Mike Marett bought a 1971 Alfa Romeo Giulia Super with one plan. Ship it to Canada. Run the Targa Newfoundland with his Uncle. A proper rally on proper roads with proper consequences.
The car was prepped accordingly. Fuel cell. Fire suppression system. The motor came out and was rebuilt. It was serious. Not a weekend project with a six-pack and a dream. This was a car being built for one of the most demanding road rallies in North America.
Then COVID killed the Targa. The car never made it to the start line.
After more than a year of mechanical work, Mike's friend Michael joined him to collect the car from his mechanic in Ohio. They drove it straight back to Connecticut. Ten-plus hours behind the wheel of a freshly rebuilt Giulia Super on open road.
Somewhere on that drive, something clicked for Michael. The way it felt behind the wheel. The sounds. The weight of the steering. The mechanical honesty of a twin-cam four cylinder doing exactly what it was designed to do over fifty-five years ago. Within thirty days, he had one of his own.
The Giulia berlina is one of those cars that rewards people who actually look at it. Most don't. It's a box. A small, upright, vaguely European box with thin pillars and a lot of glass. It does not photograph like a Ferrari. It does not announce itself like a Lamborghini. What it does is cut through air better than almost anything else on the road in 1962, which is when Alfa Romeo introduced it. The berlina was one of the first production sedans developed with serious wind tunnel testing, and its drag coefficient was remarkably low for the era. The shape that looks simple is anything but.
Under the hood, the alloy twin-cam inline four. The engine that defined Alfa Romeo for decades. Responsive. Vocal. Completely unwilling to be ignored. In a car this small and this light, every cubic centimeter counts and every one of them speaks up about it.
Both Mike and Michael get this. They talk about the Giulia the way people talk about things they didn't expect to love. The sensory experience. The smell of old Italian upholstery and the sound bouncing off buildings at an intersection. The way other drivers react. You get one of two responses. Either they've never seen anything like it, or they know exactly what it is and can't contain themselves.
The cars are not identical. That's the thing about vintage Alfas. They require so much love and ongoing maintenance that no two end up the same. Same model, same year, completely different personalities. Different histories. Different scars. Both have been modified and upgraded extensively. They handle the backroads and the race track equally well. Verde Muschio green and Bianco Pino white. The kind of provenance that makes the cars more interesting every time you pull another thread.
Now Mike and Michael drive them through the hills of Connecticut with their wives, at the track, on rallies, always with a group of Alfa Romeo enthusiasts. Lots of smiles.
These cars weren't designed for 200,000 miles. They were built for a life. The fact that they're still here, still demanding attention, still rewarding the people willing to pour love into them, is the whole point. They don't survive on neglect. They survive because someone cared enough to keep them going.
Mike Marett bought a race car, built a rally car. The Targa hasn't happened yet. But the car inspired his great friend to buy one, and led others to appreciate what a proper Alfa Romeo Giulia Super can be. That's probably the most honest thing a car can make you do.
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