Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - long-term review

A Jeep Wrangler (especially on chunky mud-terrain tyres, in Rubicon) doesn’t exactly shout mile-munching grand tourer. Yet I’ve already managed more than 4,000 miles in it in two-and-a-bit months – without leaving the UK.

The main reason is that the car is an enabler. You don’t have to worry about where you park it, whether it can get there, or what you look like – it’s universally capable and by the amount of photos people have taken and thumbs-ups I’ve been given, seemingly well liked. But that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily good at the job or even fit for purpose. In classic reverse-Tardis fashion, it’s cramped. I’m 6ft 2in and on the outer limits of driving comfortably, to the point I’ve been trawling forums where Americans – who traditionally require, ahem, a little more room – have arrays of aftermarket seat rails to eke out a bit more leg (or belly) room. And for a model that’s been around for decades, there seems to have been little thought given to ergonomics and usability.

There’s precious little storage beyond some military-esque elasticised nets and a double-hinged bin under your elbow. The glovebox is hilariously small, there are no door pockets, and you end up sacrificing coffee-cup space to stash anything. Jump into a Defender and the shelves, cubbies and genuinely thoughtful storage show up just how un-ergonomic the Wrangler is. And that’s before you start driving. The footwell intrudes on your left foot so there’s nowhere to rest it – possibly a compromise of the right-hand-drive conversion, as with the Ineos Grenadier – and your right elbow can’t perch comfortably on the door like in an old Defender.

Yet I’ve still chalked up a monstrous number of miles. You adapt, you forget, because the Jeep is always taking you somewhere fun. It nudges you towards the adventurous, towards exploring. I’d wager Sam Philip’s Jaecoo in the garage doesn’t provoke quite the same itch.

I’d love to see a heatmap of its journeys so far. Mid-week, it mostly commutes in and around London, the 2.0-litre petrol four-cylinder straining from a standstill as 272hp does its best to shift the steel lump – all while the canvas roof is peeled back like a tin of sardines. The weather has helped. It’s been the hottest summer ever and England’s had 640 hours of sunshine this year. I’ve absorbed most of them with the roof open, flooding the cabin not only with light, but with life.

As I get older, I find the virtues of a convertible more appealing – but more often than not you feel a bit vulnerable, and a bit of a knob, with the roof down. The best part of the Wrangler’s roof is that it keeps its structure and still looks like a normal car with the top off. Unlike an Evoque Convertible or a T-Roc – both a bit odd – you sit above the traffic with proper ride height and you get all the benefits of a convertible without the shame or the hissing from the crowd.

And the facts on convertibles in the UK are mad: just 16 new convertible models are on sale in UK showrooms nowadays, according to an analysis of the top 30 carmakers. Almost 70 per cent of marques no longer offer a convertible, compared with just 20 per cent two decades ago. SMMT numbers show the annual tally has fallen from 94,484 at the 2004 peak to just 12,173 in 2024. I’d like to help bring that back – and the Jeep is a start.

At weekends it’s been everywhere: lake-house escapes, weddings in Yorkshire, runs down to Devon and Cornwall. On the motorway the noise isn’t as bad as you’d expect – or as I expected. I recently drove an Aston Martin Vantage and the road roar was so dreadful you could barely hold a conversation. The BF Goodriches, with Grand-Canyon-sized gaps between the blocks, are surprisingly OK, and wind noise isn’t as grim as you’d think given the Wrangler has the aerodynamic profile of Bulgarian social housing and a canvas roof.

And the handling? I recently did some safe assessment at the TG track to gauge the Jeep’s dynamics, where the limit is, and what happens when you go well beyond it. On the road, if you want to hustle it, you feel the yaw-activated traction control cutting in a lot. On track I turned it off and had a riot before it’d slap my wrist and come on. So then you find a way to use the moment, be as smooth as possible and cause a one-tyre fire to the point you’ve set a smoke screen across Surrey.

Everything in the Jeep is slow: the steering, the responses, the sheer physicality. It won’t do 100mph, and the brakes and tyres do their best to rein it all back but ultimately aren’t great. And yet it’s hilarious. The Wrangler doesn’t take itself seriously anywhere, at all. It’s up for a laugh.

Someone who isn’t laughing is the person paying for fuel. I even asked Jeep if the mpg read-out was stuck in US figures because I couldn’t believe how poor it was. Over 4,000 miles I’ve barely averaged 18 mpg. Gulp.

With the weather turning, I’m concerned about how the lack of grip from the tyres and the heft of the thing will translate once the roads are wet, mulchy and muddy. I’ll have to slow down even more. But I’m unexpectedly loving the slow life – it makes you chill out, think, and look around. As long as that roof doesn’t leak in winter, we’re in for some fun. Because where the Jeep does take itself seriously is off-road. Time to head for the green lanes, after a little tinker with a few parts. Watch this space.