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Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - long-term review - Report No:8

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Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - long-term review - Report No:8 | Top Gear

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Once you stop judging it by normal car standards, it's quite something...

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Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - long-term review - Report No:8

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Once you stop judging it by normal car standards, it's quite something...

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Once you stop judging it by normal car standards, it's quite something...

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Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - long-term review - Report No:8

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“This?! This is one of your favourite cars you’ve ever run? Why?”

That was my friend’s reaction as he wrestled open the door, grabbed the handle and hauled himself into TG’s big, green Wrangler with a look that mixed confusion, concern and mild disappointment. He’s not the first. Most people assume I only really care about cars with huge power, rear-wheel drive and a seven-figure price tag. So admitting that a Jeep Wrangler has become one of my favourite long-termers tends to catch people a bit off guard.

But the appeal is obvious once you stop judging it by normal car standards.

The Wrangler isn’t good in the way most modern cars are good. It’s not polished, it’s not subtle, and it’s certainly not interested in making your life especially easy. But it has something most new cars have completely lost: a sense of purpose. It looks like it means business, it can go pretty much anywhere, and it has that rare ability to make you do things you otherwise wouldn’t.

Which is exactly how we ended up in the Peak District, trundling up a muddy byway just so we could go for a walk.

Winter has a habit of shrinking your world. The days are short, the weather is miserable, and when you live in London it becomes very easy to stay put and do as little as possible. Seasonal affective disorder is estimated to affect about 1 in 20 people in the UK. I am one of them. But the Wrangler is the sort of car that makes sitting still feel like a waste of time. It doesn’t just get you out of bed; it nudges you towards doing something faintly adventurous. So on a random weekend I messaged a few mates and suggested a walk in the Peaks. Not a coffee and a lap of the park. A proper drive north and a proper walk.

In London, the Jeep can feel faintly absurd. Kids point at it and shout “monster truck”, builders give it approving looks, and there’s always the risk that a Wrangler in the city comes across as more pose than purpose. That’s partly why I keep it in a permanent uniform of mud. Not just because I’m lazy, but because it feels important to prove it does actually leave Zone 2. And out in Derbyshire, it all makes sense.

Driving around Hope Valley with the roof peeled back, heading past Mam Tor and through Winnats Pass, the Wrangler felt exactly right. It looked right too: boxy, slightly ridiculous, but completely at home among stone walls, narrow lanes and bleak hillsides. Then we turned off onto rougher tracks and it really clicked. Nothing heroic, just mud, rocks, hedgerows and a few bumpy lanes, but enough to remind everyone that this thing is more than a fashion item with chunky tyres. Out there, it felt less like a car and more like a tool.

That, really, is why I like it so much. The Wrangler makes even a simple weekend feel like an outing. It has character, proper capability and a sense of occasion that most cars, however fast or clever, simply can’t match. By the end of the trip, after the lanes, the views, the pubs and the constant second glances in car parks, my mate turned to me and said: “I get it now. This car is cool.”

With its Storm Jeep lift kit and wider arches, the Wrangler just about fitted in the Peak District. Any more attitude and it’d have needed planning permission.

Even after 13,000 miles, I’m still photographing the Wrangler at every stop. It’s basically a gym lad with number plates.

The wider tyres have transformed the Wrangler into a sort of mobile muck-distribution device, which is ideal because clean Jeeps always look faintly suspicious.

When I first got the spec of our Wrangler I wanted the military green. We got radioactive frog. But now I think the lurid green suits it perfectly.

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“This?! This is one of your favourite cars you’ve ever run? Why?”

That was my friend’s reaction as he wrestled open the door, grabbed the handle and hauled himself into TG’s big, green Wrangler with a look that mixed confusion, concern and mild disappointment. He’s not the first. Most people assume I only really care about cars with huge power, rear-wheel drive and a seven-figure price tag. So admitting that a Jeep Wrangler has become one of my favourite long-termers tends to catch people a bit off guard.

But the appeal is obvious once you stop judging it by normal car standards.

The Wrangler isn’t good in the way most modern cars are good. It’s not polished, it’s not subtle, and it’s certainly not interested in making your life especially easy. But it has something most new cars have completely lost: a sense of purpose. It looks like it means business, it can go pretty much anywhere, and it has that rare ability to make you do things you otherwise wouldn’t.

Which is exactly how we ended up in the Peak District, trundling up a muddy byway just so we could go for a walk.

Winter has a habit of shrinking your world. The days are short, the weather is miserable, and when you live in London it becomes very easy to stay put and do as little as possible. Seasonal affective disorder is estimated to affect about 1 in 20 people in the UK. I am one of them. But the Wrangler is the sort of car that makes sitting still feel like a waste of time. It doesn’t just get you out of bed; it nudges you towards doing something faintly adventurous. So on a random weekend I messaged a few mates and suggested a walk in the Peaks. Not a coffee and a lap of the park. A proper drive north and a proper walk.

In London, the Jeep can feel faintly absurd. Kids point at it and shout “monster truck”, builders give it approving looks, and there’s always the risk that a Wrangler in the city comes across as more pose than purpose. That’s partly why I keep it in a permanent uniform of mud. Not just because I’m lazy, but because it feels important to prove it does actually leave Zone 2. And out in Derbyshire, it all makes sense.

Driving around Hope Valley with the roof peeled back, heading past Mam Tor and through Winnats Pass, the Wrangler felt exactly right. It looked right too: boxy, slightly ridiculous, but completely at home among stone walls, narrow lanes and bleak hillsides. Then we turned off onto rougher tracks and it really clicked. Nothing heroic, just mud, rocks, hedgerows and a few bumpy lanes, but enough to remind everyone that this thing is more than a fashion item with chunky tyres. Out there, it felt less like a car and more like a tool.

That, really, is why I like it so much. The Wrangler makes even a simple weekend feel like an outing. It has character, proper capability and a sense of occasion that most cars, however fast or clever, simply can’t match. By the end of the trip, after the lanes, the views, the pubs and the constant second glances in car parks, my mate turned to me and said: “I get it now. This car is cool.”

With its Storm Jeep lift kit and wider arches, the Wrangler just about fitted in the Peak District. Any more attitude and it’d have needed planning permission.

Even after 13,000 miles, I’m still photographing the Wrangler at every stop. It’s basically a gym lad with number plates.

The wider tyres have transformed the Wrangler into a sort of mobile muck-distribution device, which is ideal because clean Jeeps always look faintly suspicious.

When I first got the spec of our Wrangler I wanted the military green. We got radioactive frog. But now I think the lurid green suits it perfectly.

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Why a bright green Jeep Wrangler is one of TG's favourite cars

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Once you stop judging it by normal car standards, it's quite something...

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Why a bright green Jeep Wrangler is one of TG's favourite cars

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Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - long-term review - Report No: 8