Lancia, Nostalgia, and The Grand Tour: An Imperfect Love Story
Let me get one thing straight: I’m not a car guy. Not in the way that some people pore over every spec sheet or can talk your ear off about torque or top speed. But cars, for me, have always been tied to moments in life, to memories that linger. And nothing has stirred those memories more than the very last episode of The Grand Tour when Clarkson and company brought the Lancia Montecarlo back into the spotlight. It hit me like a wave.
Why? Because my first two cars were Lancias. A Lancia Delta and, later, a Lancia Gamma. Now, I’m not someone who would wax poetic about every vehicle I’ve owned, but these two were different. The Delta wasn’t a sports car, but it had an edge—1.5 automatic, quick enough, and full of quirks. And believe me, it had quirks. It had cooling issues that resulted in the head gasket blowing more than once, and yet I couldn’t help but love it. That car had personality, in a way that’s hard to find in anything on the road today.
The Delta wasn’t just transportation; it was a companion. When I upgraded a year later to the Gamma, a 2.5-litre boxer engine beast, I thought I was trading up for a more mature, refined experience. And to some extent, I was. The Gamma had a smoother ride, more comfort, and was undeniably more stylish. But it also carried with it the Lancia charm—meaning, of course, the mechanical oddities that came with the brand. The Gamma’s power steering was hit-or-miss, and let’s just say the engine had its moods. Still, I loved every minute of owning it.
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Watching the Montecarlo on The Grand Tour reminded me why I’d give anything to still have those two cars, quirks and all. It’s not about horsepower or precision handling. It’s about the feel. Lancia had a way of making cars that were flawed but full of life. They weren’t perfect, but they made you feel something. When the Montecarlo appeared on screen, I was right back in my Delta, head gasket problems and all. Or behind the wheel of the Gamma, hoping the power steering would cooperate for the next hairpin turn.
Sure, modern cars are better in nearly every measurable way—faster, safer, more efficient—but they’ve lost the soul. The Delta and Gamma weren’t reliable by today’s standards, but that’s precisely what made them memorable. Every drive was an adventure, every journey was an experience. You don’t get that from a perfectly engineered, flawless car.
If I could, I’d have both of those Lancias back in a heartbeat. Not because they were fast or flashy, but because they had heart. They weren’t just machines; they were part of my life’s story. And even if I’m not the kind of person who lives for cars, I know this: I miss the imperfect, brilliant mess that they were.