The Reliant Robin. Just the name conjures up images of quirky British eccentricity, and perhaps a slight sense of trepidation for anyone who’s ever considered getting behind the wheel. There were always distinct characters associated with driving these iconic three-wheelers. You’d see burly bikers seeking refuge from the elements, valuing the ability to drive on a motorcycle license. Then there were the older gentlemen, perhaps a bit frail, contentedly puttering along at a leisurely pace, often with a formidable lady passenger sporting a rather robust hairstyle. And then, there was me.
Reliant Robin brochure from the 1970s showcasing the iconic three-wheel car.
It was the mid-1990s, Britpop was exploding, and Tony Blair was about to step into Downing Street. Amidst this cultural backdrop, I decided to purchase a Reliant Robin, a vintage 1978 model, for the princely sum of £150. The seller, a man with an impressive beard, had intended it as a school run vehicle. His children, however, had other ideas and flatly refused to be seen in it. Consequently, it ended up filled with garden waste, which I diligently cleared out, only to discover my unfortunate sensitivity to hay fever in the process.
My acquisition was a vibrant yellow, save for one door that was inexplicably red. The exhaust system was held in place by a resourceful piece of wire coat hanger, and the solitary front wheel displayed a distinct misalignment, resulting in an unsettling rubbing against the axle. The ride and handling were akin to piloting a wheelbarrow, a fact I was soon to appreciate fully. My motivation for this purchase? A somewhat mischievous editor at Top Gear magazine had decided that a journey across France to visit microcar factories was in order. And, in a move that hinted at a slightly sadistic sense of humour, he decreed that I should undertake this continental adventure in a Reliant Robin, the supposed British equivalent of a microcar.
Recognizing that my yellow and red chariot required some attention before any international escapades, I sought the expertise of Mac Motorcycles of Tooting, a specialist who, remarkably, are still in business today. A mechanic at Mac Motorcycles cast his professional eye over my rather sorry-looking vehicle and confirmed that, yes, it could indeed be fixed. Feeling a degree of optimism, I returned home, fortified myself with a cup of tea to recover from the unique driving experience the Robin provided, and then ventured back to the car to attempt to start it.
Front view of a Reliant Robin, highlighting its single front wheel and compact size, typical of the British three-wheeler.
The starter motor’s efforts were less than encouraging. It emitted a series of sluggish, churning sounds, uncomfortably reminiscent of someone inebriated and unwell. I paused, then tried the key again. This time, the sickly ‘whir-whir’ noises returned, followed by a distinct ‘whump’ sound, not unlike the ignition of a gas cooker. This, in retrospect, was rather fitting. The engine in a Reliant Robin resides in a cramped compartment behind the front wheel, positioned rather inconveniently between the driver and passenger seats. Suddenly, the panel at the end of this compartment lurched forward, and flames erupted, licking at my trouser legs and rapidly spreading to the wiring beneath the dashboard.
“Oh bother,” I recall saying with remarkable British understatement, as I hastily evacuated the vehicle and summoned the fire brigade. The arrival of the fire engine, sirens wailing and blue lights flashing, was quite a spectacle. By this point, the Reliant Robin was ablaze with considerable enthusiasm. The roof lining was alight, and the windscreen had succumbed to the heat, shattering into fragments. It took the fire crew approximately five minutes to extinguish the inferno, and as the charred remains of my Robin hissed and smouldered, one of the firemen remarked that such incidents were, in fact, rather common when Reliant Robins were more prevalent on British roads.
“We’d get called out to one of these every week,” he stated, with an air of weary familiarity. Despite their mechanical simplicity, Robins were notoriously difficult to maintain. Their engines were crammed into that confined box, with access panels that were far from adequate for routine servicing. Owners, often of advancing years, found the task of manipulating mechanical components with arthritic hands particularly challenging. Furthermore, financial constraints sometimes led to skipped maintenance, resulting in issues like leaky fuel lines and arcing spark plug leads, all within a confined space filled with flammable fuel vapour. The inevitable outcome was often spontaneous combustion, which, in a car constructed from flammable fibreglass, was usually both terminal and visually dramatic.
As the wreckage of my Reliant Robin was loaded onto a scrap lorry, the fireman fondly recounted a particularly memorable immolated Robin. In that instance, the fibreglass body had separated from its gel coat, leaving behind a translucent, sugar-icing-like shell of the car. Apparently, this fragile outline shattered at the slightest touch. We both concurred that the Reliant Robin was, indeed, truly awful.
“Never mind,” the fireman cheerfully said, as my automotive misadventure was carted away to its final destination, “Now there’s one less.”
Cutaway illustration of a Reliant Robin interior, revealing the engine placement between the seats and the basic mechanics of this classic three-wheeled vehicle.
Cutaway and interior images: credit Giles Chapman archive
In conclusion, my brief and fiery encounter with the Reliant Robin served as a vivid illustration of the car’s unique, if somewhat perilous, character. While undeniably quirky and a piece of British motoring history, the Reliant Robin, with its three wheels and questionable reliability, remains a vehicle best appreciated perhaps from a safe distance, or at least with a well-charged fire extinguisher close at hand.
