A110 1600S "Swissair 1971"
- Jürgen Clauss
- Oct 1, 2022
- 5 min read
Updated: May 24
THE ALPINE REFERENCE
HISTORY
TIME CAPSULE
There are automobiles that are more than just machines – they are living witnesses of a bygone era. This Alpine A110 1600S is one such marvel. Ordered new in 1971 by a former SWISSAIR engineer living near Geneva, it was cherished and cared for over the decades with a devotion and attention rarely seen today. For him, it was more than a car – it was a loyal companion, a piece of freedom, a silent promise of technical elegance. It almost feels as if this Berlinette emerged from a time capsule – preserved in the state of a dream never relinquished.
The sensationally original condition leaves only one conclusion: this Alpine was sacred to him. Every detail, every line, every sound of the engine tells of a man’s love for his machine – discreet, Swiss, but unwavering.
Little could be discovered about the original owner himself. Neither name nor address could be determined. All that remains are fleeting traces: a worn keychain and an old umbrella, both bearing the SWISSAIR logo – quiet remnants of his life and story. It is known that, due to age-related dementia, he was admitted to a care facility and placed under the guardianship of the Swiss authority KESCHA. With his move into care, one chapter came to an end – and another quietly began.
As part of his estate – along with an Alpine A310 – this 1600S was released for sale by KESCHA. Both vehicles appeared on the website of a classic car dealer in the Canton of Bern. It was a moment of fate when I stumbled upon this time capsule. A rare encounter, the kind that only happens once in a lifetime – and one I embraced without hesitation.
BACK ON TRACK
PLUG & PLAY
Some vehicles tell stories of arduous rescues, countless hours of restoration, and tireless dedication – but not this one. Here, the chapters SEARCH AND RESCUE and BLOOD, SWEAT AND TEARS can be skipped in good conscience. Because this automobile is a rare exception. No invasive interventions, no disassembled or compromised substance – just the usual maintenance tasks required for any legend that has slumbered for a long time. Nothing more was needed.
From the very first careful glance, something magical became apparent: no careless hands had ever tinkered with it, no misguided attempt had ever been made to “improve” it. It was never taken apart, never rebuilt – and in that lies its quiet greatness. Today, it still stands as it once did when it was assembled by the hands of factory mechanics – authentic down to the smallest detail, original to the very last bolt.
The only modification: two simple rubber straps on the rear hatch, added by the first owner as an extra safety measure – nothing more. Everything else? A virginal presence, cloaked in its very first coat of paint, with every single part still exactly where it belongs, as if time itself had stood still.
And yes, it bears the traces of life – fine scratches, tiny cracks, little blisters. But these are not flaws. They are signs of character, dignity, and history. A patina so genuine and full of life that no painter in the world could ever recreate it.
Slide in. Turn the key. Drive off.
GET OUT AND DRIVE
ONE CAR TO DO IT ALL
It was a first in my personal Alpine journey — a Berlinette that came back to life almost effortlessly, as if she had merely been resting, waiting to breathe again. Within just a few weeks, she was back on the road. No endless nights in the workshop, no desperate wrestling with time and tools — she was ready. All she needed was someone to listen.
From the very first drive, she revealed a driving experience that words can barely capture. The smaller 330mm MOMO Prototipo steering wheel felt unfamiliar at first — the steering effort noticeably higher. For a moment, I feared that the car’s agility might suffer. But I was wrong. The factory-standard steering ratio, combined with the narrow tires, preserved that familiar, graceful lightness the Berlinette is so loved for — agile, precise, alive.
Even the original shock absorbers, still in place since 1971, performed with surprising softness — but never with vagueness. Their tuning was not floaty, but flowing — like a well-written piece of music that doesn’t need to shout to move you.
No — this A110 doesn’t cry out for full throttle or violent cornering. She wants to be guided, gently and intuitively. She rewards sensitivity, not force. Like a ballerina who only reaches perfection in harmony with her partner. The new Michelin XAS FF tires suit her well. Despite their narrow contact patch, they offer a consistent, secure, and stable feel. The soft “FF” compound provides ample grip, even in fast corners — she never loses composure.
Even the factory seats, so often underestimated, do their part. They offer more lateral support than expected, and one quickly forgets that this is a piece of automotive history. The seating position is higher than in a bucket seat, yes — but perhaps that’s what sharpens the senses. It allows you to feel the road, to become part of the rhythm.
My verdict? This Berlinette can do it all. She’s a true road chameleon — perfect for relaxed cruising, and just as ready for spirited, dynamic drives. Especially on winding mountain roads, where each bend feels like a whispered invitation.
Bonne Route — and may the moment never end.
CAR IN DETAIL
ONLY THE ORIGINAL COUNTS
Customizing, tuning, personalization – they are everywhere. Within the vast Alpine community, modifications have become the norm. Few still honor the original vision Jean Rédélé so deliberately and elegantly infused into his creations. His design language – clear, uncompromising, timeless – is too often ignored or painted over. Those who value and preserve originality are a quiet, dwindling minority, while the majority “restore” by personal taste, reshaping what was once automotive poetry.
Yes, many Berlinettes today are called “restored.” But in truth, most share little more than a silhouette with the cars that once rolled out of the factory. Their essence, their character, the fine subtleties of their form – gradually erased beneath layers of paint, fiberglas and well-meaning but misplaced “enhancements.”
In over 35 years as a passionate collector and devotee of the Alpine A110, countless cars have crossed my path. Most of them altered – some gently, others radically. But not one, not a single one, ever captured the magic of a true original. None possessed that quiet dignity, that understated beauty, that magnetic allure only an untouched example can radiate.
Jean Rédélé himself – as many who knew him recall – was no fan of tuning or customizing. To him, every Alpine was a finely composed sculpture, an expression of engineering brilliance and French finesse. That makes it all the more astonishing when one stumbles upon a car that has survived more than half a century completely unaltered. These are no longer just cars – they are cultural heritage, living history. And they deserve to be preserved with reverence.
Every change, every deviation from the original, is more than a stylistic break – it’s a loss. A slow, quiet dismantling of a visionary’s legacy. Of course, every owner has the right to do what they wish with their vehicle. But when we start redefining automotive icons to suit our whims, we lose our reference point. We begin to forget what the original even looked like.
In my humble opinion, altering a car like the A110 is nothing short of sacrilege. It’s like painting a new smile on the Mona Lisa – believing we might somehow improve upon it. A radical view, no doubt. But ask yourself: has anyone ever dared approach da Vinci’s masterpiece with a brush in hand?
Let us pause. Let us protect what was once created with such passion. For Jean Rédélé. For ourselves. And for all those who still understand that true beauty does not need to be improved.
