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Are small retro cars with new hearts the solutions to city motoring?

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Are small retro cars with new hearts the solutions to city motoring? | Top Gear

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Are small retro cars with new hearts the solutions to city motoring?

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Are small retro cars with new hearts the solutions to city motoring?

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Friends, the death of the city car has not been greatly exaggerated. In the past couple of years Ford, Vauxhall, VW, Skoda, Seat, Peugeot, Renault – heck, even Smart – have all exited the scene.

The reasons aren’t complicated. Tiny cars demand carefully managed prices to maintain their wafer thin margins – they’re not routinely specced up with forged carbon dashboards, shag pile leather and 37 speakers. That was manageable until legislation demanded anti-collision radar, drowsiness sensors, lane keep assist and had to withstand the same crash test as a three tonne ubertruck.

Then there’s the propulsion. Trying to profitably package a useful electric drivetrain into a city runabout is like expecting a Jack Russell to romp the Grand National.

Photography: Mark Fagelson

So, we end up in a bizarre world where governments smile upon a plug-in hybrid Lamborghini Urus (800bhp, 2.5 tonnes, offishully 80-odd g/km, guv) but Suzuki’s soon to bin off the charming, wieldy 1.2-litre Ignis which emits less CO2 than a flatulent gerbil. It seems as the mainstream city car goes extinct, it’s being reinvented as a boutiquey electrified plaything. Here’s three iconic micro machines, reimagined for the 21st century. Two paying homage, and one that’s every inch the Swinging Sixties icon with a heart transplant.

That’s the Mini Cooper van – a rare 1962 ‘flatroof’ example. This particular one is liveried up as an exact replica of the original race team spares van of the Cooper Car Company, and it’s been kindly loaned to us by Mike Cooper. Yes, that Cooper. Son of John himself, father of the mid-engined racing car. The name on all the go-faster Minis.

And so’s this one, appropriately. It generates a meaty 135bhp, which is enough to chirrup the front tyres and really gee up your bullion heists, all thanks to an electric powertrain you can bolt in at home between breakfast and elevenses.

This e-conversion is the work of Oxfordshire based Electrogenic. It specialises in kits for Land Rovers, there’s the inevitable (controversial) Porsche 911 offering and it’ll even make a DeLorean less awful. But the package that interests me most is the Classic Mini Conversion, because it’s a self-install job.

Yep, like a GM ‘crate V8’ in the US, this is a powertrain swap you can order online and do yourself. In simple steps: drop the sub 1.0-litre engine and original subframe, swap brakes and suspension onto a new Electrogenic subframe with e-motor attached, and mate it to your donor Mini.

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Saving yourself a few quid on labour might appeal when you learn that the kit price itself is £25k for a 90bhp motor (plus VAT) and this 135bhp version is £30k. Plus VAT, donor car not included.

So, this isn’t a bargain city car, and neither is it necessarily the greenest way to go motoring because as we know, the largest part of an EV’s carbon emissions come in the creation of its battery. Here, the body’s manufacture happened six decades ago, but the new powertrain is going to take a while to offset.

Why bother? I suppose it’s the peace of mind that these conversions make classics so much more usable for people who don’t like to spend their Sundays elbow deep in an oily pit “tinkering with the old girl”. The lion’s share of Electrogenic’s business is exported to America. Whether you like the idea or think it’s sacrilege, there’s apparently a healthy market for mixing the impossibly cool Carnaby Street aesthetic with the push and go operational ease of an iPhone.

What I can tell you is that in 2024 spec London, with its traffic calming, pedestrian islands, bus lanes, cycle superhighways, disco rickshaws and one-way mazes, a 60-year-old Mini remains fabulously fit for purpose. You’re low, right on the deck in what feels – literally – like a go-kart, nestled in a foursquare wheelbase with legs astride the slender, reclined steering wheel. As soon as you’re out of your parking space the unassisted wheel is easy to thread from side to side, and you’re off in search of gaps to exploit.

The motor’s under the stubby bonnet, with the 20kWh battery living in an XXL toolbox amidships. In a ‘car’ version, this would be tucked into the boot. So, you could still squeeze in four mates (or nine clowns)... but none of their luggage.

I like the reinterpretation of classic controls – the choke plunger acts as the drive selector: push in for forwards, pull out for reverse. A toggle switch changes Cooper through Cooper S to Cooper GP mode, upping the power map from sedate to fizzy. And the fuel readout at the bottom of the central speedo has been recalibrated to display remaining range. Around 100 miles is claimed – more than a day’s work in a city where the average traffic speed is nine miles an hour.

