The year is 1995, and Mitsubishi Motors is about to reach the height of what would be remembered as its golden age. The Lancer Evolution is a serious contender in the World Rally Championship, the Eclipse is a stunning success, and the Pajero is about to become a Dakar legend. Market share is booming, and for a brief moment, absorbing Honda is on the table. Mitsubishi is ascendant, and conditions are perfect for a risky, radical new car. Not some NSX-killer, but a car that would become known as the “Evo minivan,” the Chariot Resort Runner GT.
Built on the Evo’s platform and sharing its drivetrain, the RRGT was made to test the idea of a three-row grand tourer. Yet in choosing the hard-to-categorize Chariot as the basis for this experiment, Mitsubishi inadvertently made an almost completely ineffable car—to its endearment, but also its detriment. Is it a fast minivan? A wagon with elephantiasis? A preemptive strike on the Subaru Forester? A proto-crossover? It’s all of these things. It’s also none of them.
No, the pathos of the RRGT can be explained in its entirety by the car it was based on—the Chariot. In ancient time (as William Blake would say), chariots were transportation as often as they were racing vehicles or even weapons of war. The RRGT, this internally combusting Chariot of Fire, embodies this same versatility in a lightly adorned, utilitarian body that belies surprising handling paired with one of the greatest tuner engines ever. On top of that, it’s a genuinely livable, useful vehicle.
Still, it bears saying that jacks of all trades can be masters of none. The gearing has no good answer for some speeds, the interior plastics are some of the worst you’ll find, and some sacrifices are bundled with cramming three rows into a car only as long as a Corolla. The Evo comparison, while not totally off-base, also comes with a big asterisk.
But whether you’re filling all seven seats or just one, the RRGT is a unique, fun sleeper that punches above its weight almost across the board. It’s maybe more dramatic than fast out of the box, but a cult classic family car with the potential to walk a Nissan GT-R doesn’t need its appeal explained.
That Asterisk
Explaining what the RRGT is in the first place is complicated because it’s about as unique a car as they come. “Unconventional” is the word Mitsubishi chose for a 1996 sales brochure where it framed it as a seven-seat grand tourer—supposedly, it was the fastest seven-seater in the world at the time. That may sound like quite the oversell of a minivan with a hood scoop, but Mitsubishi didn’t exactly half-ass its stake to that claim.
The Chariot, or Expo as we knew it in the U.S., is more or less Mitsubishi’s take on the Honda Wagovan. It’s minivan-shaped but uses conventional sedan doors, and is built on the platform of a compact car. In this case, it uses an early computer-designed architecture that was shared with its short-wheelbase counterpart the RVR (et al.), the Galant, Mirage, and most importantly, the Lancer Evolution I through III. That’s where half the Evo comparison comes from.
But keep in mind that this was before the Evo was the Evo. It has none of those high-tech differentials or chassis refinement that define the Evo we came to revere; just conventional full-time all-wheel drive with a viscous center differential. (There was an optional rear LSD, though.) Its suspension was more like the Galant VR-4’s than the Evo’s, too. All three used MacPherson strut front suspension, but the Evo used a multilink rear, while the Chariot and Galant employed semi-trailing arms.
In addition, the Chariot’s wheelbase is three inches longer than the Galant’s, and almost nine more than the Evo’s. Meanwhile, its taller body raises its center of gravity and contributes to a heftier apparent curb weight of 3,241 pounds. Width-wise though, they’re all identical at 66.7 inches.
The part that gets people the most excited, though, is its drivetrain, which is headed by the one and only 4G63T. This 2.0-liter intercooled turbo engine is still pretty much the last word in four-cylinder performance because of its enormous power potential—even the mighty Honda K-series isn’t as accomplished. (Nor does it sound as good.) It powered everything from the iconic DSM twins the Eclipse and Talon to the Lancer Evo, in the WRC, time attack, hillclimb, and drag racing. To this day, a Mitsubishi with one headlight out is one of the most unsettling things a street racer can see.
