An Ode to the Overlooked Mitsubishi Expo, the Finest Van-Wagon-Thing of the ’90s

Having debuted in 1991, the Expo and LRV were sibling models derived from the third-gen Lancer/Mirage platform, sharing similar aesthetics but differing wheelbases and enigmatic body shapes. The smaller LRV, resembling a hatchback hybrid, stood out with an eccentric layout featuring a single door for the driver and dual doors for passengers, one of which was a sliding minivan-style entry. Picture a Hyundai Veloster reimagined by Diamond Star Motors; the collaboration between Chrysler and Mitsubishi that birthed vehicles like the Eagle Talon, Chrysler Conquest, and the LRV’s rebranded versions such as the Eagle Summit Wagon and Plymouth Colt Vista. Mitsubishi played its own name game by marketing the LRV as the Space Runner in most regions, akin to an artifact from an arcade in the ’80s. In Japan, it was simply known as the RVR, stylized as ЯVR.

In addition, the LRV in Japan received a lesser-known performance variant called the Hyper Sports R, offering a taste of Evo-like upgrades with a turbocharged 2.0-liter 4G63 engine, optional five-speed manual transmission, and all-wheel drive. A similar treatment was available for the more subdued seven-seater counterpart, the Chariot, which in its homeland boasted the title of Chariot Resort Runner GT at the pinnacle of its lineup. The base trims came with a plethora of monikers, ranging from Expo in the U.S. and Nimbus in Australia to Space Wagon in Europe, and even Hyundai Santamo, presumably a fusion of safety and talented motor.

Resembling a minivan yet devoid of sliding doors, the Expo blurred the distinction between MPVs and wagons. Mitsubishi may have leaned towards portraying it as more of a wagon, hence the nod to Space Wagon (YEAH BUDDY!) moniker, but American consumers perceived it more in line with today’s minivan market. During its U.S. tenure, the long-wheelbase Expo, as per CarSalesBase, only amassed sales figures of 27,522 units, a mere fraction of what the shorter LRV achieved under the Eagle, Mitsubishi, and Plymouth badges. Combined, their sales figures fell short by half compared to the Dodge Grand Caravan’s weakest sales year in the ’90s, where it still moved nearly 206,000 units.

If I had to speculate why the Expo didn’t appeal to Americans, it’s likely not because it was a crossover with a tall roof. That wasn’t an issue for the later, more SUV-esque Subaru Forester, after all. Instead, the Expos’ main drawback was probably their resemblance to unfashionable family vehicles, even though that un-stylish design contributed to some of their key advantages. The visibility all-around was excellent, and the interior room was outstanding for a vehicle similar in size to today’s Mazda CX-5. Except for the small third row, which barely accommodated two children (though curiously providing access to up to eight cupholders). The handling was somewhat peculiar, with a wide turning circle and a tendency for body sway, but it generally delivered good driving dynamics for a minivan.

Based on personal experience riding in a 1995 Expo, lovingly named “Gertrude” by my older sister, I believe the car earned affection despite its distinctive qualities. The nickname may have originated from the steady hum of its single-cam 2.4-liter engine that, to my knowledge, has only undergone major repair once in its 280,000-mile journey. However, its four-speed automatic transmissions have repeatedly failed every 60,000 miles or so, a critical mechanical flaw that contrasts with my overall positive sentiment towards the Mitsubishi Expo.

Perhaps my attachment to Gertrude arises from the curious reactions it elicits at car gatherings. It could be the comfort it offers, likely stemming from memories of my mother behind the wheel. Maybe even the symbolic significance I find in its JDM moniker, Chariot, reminiscent of a film with a significant impact on my and my brother’s psyche, which in turn hearkens back to a William Blake poem that mirrors my worldview. It might be all these reasons or none, with me rationalizing a trivial sentiment. Nonetheless, this draws me to keep Gertrude roadworthy for as long as possible, hopefully surpassing May 22, 2023, the date indicated on its vintage Colorado license plate. I might just have to throw it a celebration that day. Everyone’s invited for cake.