There are moments in my line of work that feel like pure time travel.
You climb into a car that doesn’t just transport you physically, but mentally – back to an era when engineering decisions were made with instinct, when design was the product of one man’s pencil stroke, and when cars didn’t need to scream for attention because they carried an aura all of their own.
Today, that car is the limited-edition Lamborghini Jarama S (also known as the GTS), the facelifted and upgraded evolution of the Jarama GT, and the very car that Ferruccio Lamborghini himself described as his personal favourite.
Not the Miura. Not the Countach. But this – the understated, front-engined, V12-powerred, 2+2-seat grand tourer that has, for decades, lived in the shadows of its more famous siblings, in part because only 150 examples were produced.
I know this because there are a few old-school Lamborghini craftsmen who worked on these cars with Ferruccio Lamborghini himself still on call at the factory in Sant’Agata Bolognese, and they told me so.
And I’m driving it where it belongs: on the Passo della Futa, an epic mountain pass that snakes its way between Bologna and Florence, through the Apennines. A road soaked in racing history, once part of the legendary Mille Miglia, and a true test of any car’s mettle.
It’s tight and technical one moment, fast and flowing the next, with blind crests and sweeping valley views in between, just to remind you why Italy remains the epicentre of driving passion.
Love at first sight
Produced between 1972 and 1976, the Jarama S isn’t conventionally beautiful in the way the Miura is, nor is it a show-stopper like the Countach. But stand back from it in the morning light of Emilia-Romagna, and you see something special.
Marcello Gandini’s design for Bertone is unapologetically angular, a geometric statement of the early ’70s. The proportions are fascinating: long bonnet, wide stance, and that sharply cut Kamm tail.
The partially covered headlights – often called the ‘sleepy eyes’ – add just enough menace to a car that otherwise carries itself with quiet sophistication.
It doesn’t scream Lamborghini. It doesn’t need to. This is a car that was always meant for the discerning buyer, someone who wanted the thrill of a V12 and the cachet of the raging bull without the flamboyance. And that makes it, in many ways, even cooler.
There’s nothing to prove here. It’s a Gandini-designed Lamborghini with a 4.0-litre V12 under the bonnet. And it makes a noise more delightful than Pavarotti at his sonorous best.
Fire in the belly
Turn the key and the 3.9-litre quad-cam V12 churns once, then catches with a metallic bark. You still need to pump the throttle (more than once) to feed the carbies so as not to stall it.
The sound is more raw and more mechanical than you might expect. It’s precisely at this point you realise this proper Lamborghini metal.
There’s no modern polish here, just a dozen cylinders firing in unison through six twin-choke Weber carburettors, the idle hunting slightly as if eager to be set free. It’s just utterly addictive even at idle.
Slip the heavy clutch, slot the chunky dogleg gear lever into first, and you’re away. The first few hundred metres tell you everything you need to know: this is not a car that coddles you.
Every input requires intention – throttle, brakes, steering. But once you find the rhythm, it starts to flow and you quite naturally start to push.
As it would happen on the day, there was a random Porsche 911 up ahead, clearly trying to capture dynamic footage of the Jarama on the pass. Only issue was we were catching it – fast.
That’s the thing with this classic Lambo. It’s very easy to get into the flow despite the physicality required behind the wheel. It’s wonderfully confidence-inspiring thanks to beautifully linear steering and throttle response.
Power, pace and a sound for all eternity
On paper, the Jarama S makes 365 horsepower (272kW). That may not sound earth-shattering today, but in the mid-1970s this was seriously power.
More importantly, it’s the way it delivers that power. Torque builds progressively, encouraging you to keep the revs high. Push beyond 4500rpm and the V12 comes alive, racing toward seven grand with an urgency that belies its age.
Flat-out along a rare straight on the Futa, the Jarama feels every bit as fast as its 260km/h claimed top speed suggests. The acceleration isn’t neck-snapping, but it’s relentless.
There’s a richness to the way the engine builds, each gear overlapping perfectly with the next, the five-speed gearbox demanding precision but rewarding it with a sense of mechanical connection that modern cars have long since filtered out.
