My 2004 Mini Cooper S — The Right Kind of Irresponsible

By 2011, I had accepted that the Jeep Patriot was everything I needed and nothing I wanted. That realization tends to be dangerous for someone like me. I don’t remember the exact moment I decided a Mini Cooper was going to be “the one.” It was probably a combination of reading too many Edmunds long-term reviews and watching The Italian Job one too many times. Somewhere in there, the idea lodged itself firmly in my head.

On paper, it made sense. Go-kart handling. Hatchback versatility. Good fuel economy. Quick acceleration in S form. A six-speed manual. A panoramic sunroof. It sounded like everything the Patriot wasn’t. But it was also going to be a dramatic shift in size. I had owned Jeeps, a midsize sedan, and a convertible. A Mini was small — really small. Before committing, I decided to test the theory properly and rented one from ZipCar for a weekend.

That was the moment everything clicked.

The ZipCar Mini was a base “Justa” with an automatic transmission, and even in that form, it felt alive. The steering was immediate, the chassis was tight, and it darted into corners in a way the Patriot never had. If a base automatic could be that fun, an S with a manual was clearly the only acceptable version.

Before I could Mini, though, I had to de-Patriot. I cleaned it up carefully, took good photos, and listed it on Craigslist. With only about 25,000 miles on it, it had held its value fairly well. I sold it for around $15,000 to a woman upgrading from a bright yellow turbo New Beetle with polka dots on it. That felt like an appropriate handoff. The Patriot would live on in quirky company.

With the Jeep gone, the hunt began in earnest. I test drove a couple of Mini Cooper S models. The first was red with about 80,000 miles. It was quick and confirmed that an S was non-negotiable. The supercharger whine, the tight steering, and the way it rotated through corners were exactly what I had hoped for. But that particular car felt a little too loose. The interior rattled more than I liked, and it felt like it had lived a harder life than I wanted to inherit.

The second one was different. It was Electric Blue with a Lapis Blue interior, a six-speed manual, and the all-important panoramic sunroof. It had about 65,000 miles on it — a number that felt just right. The car looked like it belonged in a Mini brochure, but more importantly, it felt tight.

The owner was the dream scenario: a Mini enthusiast and the office manager at The Jag Shop in Portland, a European specialty shop that knew these cars inside and out. This wasn’t just a used hot hatch — it had been maintained proactively and carefully. As she walked me through the service history, she mentioned that nearly everything these cars were known for had already been addressed. The supercharger service had been done, suspension components refreshed, fluids handled on schedule. Then she casually added that the only major item that hadn’t been replaced yet was the power steering pump, noting that they typically failed around 75,000 miles.

This car had 65,000 miles.

I filed that information away and chose optimism.

The only reason she was selling it was that she had upgraded to a 2005 Electric Blue John Cooper Works. She wasn’t unloading a problem car; she was simply moving up the Mini ladder. That detail mattered to me. She had also installed a smaller supercharger pulley that added roughly 15% more power. Nothing wild, just enough to sharpen the response. The car felt eager and alive, and the distinctive supercharger whine made you want to downshift for no reason other than to hear it again.

I did some light negotiating and, if memory serves, brought it home for about $12,400. After selling the Patriot for $15,000, that left roughly $2,600, which promptly went toward paying down my mounting credit card debt. I still liked gadgets, but for once I had made a decision that felt rooted in driving rather than image.

The Mini was everything I had hoped it would be and more. It was genuinely fun to drive. The steering was sharp, the six-speed felt precise, and the car felt quick without feeling reckless. For something that entertaining, it returned respectable fuel economy. It also had personality in a way none of my previous cars had. The giant center speedometer, the toggle switches, the blue interior — it all felt slightly ridiculous and completely intentional.

Surprisingly, it was practical. I made a habit of posting Facebook photos of all the things that fit in the back. Dakota in his crate fit just fine. Computer equipment for Schild Computer Services fit just fine. Weekend luggage was easy. The hatchback proved far more useful than I had expected.

By then, my mom had moved back into her house in Sisters, so I found myself making regular trips over the mountains to visit her and my friend Tyler. In winters past, I would borrow my dad’s Volvo with snow tires — he had upgraded to an S80 by then, again at my suggestion — but this time I bought a proper set of snow tires for the Mini. With decent plowing and good winter rubber, that car was shockingly capable. It carved through snow-covered roads with confidence and felt planted in conditions where I would have expected it to struggle.

I was still single at the time. I had dated a very nice lady for a couple of months the year before, but it hadn’t worked out. So weekends were often mine to spend however I wanted, and many of them were spent carving through twisty roads with no particular destination. For the first time in a while, I wasn’t thinking about practicality or status or what came next. I was simply enjoying the act of driving.

Then, almost exactly on schedule, at about 75,000 miles, the power steering pump failed. I was mid-corner when the steering suddenly became very heavy. Not gradually — immediately. It was an odd sensation in a car that normally felt so light on its feet. I took it to The Jag Shop, and they replaced the pump for about $800. It wasn’t cheap, but it also wasn’t catastrophic, and in fairness, I had been warned. That ended up being the only significant failure during my ownership — other than the key I lost at the beach. The replacement key set me back about $300.

About a year into owning the Mini, though, life shifted again. Schild Computer Services was growing, and while the hatchback was surprisingly capable, there were limits. Without planning it, I found myself the unexpected owner of a second vehicle — one that didn’t whine, didn’t carve corners, and didn’t wear a Union Jack anywhere.

It rumbled instead.

And just like that, the Mini had a stablemate with a bowtie on the grille and four more cylinders.