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There are moments in my line of work that feel like pure time travel.
Slide into a time machine on wheels. This isn’t just a car; it’s a portal. Feel the ghost of pure engineering, where gut feeling ruled the blueprints. Witness a design born from a single, inspired hand. Forget the desperate cries for attention of modern metal; this machine hums with a quiet confidence, radiating an undeniable presence.
Imagine Ferruccio Lamborghini’s personal favorite: the Lamborghini Jarama S (or GTS). This isn’t just a car; it’s the Jarama GT reborn – a limited-edition masterpiece, meticulously upgraded and face-lifted into the ultimate expression of Italian automotive passion.
Forget the Miura’s flamboyant curves. Disregard the Countach’s outrageous angles. This is something rarer, more subtle. A front-engined V12 heart beats beneath its elegant skin, powering a 2+2 grand tourer unfairly eclipsed by its celebrated siblings. Perhaps its scarcity – a mere 150 ever built – is the reason it remains a whispered legend, a secret known only to the discerning few.
Having spoken with seasoned artisans at Sant’Agata Bolognese – living legends who honed their craft alongside Ferruccio Lamborghini himself – the truth unfolded. Their firsthand accounts, steeped in the marque’s golden era, left no room for doubt.
The destination: the legendary Passo della Futa. The mission: to tame its twisting asphalt. This ribbon of road, draped across the Apennines between Bologna and Florence, isn’t just a pass; it’s a crucible forged in the fires of racing history. Once a brutal stage of the Mille Miglia, the Futa dares any machine to prove its worth. Today, it’s my turn to answer its challenge.
One heartbeat is a white-knuckle dance through hairpin turns, the next a soaring ballet across sun-drenched valleys. Italy isn’t just a place to drive; it’s a symphony of asphalt, a love letter etched in every blind crest and breathtaking vista, forever fueling the fire of the true driving devotee.
Love at first sight
The Jarama S, a creature of the ’70s, wasn’t blessed with the Miura’s heart-stopping beauty or the Countach’s outrageous flair. Yet, bathe it in the soft, Italian dawn, and a different kind of magic unfolds – a subtle, sophisticated allure born in Emilia-Romagna.
Marcello Gandini, sculpting for Bertone, didn’t pen lines; he forged angles. The Countach wasn’t just a car; it was a rolling, geometric manifesto of the early ’70s. Gaze upon its audacious dimensions: a seemingly endless hood plunging into an aggressive, ground-hugging posture, culminating in that abruptly severed Kamm tail – a defiant full stop to automotive convention.
The partially veiled headlights ‘sleepy eyes’ as they’re known inject a delicious dose of intrigue into an otherwise impeccably poised automobile, like a secret whispered behind a gloved hand.
Forget the roar, the flash, the typical Lambo theatrics. This machine whispers power, a siren song only the truly initiated can hear. It’s for the driver who craves the visceral punch of a V12, the pedigree of the raging bull, but recoils at ostentation. Think stealth wealth, a velvet rope experience, an undeniable coolness born not of shouting, but of knowing.
No proof is needed. This Lamborghini, penned by Gandini, roars to life with a 4.0-liter V12, an engine that sings a song far sweeter than Pavarotti’s most triumphant aria.
Fire in the belly
The key twists. Not a gentle purr, but a guttural awakening. The 3.9-liter V12, a sleeping giant, coughs, then explodes to life with a metallic snarl. A dance begins: coaxing the carburetors with deliberate pumps of the throttle, a delicate ballet to keep the beast from slumbering once more.
Forget polished perfection. This is a guttural roar, a symphony of steel grinding against steel. It’s in that primal scream, that unapologetic mechanical fury, you understand: this isn’t just a car; it’s pure, untamed Lamborghini.
Forget showroom shine. This is raw, unadulterated power: twelve pistons hammering in concert, fueled by a sextet of Weber carburetors. The engine breathes impatiently, a restless beast straining at the leash, its idle a tantalizing promise of unleashed fury. Even standing still, it’s pure, visceral temptation.
