Most people would agree that British cars are utter rubbish. Period. Alright, I’ll admit it—some of them do look stunning. An Aston Martin DBS, for instance, is an extremely gorgeous marvel of a car. So is the DB5. But looks can be deceiving. Because unless you derive some perverse satisfaction from perpetual humiliation or have an unfulfilled desire to be the punchline of every cheap joke, go ahead and get yourself a Land Rover Defender from the 20th century. Or, better yet, a Range Rover Classic.
(I should clarify here—I used to love them both, by the way.)
Owning one of these magnificent disasters will teach you a priceless lesson: the true scale of suffering you’re capable of enduring.
I know, I know—it sounds deranged. But allow me to explain.
Take the Range Rover Classic, for example. In my opinion, it’s one of the most gorgeous and charismatic machines ever masterminded by man. It looks incredibly robust, doesn’t it? Like a rock. A rock with wheels and an air of rugged superiority.
Only it’s not.
No, the Range Rover Classic is in fact as delicate as a bonsai tree and as feeble as a Kentucky race horse in a hailstorm. Look at it the wrong way—just think about looking at it the wrong way—and it will drop dead on the spot. The RRC doesn’t simply break down. It throws in the towel with dramatic flair, as if to say, “That’s it then.”
Most people don’t realize this, but the Range Rover Classic was designed by the very same bloke who introduced the aqueduct to the Roman Empire sometime around 300 B.C. This, I’m convinced, explains everything.
You see, it still relies on the same rudimentary technology and was never really intended to move quickly—or, frankly, to move at all.
This reluctance to change its locality creates unique challenges for the driver.
You see, for humans to compute velocity, our eyes rely on an intricate mix of stimuli: a sequence of images, a motion flow field derived from those images, and other quantities related to time and space.
However, because of the Range Rover’s stubborn hesitancy to move forward, none of these variables are available to the driver for calculating speed.
Range Rover Classics generally operate on a geological time scale, which makes them a constant source of irritation to even the most lethargic traffic participants. Wheelchairs and skateboards will tailgate you. Shortly thereafter, they’ll probably throw rocks at you.
This is especially true if you had the misfortune—like we did—of opting for the version equipped with the Italian-made VM 2.5 Turbo Diesel engine.
We were drawn in by sheer ignorance and the misguided assumption that “Italian engine” somehow implied Ferrari-like features. Big mistake. Huge.
Although of Italian descent, this infamous VM motor was clearly installed by someone who had never so much as laid eyes on an engine before. Apparently, they couldn’t tell the difference between a vessel propelled by oars and a machine designed to burn fuel to move forward.
Now, don’t get me wrong, but there were more problems.
This engine was perfectly fine—if by “fine” you mean idling for weeks on end. During Wyoming’s arctic winters, we basically left the car running for months. Partly because we feared the engine oil might freeze solid, and partly because we could never be sure the starter motor would ever bother to do its job again.
It was the same story with the brakes—clearly fashioned out of old yogurt cups. The drive shaft rattled so violently I feared my implants would fall out. The wipers moved slower than a sundial, and the lights? Less effective than Christmas tree candles. Then there were the electric window openers, the clutch, the heater—consistently collapsing within 30 seconds of operation—and the steering rod, which seemed connected to a bucket of jelly. And let’s not forget the panorama window…
You get the drift.
What we weren’t afraid of, however, was someone running off with our carriage. It would have taken a lifetime to figure out how to open the stubborn doors—even though we never locked them—and another ten lifetimes to escape to the next zip code. Besides, with the engine leaving oil puddles everywhere it lingered for more than ten seconds, it wouldn’t have taken a Navajo tracker to follow our trail.
To sum it up: our moody companion was painfully slow, frequently lost vital parts, and had a mind of his own. But he also had panache, a kind heart, and a soul. Sure, he broke down often, but when help was nowhere in sight, he never completely gave up on us.
We miss him. Dearly.
Fast forward to
Bowie, Arizona—February 2022.
John Rambo. The ultimate 80s role model.
Picture it: a brooding chap, dressed in a canvas potato sack, taking it upon himself to clean out an entire town because a hillbilly blob of a sheriff rubbed him the wrong way. This ex-Green Beret singlehandedly rewrote history, retroactively winning the Vietnam War fifteen years after everyone else mistakenly assumed America had lost.
What’s this got to do with us, you ask?
Well, there we were, camping in the one-horse town where the immortal John Rambo allegedly grew up—Bowie, Arizona. I was fully expecting him to stroll by at any moment, machine gun in one hand, friendly wave with the other, while simultaneously fending off a pack of rattlesnakes using only his pocket knife.
