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ETHOSThe Landy
can run, but
she can’t hide:
The Coyote-
powered Ford
churns out
more than five
times more
oomph.British Empire but adventurers still explored the remotest
corners of the earth in crude off-roaders, while the Bronco
recalls the fundamentally American time and place when
the Beach Boys were in their stride. Just five years after
“Good Vibrations” was released in 1966, Parnelli Jones won
the Baja 1000 in his gloriously modified “Big Oly” Bronco.
Yet there’s a prevailing sense of purposeful minimalism to
both British and American machines: the naïve stares of the
round headlights, the unpretentiously boxy bodies, and the
folding windshields—both are swathed in elegantly unas-
suming emblems of impending adventure.
But that’s where the similarities end. While the Land
Rover’s modest 2.25-liter four-cylinder petrol engine pro-
duces 77 hp and leverages short gearing and sheer deter-
mination to huff its way up steep grades, the Bronco’s
dual overhead cam V-8 produces omnipresent torque that
makes acceleration a nonissue. The Rover’s leaf-spring sus-
pension articulates over terrain like a billy goat but trans-
mits bumps and ruts with spine-compressing shockwaves;
the Bronco’s remote reservoir Fox shocks provide enough
compliance for high-speed desert running, though its solid
front and rear axles retain some of the original model’s sig-
nature crudeness.
Chasing the American steed across the SoCal landscape,
the Rover feels like it has to try at least five times harder
to keep up with the ’Stang-powered Bronco. I can’t help
but feel competitive, despite the massive imbalance of
power. I’m deeply impressed by the Derelict’s athleticism
and legit patina, but I also want my little guy to hold his
own against the deep-pocketed opponent. At one point
on a sharp uphill turn, the Rover pulls ahead while the
Bronco’s footing falters. I snicker. But the Bronco regains
traction in no time and carries on, its BFGoodrich tires
spraying clouds of dirt as it rips through the landscape.
It’s improbable, this transatlantic juxta-
position. But it opens up a conversation
with Ward, the one that’s been smoldering
in the back of my head for longer than I
care to admit. After our drive we break for
a chat and a beer, and I finally ask him
point blank: “What’s your beef with Land
Rovers, anyway?” With a deep breath, he
answers, “In all fairness, I think it extends
to British automotive design and execu-
tion in general.” Aha, a big topic, indeed.
“The problem is the stark contrast, in my
humble experience, between the lovely,
magical, gorgeous brand DNA and the exe-
cution, be it engineering or ... maybe that
pencil pushers are more regarded than
they are even in Detroit. It kills me.” OK
then, now we’re getting somewhere. “Now
to credit your truck,” he says, “one could
counter my point by saying, ‘Yes, but it’s
so simple that you could spit on it, pee
in it, use your T-shirt as a gasket, put it
back together in the field, and party on,’ towhich I counter: Take a Toyota Land Cruiser of the same
year, and you’re not going to have to [do all those things]
because the thoroughness and execution of the engineer-
ing is just so far beyond.”
Fair enough. But like me, Ward admits to a weak spot
for the old buggers and their “charmingly archaic” quirks.
“I love your truck,” he says. “I just bought a Series IIA.
It’s like that flawless woman who’s just an emotional
psychotic that you’re still drawn to because of her beauty;
even though you should know better, you’re still drawn,
like a moth to the proverbial bulb.”
The thing about Ward, who has tackled everything from
a Willys Jeepster to a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud to, yes,
several vintage Land Rovers, is that he carefully considers
a vehicle’s intended mission before tackling a restoration.
“If we took your old Brit on the freeway and started
griping about how vague the steering is, that’s on us, not