Clutch down, a workout for your left leg. A satisfyingclackas the dogleg finds first. You’re released. Forget pampering – the road telegraphs every nuance, unfiltered and raw, within the first city block. This machine demands respect.
Each touch – throttle, brake, wheel – a deliberate act. Yet, chase the cadence, find the groove, and intention melts into instinct. Suddenly, the edge beckons, and you’re dancing at its precipice.
A glint of silver flashed ahead – a 911, classic curves unmistakable. It was clearly hunting for the perfect shot of the Jarama’s snaking bends. Problem was, we were closing in on it. Fast.
This Lamborghini isn’t just driven, it’sworn. Yet, despite the wrestling match of man and machine, a rhythm emerges effortlessly. Its beauty lies not just in its lines, but in the trust it inspires – a dance choreographed by perfectly weighted steering and a throttle that anticipates your every thought.
Power, pace and a sound for all eternity
On paper, the Jarama S declared a respectable 365 horsepower (272kW). A number that might elicit a shrug today, but back in the mid-70s? That was a thunderclap of Italian muscle.
But thedeliveryof that power? Sublime. The torque swells like a gathering storm, coaxing you to chase the redline. Beyond 4500rpm, the V12 doesn’t just awaken; iterupts. A visceral surge catapults you towards 7000rpm with an eagerness that utterly belies its years. It’s a symphony of controlled fury.
The Futa Pass unwinds, a ribbon of black asphalt daringly straight. Unleashing the Jarama here is an act of faith, the speedometer needle lunging toward its claimed 260km/h with unsettling conviction. Forget whiplash starts; this is a sustained surge, a relentless climb towards the horizon that leaves you breathless and buzzing.
The engine doesn’t just build power; it composes a symphony. Each gear change is a perfectly timed crescendo, the five-speed a demanding maestro. Master it, and you’re rewarded with a visceral connection – a language of levers and cogs lost in the sterilized silence of modern machinery.
Flick it down to third, and the hairpin tightens its grip. That’s when the Lamborghini V12 symphony erupts: a chorus of carburetors bouncing off ancient stone, a raw, visceral snarl clawing skyward, chased by a glorious, crackling bark as you lift, dancing on the edge of the next apex.
It’s pure theatre, but in a way that feels earned, not contrived.
Chassis and handling for days
The shortened Espada platform underpins the Jarama, and that makes sense the moment you tackle the first sequence of hairpins.
Forget lumbering giants. While the Espada stretched out as a grand tourer for four, the Jarama was a coiled spring. Okay, 1450kg of spring, dry. But somehow, despite its weight, it dances. It shrinks around you on the road, a surprisingly agile escape artist in a world of heavyweight GTs.
Unleash agility. All-independent suspension carves corners, glued to the road. Its compact wheelbase? A secret weapon, transforming bends into playful pivots with pinpoint precision.
Forget wrestling the wheel; you guide it with a fingertip. The Jarama doesn’t just corner; it dances, a ballet of balance and composure. Mid-corner corrections? The car whispers "yes," not a defiant roar. Such pliant obedience is a treasure, a forgotten art in the brute force world of vintage GTs.
The brakes, while competent with their all-around ventilated discs, don’t exactly inspire white-knuckle confidence. A few assertive stomps on the pedal are advisable to awaken their full potential before pushing the limits.
Ultimately, you adapt, developing a sixth sense for the road ahead. Braking anticipates the future, and the engine’s hum becomes a tool for graceful deceleration. It’s a humbling lesson: horsepower may be immortalized in stats, but driving finesse evolves beyond the numbers game.
But the raw, untamed nature isn’t a flaw – it’s the point. It demands respect, sharpens your senses, and pulls you into a visceral dance with the machine. It’s in this demanding partnership, this constant conversation between driver and car, that the true, electrifying reward lies.
Feelsome steering
One of the most surprising aspects of the Jarama S is its ZF power steering, fitted as standard.
