A few weeks into ownership of my 1976 Land Rover, I slipped into the right-hand driver’s seat, pulled the choke, pumped the gas, wiggled the gearshift lever in neutral, and turned the key. Nothing happened. It had a full tank of fuel and a new battery, so what could it be? I won’t keep you in suspense: the starter motor had finally worn out. Over the next few days, while I waited for a new one to arrive by UPS, for what would be my first repair (not counting a seized handbrake lever on Day Two), I made sure to park facing downhill, and became adept at the tried-and-true method of “bump starting.” For those unfamiliar with this bit of automotive black magic, it can only be done with a manual transmission vehicle. You turn on the ignition, roll downhill with the gearbox lever in second, then let out the clutch pedal. Bam! Off you go. It wasn’t the safest or most convenient method of starting a car, but then, this was a Land Rover. Convenience and safety aren’t why I bought it.
There’s a saying Land Rover owners often like to tell: “75% of all Land Rovers sold are still on the road… The other 25% made it home.” It is both a self-deprecating and self-aware joke. We devotees of these British icons are a masochistic bunch. I personally own not one, but two geriatric “Landies,” the aforementioned 1976 Series 3, and a slightly younger 1993 Defender, so I speak from experience. I can attest to a wet knee from when the roof leaks after a hard rain, some wonky wiring that requires me to occasionally indicate turns with old-fashioned hand signals, and a “noise-vibration-harshness” quotient closer to a Soviet-era helicopter than a car. I am also a hoarder of large cardboard shipping boxes that I can flatten and use to soak up oil puddles in my tiny garage, which brings to mind another well-known Land Rover aphorism: “if there’s oil underneath it, there’s oil inside it.” It’s reassurance that if it’s leaking, at least you know your engine is not out of oil. Given all these issues that would be dealbreakers with most vehicles, you might ask why do I love these machines so much? It’s simple: because they are such machines.
While my bump starting skills were becoming expert level, it wasn’t always possible to park facing downhill with a clear runway. That’s when I discovered the bent steel rod affixed to the bulkhead behind the seats: a starter crank. So that’s what the keyhole in the front bumper was for! Engage the crank with a keyed slot in the engine, put the gearbox in neutral, turn the ignition on, pump the gas a couple times, then give the handle a swift turn (minding the kickback). It started every single time. Even after I installed a new starter motor, I enjoyed manually cranking it from time to time. It was a party trick, one I enjoyed demonstrating at weekend “cars and coffee” meetups. The mere act of turning over an engine by hand was empowering and connected me, literally, to the motor. It is the automotive equivalent of engaging a mechanical chronograph or pulling the slide on a minute repeater. Smartwatches don’t offer the same satisfaction, nor do modern vehicles.
Before I go on, I must clarify: When I refer to Land Rover here, I am specifically talking about the era before they became expensive, well-appointed luxury vehicles. While I am begrudgingly coming to appreciate the current generation of the vaunted Defender lineage, it has nothing in common with the ones I know, own, and love. My first Land Rover was, and remains, the 1976 Series 3, from the era when they had no other name besides “Land Rover.” And my daily driver today is a 1993 Defender 110. Both are rather ratty and decidedly agricultural, with ample patina from decades of hard use. And this is how I like them. From the late 1940s until the early ’90s, Land Rovers (with the exception of the spin-off Range Rover luxury SUV line) were vehicles built for farmers, tradesmen, and the military. There were few concessions to comfort because they were simply expected to haul and tow things, and convey people and livestock across rough terrain.
I didn’t grow up tinkering with cars, nor would I call myself mechanically inclined. I’ve had old vehicles before—a few VWs, a Saab, and an Alfa Romeo—and have done my share of routine maintenance over the years. But it was with both excitement and not a small share of trepidation that I bought that first old Land Rover from a Craigslist seller. Land Rovers and British cars in general don’t have the most stellar reputation for reliability. I fully expected to be broken down and left stranded on a weekly basis. But so far, in about 14 years of combined ownership and tens of thousands of miles, I’ve only been stranded once, when a rear half-shaft broke.Â
I’ve come to discover that any mechanical issues I have had to repair were more because of age than a lack of reliability—corroded fasteners, shorted-out wiring, and brittle seals, in addition to decades of wear and tear. The Series 3 spent its first 40 years on a Scottish farm, and my Defender was a British Army mule before it was bought by some itinerant campers who took it all over Europe, judging by some decals on the back window. They’d both been ridden hard and put away wet before I ever put them through their paces. And I haven’t been easy on them either.
When I tell people what I drive, I’m often asked if I store them away during Minnesota’s winters, which are notoriously hard on vehicles. I understand that thinking, but it’s simply not part of my ethos. Why would a highly capable 4-wheel drive truck be hidden away for the six months of the year when it is arguably at its most useful (other than lacking any real heat) and fun? Sure, there’s the matter of rust and salted roads, but I want to drive these vehicles as intended, for as long as I can, and as long as they remain roadworthy. Nothing lasts forever. I am not saving them for anything or anyone, and they’re hardly collectible show cars. Just as dive watches, of any age, should be taken deep, so too should Land Rovers be driven and used. I’ve hauled mulch, landscaping rock, firewood, and construction materials in them both, camped in the Defender, and towed stranded cars out of snow banks in several winters.
One April, I was out driving the old Landy, bashing through furrowed side streets after a freak spring blizzard, when I came upon a police SUV stuck in a snow drift. I asked if he needed help, and after his initial skepticism at the sight of my archaic tractor, he gladly accepted. We hooked up a tow rope to the front of his Ford Explorer, I dropped the little Rover into low range 4WD, and gave it an almighty yank. Job done. I keep the photo of that scene on my phone in case I need a “get out of jail free” card one day, not that I ever get pulled over for speeding.
I always wanted an old truck. I love the idea of something I don’t have to lock, I can park anywhere, haul things in, and never have to wash. I also don’t like having to worry about the occasional scrape or hailstorm. The Defender sleeps outside, year-round, like a faithful sled dog. After some time spent in the UK, the image of old, mud-splattered Land Rovers, still being used by farmers and law enforcement, towing lifeboats in coastal towns, sheep on remote crofts, and rescuing hikers in the mountains evoked something in me. I’m also a hopeless romantic and something of an adventurer, and Land Rover’s history of ferrying explorers in exotic, forbidding places—London to Singapore! Alaska to Tierra del Fuego!—was irresistible. There’s also something egalitarian about old Land Rovers. I get comments, thumbs up, and smiles from little kids, macho pickup truck owners, and African immigrants alike. There is nothing snobby or intimidating about these vehicles. They look like big toys from a sandbox and evoke something different in everyone who sees them.
To me, there’s something admirable about continuing to maintain and use old things, whether that’s diving with a 1969 Doxa, gardening in an old pair of Red Wings, or hauling lumber in a 50-year-old truck. Perhaps it’s my own rationalization, but I mitigate any guilt I feel about driving my diesel Defender with the philosophy that keeping something old running is better than buying something new, with all the plastic, batteries, and paint that goes with it. Plus, my insurance is cheap, I get 25 miles per gallon, and doing my own maintenance means my cost of ownership is next to nothing.
In our era of engineered obsolescence, when you trade a car in almost as often as you do your phone, things of lasting usefulness stand out. I like to wax poetic about the mechanical wristwatch, saying it is one of the, if not the only, man-made objects that can last for generations and remain as functional and useful every single day, and can be worn for everything.Â
I’d say a Land Rover—or any old truck for that matter—is similar, and as long as I’m able to drive, I’ll always own at least one, even if I have to always park facing downhill.