At the opposite pole of practicality, you’ll find the Moke International Electric, um, Moke. It looks like a naked Mini but is nothing to do with it. You’ll not find a single piece or panel (not that there are many of either) shared with the original Mini Moke, which was born out of a British Army request for a rough and tumble stripped down Mini-based buggy that could be lobbed out of planes alongside paratroopers.

It never saw active service because with its low belly and tiny wheels it was about as agile off-road as a dachshund, but the Moke did find an audience as a yacht tender – an inverse snobbery plaything of the rich doted upon across the Riviera by the likes of Bridget Bardot, Paul McCartney, and the Sinatras.

After the Sixties they were made in Australia and Portugal for decades as novelty beach buggies. And now, as you can see, the Moke is back. Same name, same blue sky thinking, but a new company with new copyright. And new engineering. Yes, it’s still basically some square chassis sections on sofa wheels with a coolbox handle over the top, but instead of front drive petrol power, this is a 44bhp RWD EV.

All day we’re greeted by grins, memories and genuine interest

Being near silent and as exposed as a naturist atop a Penny Farthing, you hear every reaction. The snorts of laughter, the gasps of shock, the cheers of “Fantastic, they’re doing Mokes again!”, and yes, that bloke in the builder’s van who loudly told the Marylebone Road “Nice Lego car, Noddy”, blasting through an amber light before I could conjure a response. Superb comic timing.

If he’d stuck around I’d have told him that despite its hopelessly dweeby presence, the Moke is surprisingly sorted. Look, it’s not going to have Rolls-Royce reverse engineering it when it needs to take the top off the Spectre, but the structure feels more rigid than the catamaran chassis suggests. It takes speed bumps in its stride and though you sit loftily with the steering wheel resting in your lap and treading on pedals that feel like they’ve come from a piano, its road manners are fairly civilised. For an AWOL Legoland ride.

And nippy – 4.5 seconds from zero to 30mph doesn’t sound special but it’s a whizzkid in a traffic light grand prix against a surly cyclist. I suspect this is the only time a Moke will have to conquer the urban jungle, and in its natural habitat of a Mediterranean seafront it’ll be as over endowed with performance as the frustrated, constrained Bugatti Chirons and Koenigseggs that burble through Mayfair for lap after tedious lap.

In return for £36k, Moke says you’ll get 50-odd miles of range if you’re headbutting the sit up and beg design against A-road speeds, or as much as 80 miles if merely bimbling down to the waterfront. Keep the speed down and you’ll be less buffeted by the Caterham style headwind that wraps around the slither of windscreen and slaps you about the jowls, drowning out the clinking of the unoccupied seatbelts.

This is – commendably – a genuine four seater, but the boot is a tiny locker out back that’s completely filled by the unedifying tent that’s billed as an emergency roof. I leave it stowed and toddle down Old Bond Street, guffawing at the glowering supercar owners in the pavement cafes who see their audience of smartphone wielding spotters enticed away from the cavalcade of straight piped Lambos and Ford GTs in race mode, to photograph a dork parking an escaped golf buggy outside Stella McCartney’s emporium.

[node:field_inline_galleries-themed-delta:1]

And while I feel like a bit of a tool in the Moke, that evaporates when you’re exposed to the glow of positivity it generates. All day we’re greeted by grins, memories and genuine interest. In SW1 £36,000 is a handbag, a new wristwatch strap, a decent lunch. My cynicism over the price is eroded. Like the original, Moke v2.0 has a well heeled target audience. I wonder if they, like me, will be just a touch disappointed the interior lacks any retro charm whatsoever. The Peugeot 106 parcel-shelf speakers, zero-kitsch dials and waterproof switchgear are an own goal – an imagination vacuum in a car everyone sees into.

Switching to a Microlino isn’t the smartest idea if you’re in search of privacy, but it does at least kill the draught around my knees. I’ve got previous with this Isetta bubblecar revamp – TG was first to test the prototype in its native Zurich back in 2017. Back then, Micro (of folding scooter fame) touted an altruistic mission to build a featherlight machine right-sized for cities. It was to be a largely plastic fantastic short range hopper, yours for about eight grand, an urban mobility democratiser.

