Defender Nation
An honest machine, built to explore the world
From the sands of the Sahara to the rainy plains in the Serengeti, from the Arctic wastes to the balmy Amazon, from a David Attenborough documentary to the parking lot of your local Whole Foods, you never forget the first time you saw a Land Rover. In fact, for many indigenous peoples, a Land Rover is the first motorized vehicle they did see. It’s a machine built for explorers.
As much as they are still celebrated and cherished, however, ‘Landies’ have fallen on hard times. Land Rover as a company is moving toward producing more profitable luxury models and even crossovers. The old boxy machines, the Defenders, are too labour-intensive to produce and don’t put enough guineas in the corporate coffers. When the plug gets pulled on production at the end of this year, it’ll be the end of the era.
The Land Rover has deep roots in Canada, and many will mourn when the Defender finally ceases production.
After speaking to a few local owners, it’s not hard to see why. Or maybe it is.
“I really had to think,” says Jake Gray, owner of a 1985 ex-military Defender 110. “Why do people like these things so much?”
Certainly, to the casual observer, the attraction can be hard to fathom. The Defender 90 and 110, named for their respective wheelbases in inches, are not particularly comfortable nor fast, and fuel-economy isn’t great as it has the wind-resistance of something constructed entirely of barn doors.
Odd, that, as the originals were mostly built from planes. The first Land Rovers were made as a postwar stopgap measure, with bodies constructed of leftover aircraft aluminum, a chassis based on the American military Jeep, and even old military-spec green paint. As luck would have it, Rover had an instant hit on their hands and, while somewhat agricultural to drive, the original Land Rover was soon loved (and frequently sworn at) by everyone from farmers to the lord of the manor.
“I suppose,” Gray offers, “it’s because they’re easy to work on, and they’re different.”
One of Gray’s previous vehicles, a 1995 Range Rover, once pinned him against the wheel while on the highway with a malfunctioning power seat. His current machine has no such amenities.
“It’s a 2.5-litre naturally-aspirated diesel, with something like 68 horsepower. If I’m passing you on the highway, you’re going too slow.”
Gray’s Defender is from Sheffield — not the one in the U.K., the one in Alberta. It’s a remnant from days when the British Army leased land for training purposes during the Cold War, Canada being a bit like the Russian Steppes, except with rye whiskey instead of vodka. The truck itself is a bit tatty, but runs well, and is a constant project for Gray, who has a few vital skills, like the ability to weld.
However, the Defender’s not all about hitting things with a series of ever-larger hammers. For some people, it’s the perfect family car.
Alex Dimitrijevic, a Canadian who returned from a decade living in London last year, brought his 1999 Defender 110 with him. “It was time to come back home,” he says. “London has the museums and the art galleries, but B.C. has the natural beauty. Owning a Defender just opens up the possibilities.”
As a four-door, boxy machine with a big storage area, the 110 is actually quite practical, big enough to pack in a modern stroller without even bothering to fold the thing. Dimitrijevic’s is a right-hand-drive, but it’s reportedly not difficult to drive in Vancouver traffic.
“You sit up a foot higher than everyone else,” he says, “so it’s pretty easy to see where your corners are.” Some practical considerations have had to be made, including removing the roof rack to fit in underground parking.
These later 110 wheelbase models are becoming more popular as grey-market imports from Europe, where they’re available as left-hand drive. Scott Pelly recently replaced his North-American-Spec Defender 90 with a German-import 110, for which he has a few plans.
“With my 90,” he says, “I didn’t just buy it, I was interviewed.” Owners can be fussy about who ends up buying their former pride and joy.
There’s also a number of Land Rover specialist mechanics if the old mallet-and-spanner repair isn’t doing the job. Pelly takes his 110 to Rovalution, just down the road, a company that’s done a jaw-dropping build on an early Canadianspec 1993 110.
Alastair Hesp, of Hesp Automotive in North Vancouver, is quick with a quip — “You never find a rusty bolt on a Land Rover, because they leak so much oil!” — but some of the machines he assembles and repairs are cost-no-object works of art. The latest project, a burnt-orange 110 fitted with off-road LEDs and all sorts of other rugged parts, gleams under the shop lights. Hesp’s own Defender 90, one of the rare Canadian models, also has a few subtle upgrades, and more are planned.
With Defender production winding down, 1,200 trucks lost in that recent beached car-carrier disaster, and plans for a replacement uncertain, there is some worry about where parts will be sourced from in the future. Hesp reports that some U.K.-based mechanics are actually stockpiling Defenders against coming demand.
In a way, the Defender is not unlike the current air-cooled Porsche 911, a simple, durable machine that’s purpose-built and essentially unchanging. Prices have remained steady on them for years, and if anything, may start shooting up.
But in terms of value, there’s something even more special about the Defender, and that’s the way it appeals to kids. Both Pelly and Dimitrijevic’s children love their Defenders — “I can’t sell it,” says Dimitrijevic, “my kids (would) be devastated.”
It’s an honest machine, built to explore the world, even if some of that exploration is going on inside the mind of a child.