Notes From the Hard Shoulder - James May [57]
Essentially what you see here is a Defender 90 TD5 turbo-diesel, reputedly the world's most capable off-roader. It is obviously – pauses to light pipe and don woolly hat – a proper Land Rover. The body styling looks as if it was worked out in cardboard rather than Cad-Cam. It is a direct spiritual descendant of the Wilkes brothers' original knockabout farm utility vehicle of 1948 and in some ways hasn't progressed at all. All the door hinges are still on the outside.
But you have to wonder how much longer Land Rover will be able to call it the 90. As the figure refers to the wheelbase in inches, there's a good chance the Solihull Trading Standards Officer will confiscate the lot under some EU directive on SI units. It will then have to be rebadged as the Defender 2,286mm, and that will be England gone.
My Defender was offered in 'Expedition Spec', which means more auxiliary lights than I managed to count, various bash-plates and side steps, a powered winch mounted in the front bumper, a high-level engine breather for 'deep water fording' and aluminium tread plates around the bonnet that would allow me to 'climb up on to the wings'. Why? Sand channels and jerry cans were affixed to a sort of roof-mounted viewing platform reached by a ladder up the back, on which I would be able to stand and salute to the bitter end as I went down with my vehicle. It looked terrific. Where other off-roaders make some sort of 'lifestyle statement', this one is used by the army. The Defender 90 TD5 Expedition Spec is laden with kit and the promise of great suffering.
In the back were more things that should have been outlawed by the Geneva Convention – a selection of tow ropes, a shovel and a large axe with which I would be able to hack off my own arm before eating it. In the cabin, though, things were more promising. There was a radio, for a start, and a survival pack including choc bars, packets of tissues and bottles of mineral water. This was most encouraging, as by this point I imagined that getting a drink would involve straining swamp water through my pants or something.
The Defender Challenge began on the evening of my arrival, just at the point when I was ready for a beer and bed, with a night-driving exercise. Off-roading at night is something I'd never done before and it's quite interesting. I may have had the candle-power of a searchlight battery at my disposal, but even that would only illuminate a limited area of the Andalucian outback, especially when stuck halfway up a steep slope with all the auxiliary lights pointing at Venus. Twenty paces from the Land Rover there could have been almost anything – a proper road, perhaps – but your imagination conjures up something much more sinister. I reached through the window and swivelled the roof-mounted searchlight to check for hordes of spear-wielding natives and was startled when the beam briefly picked out a wild Brummie leaping through the undergrowth and emitting its characteristic cry of 'diff lock!'.
So far, the biggest dangers were being flayed by an unseen branch through the open window and attracting extra spud-peeling duties from the sarge for breaches of off-road etiquette. I retired to bed and spent a sleepless night, unable to breathe properly through all the crusty bogies that the dust had formed in my nose. I knew the next day would be worse because there had been some worrying talk of 'team spirit' over dinner.
It began easily enough with some rutted tracks, talk of axle articulation and more radio-relayed bollockings about the diff lock. Then we came to a river. 'In you go,' said Roger. 'Gently does it.' I removed the lower portion of my adventure trousers.
At first the Defender chugged indomitably through the shallows, generating a pleasing bow-wave in accordance with correct wading technique. Then the river deepened and a curious bubbling sound could be heard from the now submerged exhaust