It came in tired. The paint dulled, the body sagging at the corners, the engine unsure of itself. A 1995 Range Rover Classic—once a proper machine for men with maps and intent—now slowed by years, leaking from every seam, groaning under its own weight.
We opened it up. The kind of work that doesn’t show, but matters. Gaskets that had dried and cracked, seals long since given up. Oil where it shouldn’t be. Rust in the pan. The engine breathed again after we tore it down and built it back with patience and black grease under our nails.
The sunroof hadn’t moved in years. It moves now. The bumpers hung like broken teeth—we reset them. The wood trim in the back door had come loose. We made new clips by hand and fixed it like it was meant to be.
The seats were frozen. The control modules, long dead, had rust on the inside where there should have been fire. We opened them up. Cleaned the boards. Resoldered the joints. Rebuilt the motors. When we put them back, the seats moved like they remembered.
The switches on the dash had to be coaxed. So we stripped them down, cleaned the contacts, repaired what was broken. The AC switch clicked again. The radio bezel, once cracked and hanging, now sits flush. The mirrors tilt with a finger. The rear wiper comes to life without complaint.
We didn’t just replace what was worn. We repaired what mattered. What gave it its shape, its soul. No upgrades. No gimmicks. Only what it was meant to be.
Now it idles quiet. Drives straight. Shines in the places only another Rover man would notice. The kind of thing you don’t brag about. You just drive it. And know.
Got an old truck with life left in it? Contact us. Bring it in. We’ll make it honest again.