Here in the RRGT though, the 4G is seen in a tame, detuned seven-bolt state. An itty-bitty TD04H turbo puffs it up to just 227 horsepower and 213 lb-ft of torque in five-speed manual models, with four-speed automatics getting 217 hp and 221 lb-ft (both less than an Evo I). Said manual ‘boxes share their ratios with the 2G turbo DSMs, but use a much shorter final drive to offset their extra weight. Zero to 50 mph supposedly takes 4.9 seconds (60 takes 6.8), while the quarter mile takes 15.1. Top speed is estimated to be 139 mph. Not special numbers now, but pretty damn good for a three-row from 1995. And better still if you add some more boost.
Naturally, the brakes had to be upgraded, from base models’ frontal one-piston discs to two-pistons from the naturally aspirated 3000GT, and rears from drum to disc. They’re anti-lock, of course. Its suspension was retuned as well, with Mitsubishi’s brochure calling it what my elementary teachers called me—”special.” It all meets the road through standard 15-inch alloy wheels (again, a big deal in the mid-’90s) wearing slim 195-section tires with bulging sidewalls. These are actually narrower than some lower models’ tires, so I suspect Mitsubishi was wary of over-tiring a top-heavy car.
A quick aside about my personal example—stock except for a few minor items. Its one previous owner installed aftermarket audio equipment, something seemingly performance-related in the engine bay, and a set of Japanese “comfort” coilovers that slightly lift and soften its suspension. They don’t seem to radically change the car’s handling characteristics, which I’m familiar with having grown up with a beloved 1995 Expo in the family. Also, a toll card reader that chimes a sentence in Japanese every time I start the car. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I’ve named her Sonya.
Back to the car in abstract, the Resort Runner GT is a confluence of odd traits that make it hard to imagine driving. Or to some degree, why someone would buy one. Mitsubishi didn’t seem to know how to market the Chariot’s tall-wagon body style in the first place, trying various approaches around the world to mixed success. The performance model was an even bigger challenge, and ads featuring characters from Hanna-Barbera’s Wacky Races didn’t move the needle. After just two years, Mitsubishi axed the RRGT with only a supposed 2,410 units built—including the five-seat, two-row GT-V variant.
As for those who took the plunge? They ended up with a one-of-a-kind, remarkably endearing, and versatile car that was just as special as it was… flawed.
And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time
Walk upon England’s mountains green, my two-tone RRGT may as well have. Its clear coat is tired, but on rainy days it shines a deep, cool forest green with a touch of blue over a standard ‘90s silver-grey. It’s practically the color palette of Oregon’s cooler months. My favorite of the colors it came in, too. That said, the shape it’s on doesn’t inherently excite.
From any angle but the front, the RRGT looks a bit frumpy. It’s minivan-shaped with rounded edges, making it look related more to the Toyota Sienna than the Evo. (As a YouTube commenter put it: “Smurf hearse.”) That perception warps as you walk around front, to the eyebrow-wrinkling bull bar and hood scoop. They’re butch, and too well-integrated into the factory design to look like the work of an insecure dad. But not threatening. That’s to your advantage if you’re trying to beat someone off the light—or just get confused looks from Mustang owners.
Sliding into the Chariot is easy with its big doors and high seating position, but not abusing its tightly bolstered front buckets isn’t. I’m a thick-thighed five-elevener who’s just too big for them. Their back support is decent though, while the upright driving position, low beltline, and sloped hood combine for a grand greenhouse with excellent visibility. The power moonroof can add even more natural light and air circulation, too. I can’t say I like the hoop-shaped front headrests, so I swapped them with the third row’s.
The manual’s pedal box is also slightly out of sorts being so close to the driver. On longer trips, I’ve found my right leg getting stiff and sore holding cruising speeds—the RRGT sadly did not offer cruise control. They’re well-spaced for heel-toe downshifts though, hinting at the car’s hidden nature.
