Another Love Story

It was 1972, and I was just in my preteens when everything changed—a moment so surreal it felt like stepping straight into a sci-fi movie! Biking along the sun-kissed Athens Riviera, I came to a screeching halt at the sight of the back of an incredible vehicle parked defiantly on the pavement. It was an SM in feuille dorée—a stunning golden leaf colour that sparkled in the sunlight, as if glowing from within. The right photo (by Ian Nixon) vividly reminds me of this first childhood encounter with the SM.

Slowly, I approached this exotic beast, my eyes widening with each step. From the back, it looked sleek and narrow, almost unassuming—until I reached the front, where those bold, confident shoulders flared out in an aggressive stance that seemed to challenge the very ground it rested on. Its surface was impossibly smooth, as if the wind had sculpted it. Sharp lines and flowing curves wove together in perfect harmony, leaving me absolutely speechless. At that age, I didn’t fully grasp its technological prowess, but it was clear: this was no ordinary machine—it was a rolling dream!

In that electrifying moment, I pictured my father behind the wheel, us cruising through the city like royalty. I pleaded with him to consider making it ours—to let us own this spaceship on wheels. But he simply shook his head, echoing the familiar refrain: the SM was too complex, too fragile, and far beyond our reach. “Our social standing doesn’t stretch beyond a DS,” he said with a blend of regret and realism. Just like that, the dream was filed away—tucked between school homework and summer vacations—until years turned into decades.

Then, thirty years later, that dream roared back to life. We tracked down a breathtaking SM hidden away in the Haute-Savoie, nestled between alpine peaks and crystal-clear lakes. And it wasn’t just any SM—this beauty was a carburetted version, a bit tamer in power but simpler and more reliable than the fuel-injected version. And it was perfect. Still in the hands of its first owner, it wore a coat of Bleu Platine—my absolute favourite shade, exclusive to 1971. With a frame number of #00SB2749, it had defied the odds by clocking only 55 000 km.

The original owner handed over a thick stack of handwritten service notes, brittle and faded, like pages from a secret journal. They revealed a quiet tale: after the first three years, this SM barely moved, averaging about 1,000 km per year. It had been slumbering through the decades, patiently waiting.

Soon, we’ll dive deeper, replacing the timing chain and uncovering more of its history hidden within the engine’s metallic core. But for now, every glimpse of this automotive marvel transports me back to that golden summer in Athens. And the dream—my dream—feels more vibrant than ever.