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A RALLY LEGEND’S DAILY DRIVER...
Richard chains up his Rottweiler for a thrash in Mitsubishi’s turbotastic Evo VI Mäkinen
Iown an E-type Jag. And I’m not afraid to confess to it, despite the moustachetwirling flat-cappery it suggests. I am also the owner of one of maybe only two surviving examples of a 1933 BSA Light Six with a Mulliner faux cabriolet body. I once had a panama hat, until my daughter sat on it, and I also ride a 1927 Sunbeam Model 2 motorcycle. I only tell you these things to establish that I am, at least in part, a classic car and bike enthusiast, and I only do that in order to demonstrate the power of the Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VI Tommi Mäkinen Edition to transcend the cramped stalls of era and marque loyalties among car enthusiasts.
Writing about the Evo (you have to pronounce it correctly: “Eeevor”) in a feature about classic cars is the equivalent of putting a pornographic spread in a book about fly fishing. And a classic-car enthusiast confessing to liking the Eeevor is like finding eminent conductor Sir Simon Rattle threshing about in the sweaty mosh pit at a Motörhead gig. But the thing has got charm. A lot of it. In plain red with stripes (it was available in other colours, but this livery commands a premium now), it sits not so much like a Staffordshire bull terrier ready to attack but perhaps more like a farm collie – not the prettiest dog in the pen, but bright, strong and bloody capable. Hold on, I can see Sir Simon’s foot tapping already.
The 17in Enkei white wheels whisper of rally success, and they don’t do so falsely; Mäkinen won and kept the WRC title from 1996 to 1999, and he did it in, well, yes, the proper rally versions of this car.
It doesn’t settle into the lumpy, flatfour chunter of its nemesis, the Subaru (pronounced “Soobaroooooo”) Impreza, but rather fires up with a sing and a whoosh and settles to a very purposeful, faintly menacing four-pot rumble. The interior is... well, it’s irrelevant: a sea of cheap but chunky plastics with a brace of Recaros bobbing about in it. And I wouldn’t expect or want to find anything else; it’s all part of the vibe, the whole ‘stripped-out’ rally thing.
Even though it’s got aircon and stuff, you need to feel like you’ve slipped behind the
wheel of the maestro’s motor while he has a cuppa between stages. Hello. Sir Simon’s head snapped up at the word ‘maestro’; you see, it’s OK to like this thing. And if Sir Simon were then to take it onto our track and hit the loud one, he would be headbanging harder than Lemmy in a second. The titanium turbo, fitted to this model because it spools up more quickly, does so with all the drama and orgasmic whooshiness you could desire, and then it’s grip and grin all day long. The thing wants, needs, demands to be beaten, and it rewards you with a hard-edged but flattering and even forgiving drive that makes even a muppet like me look good.
The one I’m in is an especially fine – and rare – barely used example with just 2,000 miles under its belt, but still I can’t help kicking the crap out of it as best I can and whooping and hollering like a Texan roping a steer as I do so. It’s the perfect example of a car’s ability to influence the driver’s very personality. Yes, I know I’m a bit of an idiot on the telly, but I’m reasonably cautious offscreen when driving someone else’s pride and joy. All such caution went out of the window in this thing, and I would happily play in it until the tyres gave out, the titanium turbo got out or my mum called me in for tea.
The figures are not enormous: 276bhp from a 1997cc turbo four, top speed pegged at 150mph and 0–62mph in 4.4secs, but the package, the whole of it, is intoxicatingly, gleefully, liberatingly good fun. To turn a standard Eeevor VI into the Mäkinen Edition in 1999, they gave it the fancy turbo, a new front bumper, special seats, white wheels, quicker steering and a lower ride height. They’re all appropriate additions to an already great car and go that critical extra mile towards making this Japanese hooligan chariot a proper classic worthy of a place next to my suddenly crusty E-type. Now, Sir Simon, shall we tap the music stand with the baton or charge into the mosh pit again?