Though narrow, the tall body means headroom is excellent, and that center console controls are all within easy reach. Your passenger can’t splay their legs while you shift gears, but you wouldn’t want them to anyway. There’s probably no refreshing these seat bolsters.
Like the U.S. model, the 50/50 second row can fit three wide shoulder-to-shoulder, and not miserably so. Unlike the U.S. model, there are fold-down outboard armrests. Legroom in the second and third rows is acceptable, while the third row can fold flat for an expansive cargo area. Sadly, it can’t do so at the same time as the second row, and there are limited storage options throughout. Cupholder access is limited to the first and third rows, and for the latter, only with now hard-to-find inserts for the side compartments.
Nevertheless, the sheer cubic footage and decently sturdy fabric mean I have been able to both sleep in the back and literally move house twice with one. That’s including a queen mattress, whose replacement I just hauled home without a pickup. Or installing the roof rack. Toolboxes I’m careful with, though: the interior plastics are brittle and prone to scratching. There’s no tonneau cover mount like the U.S. model, either. Also, the climate control struggles to keep up in hot climates with many bodies in the car. At least it’s a set-and-forget electronic system, though.
Quadriga
In a commuter role, the Resort Runner GT is a civil car with some caveats. It rides competently, while its narrow, compact-length body and great visibility make maneuvering a cinch. The turning circle is huge for a car its size though, and combined with slow, overboosted steering, it isn’t the most agile thing at slow speeds. It’s also prone to crosswinds, has significant road noise at speed, and gearing that isn’t great for Interstates. In fifth, you’re turning 3,000 rpm at 60 mph. That might go some of the way toward explaining my unexceptional gas mileage, which averages 22 mpg highway and around 17 city.
It’s not my only gripe with gearing, as the gulf between first and second results in a weakness in low-speed cruising ability. There are speeds where you really feel like you should be out of first, but second would lug the engine. This tendency is amplified if you’re driving with a heavy load, like a carful of family and luggage. It’s also annoying to deal with in stop-and-go traffic. But once you hit peak torque at 2,500 rpm, you can do whatever you want with this conservatively tuned, responsive four-cylinder.
The 4G is heavily muffled by its stock exhaust but still emits its classic, low-tech thrum of an engine developed in the closing days of the 1970s. It doesn’t pull particularly hard in third gear or higher, but it has enough power to make first and second gears fun to wring out to redline. A light, communicative clutch makes stalls a non-issue and launches relatively easy. (Mine is starting to slip, though.)
Even past 100,000 miles and 28 years of age, the transmission still shifts slick, not even feeling notchy on good shifts. Mid- to high-speed corners that mask its slow steering also reveal how nicely it weights up, upturning your notions of how well this body style should handle. The brake pedal is a bit soft up top for my taste (it may need stainless steel brake lines) though stopping power is respectable. Heavy braking will also introduce you to an exploitable foible of the Chariot’s, that being how the weight pitches onto the front axle so thoroughly that the rear gets light. You can probably see where this is going—whichever direction you point it, obviously.
Yes, this really is a minivan that kinda encourages you to drive it… like a rally car. Dive into a corner as hard as you dare, swing the rear out, and get on the gas to stabilize. With its longer wheelbase, it’ll do this even more readily than its platform-mates, too. The significant amount of body roll (at least on my cushy suspension) does give me some pause, though Mitsubishi engineered in a rollover preventative: camber adjustment maxes out at zero degrees. When the RRGT goes beyond its limits, it leans over onto its meaty sidewalls and into a tame scrub. Gentle braking can also help bring it back into line.
One ostensible shortcoming that I haven’t had to deal with is the tendency for torque steer at higher power, which is a well-known characteristic of same-gen Evos. Their front axles are of unequal length, which Mitsubishi didn’t remedy until the Evo IV—on a different architecture. At stock power like my car is, it’s a non-issue.
Optiona Obscura
While features and options lists aren’t things we often include in retro reviews, the availability of archived sales literature makes that possible. (And given the uniqueness of the car, preferable. To me, at least.)