Forget arm wrestling a velociraptor in a parking lot. While other supercars of its era demanded Herculean effort just to maneuver at walking pace, this one feels like stepping into the future. Navigating city streets is a genuine delight – tight corners and crowded spaces become a breeze, not a battle.
But the switchbacks – that’s where the truth is laid bare. Would the steering dissolve into airy nothingness? Would it feel like guiding a ghost? Thankfully, no. Each hairpin is a conversation, the wheel whispering secrets of the road. There’s a satisfying heft as you lean, a tangible connection to the front tyres as they claw into the asphalt.
While not a direct line to Miura-esque telepathy, the steering whispers secrets of the asphalt. It’s a confidence-inspiring dialogue, crucial when you’re dancing with a legend – knowing precisely what that irreplaceable machine is doing beneath you is half the victory.
Cabin vibes
Stepping inside the Jarama S is like time-traveling to Lamborghini’s 1970s vision of opulence. Forget the earlier GT; the "S" boasts a cockpit reimagined. Imagine a driver-centric dashboard, instruments gleaming with newfound clarity, all harmonizing in a symphony of Italian ergonomics.
Switchgear is scattered in typically Italian fashion, but everything you need is within reach.
Sink into the driver’s seat, and you’ll notice a quirk of its time – a slight offset. But don’t let that deter you; familiarity blooms quickly. The broad, embracing seats, swathed in supple leather, cradle you. Inhale deeply, and the rich, aged scent of a bygone era fills your senses.
The rear seats? Let’s just say they’re more of a suggestion than an actual seating arrangement. Think of them as bonus storage for your gym bag or a temporary perch for particularly well-behaved pets. Face it, this is a two-seater masquerading as a 2+2, and delightfully so.
This isn’t a sanctuary for idle pleasures, but a cockpit forged for purpose. Forget sprawling comfort; this is where driving takes command, and the Jarama answers.
The spirit of the Jarama
Perhaps the greatest USP of the Jarama S is its sense of identity.
This isn’t some poseur draped in borrowed prestige. Forget Italian elegance, the whisper of sophistication. This is pure, unadulterated Lamborghini: a defiant roar against the mundane, a beautiful anomaly daring you to look away.
Ferruccio didn’t chase teenage fantasies plastered on bedroom walls. His obsession? A machine whispering promises of sun-drenched roads, a weekend bag nestled behind the seats, and an engine’s symphony conducted by his own right foot. The Jarama S wasn’t just a car; it was that promise, perfectly delivered.
The Jarama S: the final roar of a dying breed. With its departure, a lineage slammed shut, a chapter closed on Lamborghini’s grand touring philosophy. The front-engined V12, the beating heart of the marque since the 350 GT’s debut in the mid-60s, would fall silent. A decade would pass before such audacious engineering resurfaced, reborn in the unlikely form of the LM002’s off-road beast. The Jarama S isn’t just a car; it’s the echo of a golden age, a swan song in steel and fury.
childcareman.xyz’s Take
The Lamborghini Jarama S will never be the most famous car to wear the raging bull badge.
Forget the Miura’s legacy and the Countach’s theatrics. Here, on the ribbon of asphalt that is Passo della Futa, the Lamborghini Urraco whispers its genius – a revelation only understood when chasing its tail through these mountain curves.
Unleash adrenaline on winding roads, then devour miles in serene comfort. It dances where lesser machines fear to tread. Its bold lines whisper power, its opulent interior embraces you, and its exclusivity ensures envious glances follow. Prepare to command a presence unlike any other.
Instead of just driving a Lamborghini, you’re tapping into the very soul of the brand, experiencing Ferruccio’s dream of the perfect grand tourer firsthand.
The Tuscan sun bleeds across the leather dash as you grip the wheel. A symphony of V12 fury echoes through the Apennines, each note a brushstroke on the canvas of the open road. Forget peacocking – this isn’t about flash. It’s about the visceral communion between man, machine, and the soul-stirring Italian landscape.
It was about being the most authentic – and in that, the Jarama S succeeds brilliantly.
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