In the intervening years, Micro noticed that the interest wasn’t coming from cash strapped bus users eager for some autonomy, but the offspring of the private jetset who bought the Moke in its heyday – and the wealthy were none too impressed by its hot plastic seat or piddly range.

Nowadays the single, full-width door is electronically released, losing its chunky Smeg fridge handle in the process. There are three versions: an entry level £17k one that’ll barely crest 28mph, supposedly keeping Micro’s promise to bring the ’lino to the people, but as we all know from the success of top spec Dacias and Tesco Finest, the bougie trims will be the ones that sell: choose from the middler (110 miles, £20k) and a pointless long range topper (141 miles, £21,500). Our Smurfette had contrast stitching, faux leather and a touchscreen, which you have to access to open the 230-litre boot. Where your scooter lives.

They make urban motoring not just feasible, but considerate, fun... to be savoured

I’m not sure the novelty of clambering through the car’s ‘mouth’ like it’s the lovechild cub of a cargo plane and a car ferry would ever get old, but once you are settled (left-hand drive only due to the complications of moving the fixed steering column) then the Microlino is the least fun to drive (though it’s all relative) of the triplet.

Despite a wider rear track there’s a lightly unnerving vagueness when it enters a corner, and clunky driveline shunt when lifting off. The ride is the most abrupt of the three cars, and though the bench seat slides fore and aft, the driving position remains stubbornly ‘1980s Italian supercar’. Splayed legs, locked elbows. Begs the question, why go to the expense of extending the range? You’re not going far in this. Pop to the local delicatessen, raise a smile, park nose on to the kerb. Open the sunroof and slide back the windows.

As a car – equivalent on price to a delivery miles Polo – it’s flawed. But as an accessory, it’s charmingly twee and extremely cool. I could sit here poking holes in it, but the bottom line is, driving it made me happy. It’s a smile generator, whether you’re inside or watching it shimmy past like a street-legal Minion.

I can’t stand driving in most cities – especially London – a metropolis that despises the car and does everything in its jurisdiction to make its life miserable. Cabbies have my unyielding sympathy. But these three are like a cheat code for cheerfulness. They make urban motoring not just feasible, but considerate, fun... to be savoured.

Hopefully at least one suit peered out of their office window, saw these three toddling around Parliament Square and had a brainwave. Small cars deserve a comeback.

# data.attributes.body.processed
Friends, the death of the city car has not been greatly exaggerated. In the past couple of years Ford, Vauxhall, VW, Skoda, Seat, Peugeot, Renault – heck, even Smart – have all exited the scene.

The reasons aren’t complicated. Tiny cars demand carefully managed prices to maintain their wafer thin margins – they’re not routinely specced up with forged carbon dashboards, shag pile leather and 37 speakers. That was manageable until legislation demanded anti-collision radar, drowsiness sensors, lane keep assist and had to withstand the same crash test as a three tonne ubertruck.

Then there’s the propulsion. Trying to profitably package a useful electric drivetrain into a city runabout is like expecting a Jack Russell to romp the Grand National.

Photography: Mark Fagelson

So, we end up in a bizarre world where governments smile upon a plug-in hybrid Lamborghini Urus (800bhp, 2.5 tonnes, offishully 80-odd g/km, guv) but Suzuki’s soon to bin off the charming, wieldy 1.2-litre Ignis which emits less CO2 than a flatulent gerbil. It seems as the mainstream city car goes extinct, it’s being reinvented as a boutiquey electrified plaything. Here’s three iconic micro machines, reimagined for the 21st century. Two paying homage, and one that’s every inch the Swinging Sixties icon with a heart transplant.

That’s the Mini Cooper van – a rare 1962 ‘flatroof’ example. This particular one is liveried up as an exact replica of the original race team spares van of the Cooper Car Company, and it’s been kindly loaned to us by Mike Cooper. Yes, that Cooper. Son of John himself, father of the mid-engined racing car. The name on all the go-faster Minis.

And so’s this one, appropriately. It generates a meaty 135bhp, which is enough to chirrup the front tyres and really gee up your bullion heists, all thanks to an electric powertrain you can bolt in at home between breakfast and elevenses.

This e-conversion is the work of Oxfordshire based Electrogenic. It specialises in kits for Land Rovers, there’s the inevitable (controversial) Porsche 911 offering and it’ll even make a DeLorean less awful. But the package that interests me most is the Classic Mini Conversion, because it’s a self-install job.