Notable standard equipment included a power moonroof, roof rails, that aluminum bull bar, keyless entry, cornering lamps, and electronic climate control. Options meanwhile were off the hook, with common fare including fog lights, a fitted dashboard storage tray, power-folding mirrors, a driver airbag, and a front lip that I desperately want. The Bubble-Era vestiges are more fun though, like available bronze- or green-tinted glass, curtains, a TV, and an external tailgate handle that looks like a pull-up bar. (Mine also has branded window visors and mudflaps that I haven’t seen in accessory catalogs.)
All paint options but one were two-tone, wood paneling vent surrounds (probably fake) were a dealer option, and you could buy boat-grade marine seat covers of all things. I’m guessing this is related to the “Fishing Gear” package offered on the related RVR. Speaking of which, there was an equivalent RVR called the Hyper Sports Gear R. It’ll get its own story if I can get behind the wheel of one.
Know Before Owning
The Resort Runner GT is in the odd place of sharing many of its components with mass-produced models, but also having a few pieces of unobtainium. Plenty of OEM and aftermarket DSM, Evo, and VR-4 parts bolt straight up; the hard-to-find stuff is Chariot- or even RRGT-specific.
Despite being sold in so many markets, some interior trim pieces are basically irreplaceable. That’s why my center console looks trashed. Mechanically, I’ve already documented the difficulty of replacing a single out-of-production sensor. A recent brake rebuild was made onerous by superseded part numbers and no local stock, though the right stuff arrived in the end. Ironically, it’s almost easier to turn these things into race cars than to keep them in stock condition on the street.
Mitsubishi, get a dang heritage parts program going already.
Till We Have Built Jerusalem
The Mitsubishi Chariot Resort Runner GT may not quite live up to the Evo comparison performance-wise, coming in more at the WRX’s spice level, but “Evo minivan” is still a fair encapsulation of its essence. It’s textbook golden-age Mitsubishi: exciting to drive like an absolute rotten bastard, oozing with swagger, and packing about as much performance potential as you could wish for. On top of that, it’s in the package of a spacious, pleasant, and flexible wagovan.
And like so many of the great Mitsubishis, it’s also just a little bit shitty. The gearing isn’t quite right, the load space could’ve been designed better, and some of the interior materials aren’t good. It’s unexceptional on the highway, and gas mileage is a bitter pill to swallow. Parts support long-term is dubious in many respects, too.
Still, short of a Mercedes-Benz R63 AMG (and even then), there’s no car like it. Nothing else scratches the Evo itch, can fit a family of seven, and do so as inconspicuously in the footprint of a Civic. It’s a compromise, of course, as every car ultimately is. But I know what I value in a car, and how widely held my values actually are. It’s approachable, forgiving, barrel-through-turns, slide-in-the-rain fun. It’s all the car you need short of a rented truck, and most of all, it’s uniquely expressive. As enthusiasts, that’s one of the traits we value most in our cars, because in our society, our car is one of the faces we show to the world. Sometimes that world won’t know what to make of you, what box to try to sort you into. But there’s only one person who needs to know—you. And sometimes, a minivan with a hood scoop can be the avatar of your certainty.
| 1996 Mitsubishi Chariot Resort Runner GT Specs | |
|---|---|
| Powertrain | 2.0-liter turbocharged inline-four | 5-speed manual or 4-speed automatic | full-time all-wheel drive |
| Horsepower | 227 @ 6,000 rpm |
| Torque | 213 lb-ft @ 2,500 rpm |
| Seating Capacity | 7 (5 in GT-V) |
| Cargo Volume | Up to 67.8 cubic feet* |
| Curb Weight | 3,241 pounds |
| 0-60 mph | 6.8 seconds |
| Top Speed | 139 mph (est.) |
| Fuel Economy | 17 mpg city | 22 highway | 20 combined |
| Quick Take | The space of a van combined with the chassis and drivetrain of a rally car make this Mitsubishi unlike any car made before or since. |
Got a tip or question for the author? You can reach them here: james@thedrive.com