Words Matteo Lavazza

Life is beautiful. Sometimes, it takes very little. For example, there are those like myself who would be happy just waking up on any random morning in the late ’90s, when the only worries were whether the computer would explode because of the Millennium Bug and the tough choice of which new sports car to buy with your hard-earned savings. Yeah, quite a problem—especially considering that a little over twenty years ago there was a flood of interesting models, not just in terms of performance and design, but because driving engagement was a completely different story. Am I just another nostalgic? Undoubtedly. But if, like me, you have this visceral passion carved deep in your marrow, it’s precisely thanks to that decade with its immortal legacy—often overlooked in favor of the fabulous ’60s or the outrageous horsepower figures we’re used to today.

The weather outside the office window isn’t helping. It’s raining, there’s a thick fog and the EV test car is out of charge. Between one email and another filled with the usual grandiose proclamations, I turn my bored gaze elsewhere and in the bottom drawer of my desk I find a checkered notebook where, since I was a child, I used to glue magazine clippings, collecting my favorite cars. Sure, we can all agree that little me had some serious issues choosing a proper Top 10—but perhaps I was just showing early signs of being a compulsive hoarder. Looking at those pages today, I feel like Doc Brown traveling through time, realizing just how precious those moments were—moments that flew by all too quickly.

In an instant, it’s as if the light around me dims and I’m suddenly swept into a time vortex. I wake up on an ordinary day in those dearly missed ’90s, when sports cars were my only reason for living, my first thought in the morning and my last before going to bed—ready to dream of gripping the steering wheel of a Ferrari or a Lamborghini. Funny thing is, there was actually much less choice back then. Just think—McLaren only had the F1, which had a completely different price tag compared to the other supercars, and 90% of today’s dream car manufacturers didn’t even exist yet: Pagani, Koenigsegg, Zenvo, Rimac, and so on.

Back then, the choice really boiled down to two distinct categories: grand tourers or more traditional supercars—those with mid-rear engines and spaceship looks. In terms of performance, it felt like flying—literally—and yet, those numbers are now matched by any electric crossover or one of the few remaining hot hatches. Oh yes, there was something for us common mortals too. In fact, there was a lot to choose from—whether you liked little rockets, coupes, or sedans (and wagons) with a ton of horsepower under the hood. It was the golden age, a time when bold models were necessary to show off potential, even at the risk of the occasional commercial flop. But the beauty was precisely that emotional value came first, before all the logical reasoning. And that’s how we liked it.

What made grand tourers like the Aston Martin DB7, Ferrari 456 GT, or 550 Maranello truly great—some of Europe’s answers to the ever-present Corvette—wasn’t just their design, born from a pencil still held by a human being blessed with inspiration and a love for aerodynamics, but the very essence of driving involvement. Sequential transmissions were starting to appear, like the robotized F1 gearbox that equipped the Ferrari F355 from 1994 onward, beginning to split the field into two camps: the analog lovers and those chasing tenths of seconds saved by clutchless gear changes. At first, it was a dilemma—you didn’t know which side to take, and no choice was really influenced by what, in hindsight, was a massive difference.

No dual-clutch (automatic), no cutting-edge electronics: the automatic was more comfortable and seemed quicker—but it really wasn’t. It was still an early-stage project, in full development, not yet capable of enhancing a high-revving engine. But we didn’t know that. We were too mesmerized by the kick in the back at every shift, unfairly ignoring that stick on the center tunnel which we now miss like air. So what really moved us, even behind the wheel of more affordable sports cars from Japan—like the Mitsubishi 3000 GT, Mazda RX-7, Honda NSX, and Nissan 300ZX, just to name a few of the longest-running ones? No, I didn’t forget the Toyota Supra—it deserves its own mention.

To truly understand it, you can’t just read spec sheets, let alone imagine what it was like based on experience with modern cars. Driving a ’90s sports car was bringing something intimate to life—a driver/car relationship that was analog, mechanical, full of noises and smells that conveyed every tiny sensation. The cars were imperfect, creaky, and even those with the most prestigious badges had issues—often unresolved throughout their lifespan. But that’s exactly what made them special, what makes them immortal today: that touch of humanity that let us play a role when driving—not just be a lucky passenger.

The lack of driving aids and the unpredictable power delivery due to still-primitive turbocharging did the rest, making that moment when your hands were at 10:10 something that would mark you for the rest of your enthusiast life. That morning, when the alarm interrupted an unusually light sleep, I jumped out of bed without even realizing it. When you know your beauty is in the garage waiting for you, tank full and eager to stretch its wheels, nothing can stop you. You already picture yourself behind the wheel, smile fixed on your face, knees only stopping their trembling once the engine’s sound floods the cabin—raw, unfiltered, free of concerns about emissions or fuel economy. Today, you’re willing to fund your gas station’s holiday—who cares—you only live once, and it can be beautiful.

Low beltline, a few squeaks and drafts you didn’t remember—and then everything disappears, swallowed by the sound every engine should make. You hear the mechanical clatter, the roughness of the gears at each shift, and—let’s admit it—the imprecision of a front end doing its best to meet the expectations of a 3.0 Sunday driver. I wouldn’t change a thing. Who cares about connectivity, infotainment, or even an 18,000-speaker sound system? I never used that anyway—only needed now because most cars on the road no longer have engines worthy of that name.

You wink at every driver who shares your same affliction and head to your favorite road, knowing it will be something magical and indescribable. Two gears down, floor the throttle, and after a moment of hesitation, you feel the rear find the grip it needs to push you forward. You feel the asphalt, feel how the tires trace its imperfections—like fingers gliding across a rough surface. Your feet rise and fall in the classic automotive dance, coordinated with your right hand on the gear lever, all to a soundtrack of horsepower galloping toward the solitude of a mountain road.

And if you think about it, it wasn’t just about picking your favorite. It was about discovering your own tastes. Back then, these weren’t scale models, ranging from size XS to XL. Each car had a clearly defined personality, and you couldn’t possibly confuse one brand’s model with another’s. Just as it should be. Sure, from the driver’s seat—the only place that really matters—you couldn’t admire the sensual shapes of the body, just a slice of hood riding the asphalt, devouring miles. You were in command of something that, moving through space, crossed the boundary of your subconscious, creating memories that would define how much heart and soul crave days spent driving for the pure joy of it. It doesn’t matter if there’s a destination, if you get lost, or if the weather is as miserable as today. All you need is the mechanical love of an analog object that, in the purity of its behavior, marked an era when being a car enthusiast was the most beautiful gift life could give you. That image, that memory the passing time tries so hard to fade—that is my idea of motoring ecstasy. That morning like so many others, that moment I would give anything to return to—when life was simple and beautiful, and cars were magical things.

Take me back there. I need nothing else.