Yep, like a GM ‘crate V8’ in the US, this is a powertrain swap you can order online and do yourself. In simple steps: drop the sub 1.0-litre engine and original subframe, swap brakes and suspension onto a new Electrogenic subframe with e-motor attached, and mate it to your donor Mini.

Saving yourself a few quid on labour might appeal when you learn that the kit price itself is £25k for a 90bhp motor (plus VAT) and this 135bhp version is £30k. Plus VAT, donor car not included.

So, this isn’t a bargain city car, and neither is it necessarily the greenest way to go motoring because as we know, the largest part of an EV’s carbon emissions come in the creation of its battery. Here, the body’s manufacture happened six decades ago, but the new powertrain is going to take a while to offset.

Why bother? I suppose it’s the peace of mind that these conversions make classics so much more usable for people who don’t like to spend their Sundays elbow deep in an oily pit “tinkering with the old girl”. The lion’s share of Electrogenic’s business is exported to America. Whether you like the idea or think it’s sacrilege, there’s apparently a healthy market for mixing the impossibly cool Carnaby Street aesthetic with the push and go operational ease of an iPhone.

What I can tell you is that in 2024 spec London, with its traffic calming, pedestrian islands, bus lanes, cycle superhighways, disco rickshaws and one-way mazes, a 60-year-old Mini remains fabulously fit for purpose. You’re low, right on the deck in what feels – literally – like a go-kart, nestled in a foursquare wheelbase with legs astride the slender, reclined steering wheel. As soon as you’re out of your parking space the unassisted wheel is easy to thread from side to side, and you’re off in search of gaps to exploit.

The motor’s under the stubby bonnet, with the 20kWh battery living in an XXL toolbox amidships. In a ‘car’ version, this would be tucked into the boot. So, you could still squeeze in four mates (or nine clowns)... but none of their luggage.

I like the reinterpretation of classic controls – the choke plunger acts as the drive selector: push in for forwards, pull out for reverse. A toggle switch changes Cooper through Cooper S to Cooper GP mode, upping the power map from sedate to fizzy. And the fuel readout at the bottom of the central speedo has been recalibrated to display remaining range. Around 100 miles is claimed – more than a day’s work in a city where the average traffic speed is nine miles an hour.

At the opposite pole of practicality, you’ll find the Moke International Electric, um, Moke. It looks like a naked Mini but is nothing to do with it. You’ll not find a single piece or panel (not that there are many of either) shared with the original Mini Moke, which was born out of a British Army request for a rough and tumble stripped down Mini-based buggy that could be lobbed out of planes alongside paratroopers.

It never saw active service because with its low belly and tiny wheels it was about as agile off-road as a dachshund, but the Moke did find an audience as a yacht tender – an inverse snobbery plaything of the rich doted upon across the Riviera by the likes of Bridget Bardot, Paul McCartney, and the Sinatras.

After the Sixties they were made in Australia and Portugal for decades as novelty beach buggies. And now, as you can see, the Moke is back. Same name, same blue sky thinking, but a new company with new copyright. And new engineering. Yes, it’s still basically some square chassis sections on sofa wheels with a coolbox handle over the top, but instead of front drive petrol power, this is a 44bhp RWD EV.

All day we’re greeted by grins, memories and genuine interest

Being near silent and as exposed as a naturist atop a Penny Farthing, you hear every reaction. The snorts of laughter, the gasps of shock, the cheers of “Fantastic, they’re doing Mokes again!”, and yes, that bloke in the builder’s van who loudly told the Marylebone Road “Nice Lego car, Noddy”, blasting through an amber light before I could conjure a response. Superb comic timing.

If he’d stuck around I’d have told him that despite its hopelessly dweeby presence, the Moke is surprisingly sorted. Look, it’s not going to have Rolls-Royce reverse engineering it when it needs to take the top off the Spectre, but the structure feels more rigid than the catamaran chassis suggests. It takes speed bumps in its stride and though you sit loftily with the steering wheel resting in your lap and treading on pedals that feel like they’ve come from a piano, its road manners are fairly civilised. For an AWOL Legoland ride.

And nippy – 4.5 seconds from zero to 30mph doesn’t sound special but it’s a whizzkid in a traffic light grand prix against a surly cyclist. I suspect this is the only time a Moke will have to conquer the urban jungle, and in its natural habitat of a Mediterranean seafront it’ll be as over endowed with performance as the frustrated, constrained Bugatti Chirons and Koenigseggs that burble through Mayfair for lap after tedious lap.

