ROBERT COUCHER
The Driver
M otoring journalists love Alfa Romeos. A friend pointed out that this is because journos can drive the cars like they stole them, then return them to the press fleet without the reality of having to live with their capriciousness. That’s all well and good, but I have owned a few…
Ranging from the magnificent pre-war Alfa 8C Monza to the clever and advanced Alfasud, Alfa Romeos have always offered imaginative and exciting engineering, usually with sharp Italian styling. And, having spent years with Alfas, I don’t agree with the assertion that they are any less reliable than other classics. My 1959 Alfa Giulietta Sprint was certainly more reliable than my 1964 Porsche 356C. It had that wonderful twin-cam engine while the Porsche made do with a pushrod slogger. The Giulietta was better-looking than the admittedly cute 356, and it handled more predictably. The Porsche had sixvolt electrics (never had any electrical problems with the Alfa) and rusted with more enthusiasm than a Lancia Beta on the beach.
The Giulietta, on the other hand, had virtually no rust and, as both the cars were imported from Cape Town, it was interesting to see how they fared. The Porsche was beautifully made and the materials were of a higher standard, with more solid bodywork and an interior with sturdy, adjustable Reutter seats, whereas the Alfa’s interior fittings were flimsy and the seats notorious for cracking and breaking apart.
Prior to the Giulietta in London, I owned an Alfasud in Cape Town when at Varsity in the 1980s. After years of frustration trying to get my wrecked Lancia Aurelia B20 GT to run for more than half an hour in one go, I swapped it for the ’Sud. Not one of my better car investments! But the ’Sud was in fabulous condition (still no excuse!) and seemed reliable. Most sporting types drove Golfs; the GTI was all the rage. But my Alfasud was a 1.5 Ti with twin Weber carbs. Not fast by today’s standards, though it was one of the best-handling cars I have ever owned, and was a lot more fun than the ubiquitous Golf. Yes, it finally succumbed to rust, as 1970s Alfas (and Lancias) were made of cheap recycled Russian steel that self-destructed.
This was followed by an Alfasud Sprint Veloce in Johannesburg a few years later. The Sprint was a fast, full Group N racer painted in Italian tricolore colours with a stripped interior and cage. In that car you never, ever had to lift going into a corner. With a seam-welded body, the racing suspension set-up kept the balanced Alfa poised at all times, but the crashing ride, rollcage and terrible interior din meant it had to go. A real pity.
The first Alfa Romeo I owned was a 105-series Giulia. Yes, the boxy saloon. It was in very good original condition but was painted that light pistachio green, which was deeply uncool at the time, so I repainted it jet black. With all the chromework it looked superb. The car was a regular model with a single downdraught Solex carb, so that was immediately changed for twin Webers. I remember the astonishing difference that made. Allowed to breathe freely, the engine came alive and revved like mad. With a five-speed gearbox and superb, huge finned aluminium brake drums, with three leading shoes, the Alfa saloon was under no illusion: it was a full-on sports car with four doors and a decent boot.
The drum brakes demanded regular adjustment and a new set of Michelin boots and fresh dampers were required, but after that the Alfa was a paragon of fun reliability. The trick with these 105s is to warm the ally engines meticulously, otherwise they tend to blow head gaskets. I loved this car because it saved my life (unlike the rearengined German slot car that tried to kill me).
On a trip back to my army base, 1000 miles north of my home in Cape Town, we were ‘four-up’ with a bootful of luggage. Driving as fast as possible to get to the camp before inspection, I let the rest of the boys doze in the heat of the Karoo desert as the Alfa blatted along. Flat out, I crested a rise. The Alfa went light on its suspension as we yumped, then I was instantly faced with a huge hole in the road. There was absolutely no time to hit the brakes, which would have dangerously unsettled the car, anyway. The Alfa landed hard on its suspension stops, I put my foot down and swung around the killer obstacle. I really thought we’d spear off into the sand at best, or flick into a roll at worse.
But the Alfa responded to the call. Reacting perfectly to the steering input, the chassis slewed, the skinny tyres scrabbled, but it got us around. Sweating, with my heart pounding, I noticed that none of the other squaddies had even woken up! Got to love a car like that.
‘AFTER YEARS WITH ALFAS, I DON’T AGREE WITH THE ASSERTION THAT THEY ARE ANY LESS RELIABLE THAN OTHER CLASSICS’