Waking up in this shrine to cinematic history felt like the perfect way to start the day. And I had every reason to believe it was about to get even better.
We had planned to visit the most famous Range Rover Classic specialist in the Northern Hemisphere—Falconworks. A man so legendary he deserved to be up there on Mount Rushmore, squeezed between Honest Abe and George Washington, all chiselled in granite glory.
Upon browsing his website, I was convinced this unsung hero was far more competent than the bloke who actually designed the Range Rover. You know, the same geezer who also introduced the aqueduct to Rome. His name? Alan. What a glorious, sturdy name. It radiated bravery, valour, and an unmistakable air of competence.
The website's motto—“We, The People”—felt a little derivative, sure, but still managed to inspire awe. “We are people who care about people!”
With 40+ years of experience, Falconworks and its multilingual team of professionals could apparently fix anything—from Land Rovers and Range Rovers to more exotic vehicles like the Lunar and Mars Rovers from NASA’s space program. I was certain we were in good hands. Rumour even had it that the Queen of England frequently sought his advice—on what, I wasn’t quite sure, but it hardly mattered.
I was practically vibrating with excitement. My wife, however, was less enthusiastic. She has an irritatingly accurate knack for reading people and situations, but she humoured me anyway when I suggested we invest $600 in a car wash to sponge off the years of dust, dirt, and debris. I wanted our Range Rover to shine.
Naturally, my wife was right. She usually is.
The place sucked.
Alan, the owner, looked like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings—only less friendly, less attractive, and significantly smaller. He proudly sported cheap sneakers and a Hilfiger shirt that somehow felt offensive in such a historically significant establishment. My first impression? This guy wouldn’t know a flapjack from a firecracker.
Minutes later, we were running for the hills. Literally.
Having been too cowardly to ask for the restroom at Falconworks (a decision we immediately regretted), we hit the road north in a desperate hunt for a rest area. As is always the case in such dire situations, there weren’t any.
Thankfully, we were sitting in the best off-road vehicle ever designed—so off the road we went, out the door we hopped, each claiming a side of the car to answer nature’s increasingly urgent call.
Unbeknownst to us, however, our freshly created liquid puddles had apparently made a lasting impact on our noble steed, the Range Rover Classic. We would find out exactly what kind of impact in excruciating detail a short while later.
Back on the tarmac, our next stop was another beacon of customer service relations: a Harley-Davidson dealership.
Now, Harley-Davidson employees are appreciated for a great many virtues, though I can’t name a single one of them off the top of my head. What I can tell you, however, is that they don’t speak. Ever. If anything, they grunt—deep, guttural noises that vaguely convey displeasure or disinterest.
This irksome trait is more pronounced in the male workforce than among their female counterparts. The mechanics hone this skill daily, but it’s the owners who achieve true mastery. Whether this characteristic stems from a lack of vocabulary diversity or just a general reluctance to interact with cumbersome customers, I can’t say for certain. But it is a global trademark.
Of all my encounters with Harley dealerships across the globe, only one truly defied this stereotype. One.
That was Big Barn Harley-Davidson in Des Moines, Iowa—where hospitality wasn’t just a concept, it was an art form. To this day, I’m convinced their employees are an alien species sent here to infiltrate humanity by making Harley riders feel welcomed and understood.
(Here’s their website in case you doubt me: bigbarnhd.net)
But anyway, I digress.
It was with this mix of past trauma and a faint flicker of hope that we rolled into the parking lot of Old Pueblo Harley-Davidson in Tucson, Arizona.
The second I shut off the engine, I heard it.
A sound.
A distinct sound.
The soft, rhythmic sprinkle of…peeing.
Instinctively—much to my immediate regret—I cast a suspicious glance at my wife. But she sat in stoic silence, glaring at me with the kind of disdain only a person who absolutely is not peeing could muster.
I jumped out and dropped to my knees, peering under our venerable steed.
There it was.
A fountain of DOT4 hydraulic fluid, gushing like Old Faithful from the torn clutch hose. The liquid sprayed and pooled beneath the car in a perfect tribute to the personal puddles my wife and I had left behind not long ago.
For the uninitiated, DOT4 fluid is responsible for clutch operation. Without it, the clutch pedal becomes little more than a wobbly footrest, and you’re left with about as much forward momentum as an anvil strapped to a tree stump.
But no need to panic. We were stranded right on the doorstep of one of America’s most iconic motorcycle brands—a shining star of engineering ingenuity and legendary service.
So…
What could possibly go wrong?
Marcel Romdane, taking a leak...
Bowie Arizona, Rambo's place. I hoped there would be anything left of the car after washing... HD Dealer, Tucson.... Heaven help....
