a Ducati trellis frame is welded—these aren’t just objects, they are expressions. Italy doesn’t just manufacture—it creates.
And nowhere is that clearer than in the machines it has built.
Every curve of a Ferrari, every note from a Lancia exhaust, every hand-stitched leather seat in a Maserati—they weren’t designed by committees or dictated by efficiency spreadsheets. They were born from passion, artistry, and an unrelenting desire to make something unforgettable.
But what happens when those machines are left behind? When the very things that once symbolized Italy’s excellence are discarded, forgotten, abandoned in dusty garages and overgrown fields?
That’s where I come in.
I restore these machines—not just to make them run again, but because they are part of something bigger. And I work with companies that want to transform their businesses in the same way—to reclaim what made them great, to bring back the passion, the vision, the soul that once defined them.
What Made Italian Machines Different
Italian engineering has never been about the cold logic of efficiency—that’s the German way, and it has its place. I have a passion for their machines, too. Precision, discipline, and ruthless optimization have produced some of the most mechanically perfect vehicles in history.
It was never about pure brute force, either—leave that to the Americans. There’s an undeniable thrill in an engine so overbuilt it feels like it was dropped out of a fighter jet, but that’s not what makes a machine seductive.
Italian machines were something else entirely.
They weren’t just built to perform—they were built to perform within a framework of design, balance, and emotion.
A Ferrari V12 doesn’t just rev—it sings, each note pulling at something deep in your chest. An Alfa Romeo engine doesn’t just respond to your inputs—it anticipates them, as if the car itself is alive. A Ducati exhaust doesn’t just growl—it talks back, each crackle and pop reminding you that speed isn’t just about numbers—it’s about harmony between rider and machine.
Italian engineering has always been about balance. The perfect meeting point of design, function, and experience. Every component serves a purpose, and yet, it never sacrifices beauty. Every curve, every sound, every detail is intentional—not just to perform, but to stir something deeper.
An Italian car or motorcycle wasn’t just about getting somewhere.
It was about the journey—the way it connected to the driver, the way it demanded your attention, the way it rewarded those who understood it.
And yet, we are losing that.
Standardization, platform-sharing, and cost-efficiency are choking the soul out of Italian design. The raw, intoxicating experience of an Italian machine is being dulled, diluted, stripped of the very thing that made it unforgettable.
What happens when desire gives way to mediocrity?
What happens when a supercar starts feeling ordinary because it shares the same electric motors as every other EV?
What happens when the world stops feeling something for Italian machines?
Stellantis and the Standardization Problem
Stellantis isn’t an Italian company—it’s a corporate giant managing a collection of brands. That distinction matters.
Because when a company becomes too big, when it is run by cost-cutting spreadsheets rather than visionaries, passion takes a back seat.
That’s exactly what’s happening with Alfa Romeo, Lancia, Maserati, Fiat. These brands were built on distinct character, yet Stellantis is forcing them into shared platforms. The upcoming STLA Large platform might make financial sense, but it erases individuality.
And look, I say this not as an outsider throwing stones—I’m a major stockholder. I want Stellantis to succeed. This isn’t criticism for the sake of it; it’s chiding from someone who believes in these brands and knows they can do better.
Think about what made Italian cars great in the first place.
The quirkiness of an old Fiat 500. The wild aggression of a Lancia Delta Integrale. The unapologetic sex appeal of a Ferrari 355. None of these were built for standardization. They were built for love.
Now? We get homogenization. Cookie-cutter designs. The Giulia should have been Alfa’s modern-day icon, refined and evolved over decades, like the Porsche 911. Instead, Stellantis is gutting its identity, putting it on a chassis meant for generic EV crossovers.
And without uniqueness, what’s left?
The Urban Mobility Shift—and the Identity Crisis
One place where Italy still holds its ground is urban mobility. The streets of Rome, Milan, and Florence weren’t built for big SUVs. This is small machine territory—scooters, motorcycles, and compact city cars that weave through narrow alleys with precision and ease.
Yet even here, something is off.
I see young Italians riding Japanese scooters, choosing them over Vespas, over Piaggios, over the very machines that defined Italy’s streets for generations. They aren’t choosing them because they want to. They’re choosing them because they’re cheaper. They’re more reliable.
And that raises a question Italian manufacturers don’t want to answer.
Is there still pride in owning an Italian machine?
Or, the harder question: Are Italian machines still the best?
Because if they aren’t, why should young people choose them? Why should they pay more for something that no longer carries meaning?
Italy built its reputation on excellence. Not just in styling, but in delivering something no one else could. If the industry is failing at that, then it’s no surprise that young Italians are buying Hondas and Yamahas instead of Vespas and Moto Guzzis.
And that should scare the hell out of Italian manufacturers.
Because the bigger issue isn’t just brand identity—it’s relevance.
Urban mobility is changing. Cities are becoming more regulated, more sustainability-focused, and more safety-conscious. The rise of electrification, AI-powered traffic management, and smart infrastructure is reshaping the way people move.
Where is Piaggio in this conversation? Where is the next-generation Vespa that seamlessly integrates with a connected city grid? Where is the push for rider safety, for collision-avoidance technology, for a modernized two-wheeled experience that blends tradition with innovation?
Italian manufacturers should be owning this space—not watching from the sidelines while other global brands set the pace.
If Italian two-wheel brands don’t push forward, they will be overtaken.
And if that happens, Italy won’t just lose a market—it will lose a piece of its cultural identity.
Why Restoration Matters More Than Ever
I save machines because I refuse to let them die forgotten.
Some things deserve preservation not because of monetary value, but because of meaning.
A Moto Guzzi left to rot in a shed still contains the soul of the engineer who designed it. A neglected Alfa Spider still holds the spirit of the people who built it, who dreamed it into existence. I don’t care if they won’t sell for six figures at auction—I care that they still live.
Because these machines represent more than just metal and mechanics.
They are the physical embodiment of Italy’s philosophy—that machines can be art, that engineering should evoke emotion, that a car or a motorcycle should be an experience, not just a product.
And just like these forgotten machines, Italy’s automotive industry itself is at risk of being left behind.
If old Italian motorcycles deserve to be saved, if an Alfa Romeo deserves a second chance at life, then why wouldn’t the Italian automotive industry deserve the same?
The restoration of these machines is a metaphor for what must happen at a much larger scale.
Because the industry has drifted too far from what made it great. Standardization, cost-cutting, platform-sharing—they are stripping Italian brands of their essence. The same way an abandoned Ferrari Testarossa collects dust, the soul of Italian automotive excellence is fading under corporate mediocrity.
And just like I refuse to let a Ducati or a Lancia fade into history, I refuse to accept that Italy’s golden era of automotive passion is over.
That philosophy built Italy’s entire automotive legacy. If it disappears, then Italy is just another manufacturer fighting for market share.
And that’s a future I refuse to accept.
The Industry Must Wake Up
Stellantis must stop treating Italian brands like product lines and start treating them like cultural treasures.
Piaggio and Ducati must push beyond nostalgia and lead the charge in intelligent, safe, urban mobility.
Young Italian engineers, designers, and builders must be empowered—not sidelined.
Because the best machines aren’t just built.
They are felt.
They leave a mark.
They make you feel something real.
And if Italy lets that slip away, then what’s left?
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