In return for £36k, Moke says you’ll get 50-odd miles of range if you’re headbutting the sit up and beg design against A-road speeds, or as much as 80 miles if merely bimbling down to the waterfront. Keep the speed down and you’ll be less buffeted by the Caterham style headwind that wraps around the slither of windscreen and slaps you about the jowls, drowning out the clinking of the unoccupied seatbelts.

This is – commendably – a genuine four seater, but the boot is a tiny locker out back that’s completely filled by the unedifying tent that’s billed as an emergency roof. I leave it stowed and toddle down Old Bond Street, guffawing at the glowering supercar owners in the pavement cafes who see their audience of smartphone wielding spotters enticed away from the cavalcade of straight piped Lambos and Ford GTs in race mode, to photograph a dork parking an escaped golf buggy outside Stella McCartney’s emporium.

And while I feel like a bit of a tool in the Moke, that evaporates when you’re exposed to the glow of positivity it generates. All day we’re greeted by grins, memories and genuine interest. In SW1 £36,000 is a handbag, a new wristwatch strap, a decent lunch. My cynicism over the price is eroded. Like the original, Moke v2.0 has a well heeled target audience. I wonder if they, like me, will be just a touch disappointed the interior lacks any retro charm whatsoever. The Peugeot 106 parcel-shelf speakers, zero-kitsch dials and waterproof switchgear are an own goal – an imagination vacuum in a car everyone sees into.

Switching to a Microlino isn’t the smartest idea if you’re in search of privacy, but it does at least kill the draught around my knees. I’ve got previous with this Isetta bubblecar revamp – TG was first to test the prototype in its native Zurich back in 2017. Back then, Micro (of folding scooter fame) touted an altruistic mission to build a featherlight machine right-sized for cities. It was to be a largely plastic fantastic short range hopper, yours for about eight grand, an urban mobility democratiser.

In the intervening years, Micro noticed that the interest wasn’t coming from cash strapped bus users eager for some autonomy, but the offspring of the private jetset who bought the Moke in its heyday – and the wealthy were none too impressed by its hot plastic seat or piddly range.

Nowadays the single, full-width door is electronically released, losing its chunky Smeg fridge handle in the process. There are three versions: an entry level £17k one that’ll barely crest 28mph, supposedly keeping Micro’s promise to bring the ’lino to the people, but as we all know from the success of top spec Dacias and Tesco Finest, the bougie trims will be the ones that sell: choose from the middler (110 miles, £20k) and a pointless long range topper (141 miles, £21,500). Our Smurfette had contrast stitching, faux leather and a touchscreen, which you have to access to open the 230-litre boot. Where your scooter lives.

They make urban motoring not just feasible, but considerate, fun... to be savoured

I’m not sure the novelty of clambering through the car’s ‘mouth’ like it’s the lovechild cub of a cargo plane and a car ferry would ever get old, but once you are settled (left-hand drive only due to the complications of moving the fixed steering column) then the Microlino is the least fun to drive (though it’s all relative) of the triplet.

Despite a wider rear track there’s a lightly unnerving vagueness when it enters a corner, and clunky driveline shunt when lifting off. The ride is the most abrupt of the three cars, and though the bench seat slides fore and aft, the driving position remains stubbornly ‘1980s Italian supercar’. Splayed legs, locked elbows. Begs the question, why go to the expense of extending the range? You’re not going far in this. Pop to the local delicatessen, raise a smile, park nose on to the kerb. Open the sunroof and slide back the windows.

As a car – equivalent on price to a delivery miles Polo – it’s flawed. But as an accessory, it’s charmingly twee and extremely cool. I could sit here poking holes in it, but the bottom line is, driving it made me happy. It’s a smile generator, whether you’re inside or watching it shimmy past like a street-legal Minion.

I can’t stand driving in most cities – especially London – a metropolis that despises the car and does everything in its jurisdiction to make its life miserable. Cabbies have my unyielding sympathy. But these three are like a cheat code for cheerfulness. They make urban motoring not just feasible, but considerate, fun... to be savoured.

Hopefully at least one suit peered out of their office window, saw these three toddling around Parliament Square and had a brainwave. Small cars deserve a comeback.

# data.attributes.field_standfirst
Top Gear goes in search of answers... at rush hour