Drop it into third for a climbing hairpin, and you’re treated to one of the most intoxicating sounds in motoring: a carburetted Lamborghini V12 echoing off stone walls, snarling on the way up, then barking on the overrun as you ease back for the next corner.
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.
Unlike the Espada, which was a true four-seat GT, the Jarama is compact enough to feel nimble. It’s still a relatively heavy car (for its day), tipping the scales at around 1450kg dry, but it disguises its bulk well.
There’s genuine agility here. The independent suspension all round keeps it flat in bends, while the short wheelbase lets you pivot the car into corners with surprising accuracy.
You don’t so much fling it as place it, and the Jarama responds with balance and poise. Mid-corner steering and throttle adjustments are met with compliance rather than resistance – a rare trait in GT cars of this era.
The brakes, ventilated discs all round, are adequate rather than spectacular. Best you give the brake pedal a few hard applications before you get more serious.
Either way, you quickly learn to drive with foresight, braking earlier and leaning on engine braking to keep things tidy. It’s a reminder that, while performance figures may endure, technology has moved on.
But none of that detracts from the experience. Quite the opposite. It forces you to drive properly, to think ahead, to become part of the process. And that, ultimately, is what makes driving a car like this so utterly rewarding.
Feelsome steering
One of the most surprising aspects of the Jarama S is its ZF power steering, fitted as standard.
In an era when most supercars left you wrestling at parking speeds, this feels positively modern. Around town, it’s a revelation – no need to manhandle the car into tight spaces.
But the real test is here, on mountain switchbacks. Would the steering be too light, too numb? The answer is no. There’s still feedback, still weight when you lean into a bend, still a sense of the front tyres biting into the tarmac.
It’s not Miura-direct, but it’s communicative enough to inspire confidence. You know what the car is doing, and that’s half the battle when you’re hustling something this rare and valuable.
Cabin vibes
Inside, the Jarama S reflects Lamborghini’s unique approach to luxury in the 1970s. The dashboard was redesigned compared with the earlier Jarama GT, with clearer instruments and more cohesive ergonomics.
Switchgear is scattered in typically Italian fashion, but everything you need is within reach.
The driving position is slightly offset, as was common at the time, but you adapt quickly. Seats are broad and supportive, trimmed in rich leather that still carries the scent of its era.
The rear seats exist, technically, but they’re better suited to luggage or very small companions. In reality, this is a two-seater with extra storage – but that was enough to justify its 2+2 billing.
It’s a space that feels purposeful rather than indulgent. A place for driving, not lounging. And that suits the Jarama perfectly.
The spirit of the Jarama
Perhaps the greatest USP of the Jarama S is its sense of identity.
This isn’t a car that tries to be something else. It isn’t chasing Ferrari glamour, nor Maserati polish. It’s unapologetically Lamborghini: unconventional, left-field, a little eccentric.
And that’s why Ferruccio himself loved it. He wasn’t interested in building cars that looked good on posters for teenagers. He wanted cars that he could drive – properly drive – through the countryside, with luggage in the back and a soundtrack under his right foot. The Jarama S delivered that balance.
It marked the end of an era, too. After this, Lamborghini would not build another front-engined V12 GT until the outlandish LM002 off-roader a decade later. That makes the Jarama S the last of its kind, the swansong of a philosophy that began with the 350 GT in the mid-1960s.
CarExpert’s Take
The Lamborghini Jarama S will never be the most famous car to wear the raging bull badge.
It will never command the values of a Miura or the awe of a Countach. But on a road like the Passo della Futa, you begin to understand its understated brilliance.
It’s fast enough to thrill you, refined enough to tour in, and agile enough to tackle roads its size suggests it shouldn’t. It’s handsome in a brutalist way, luxurious without being ostentatious, and rare enough to guarantee you’ll probably never see another one.
Most importantly, it connects you to the very heart of Lamborghini – to Ferruccio’s own vision of what a grand tourer should be.
And when you’re sitting behind that V12, with the Italian countryside stretching out before you and the exhaust note bouncing back from mountainside cuttings, you realise this was never about being the most flamboyant Lamborghini.
It was about being the most authentic – and in that, the Jarama S succeeds brilliantly.