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"Long ago, when Britain was still pockmarked from World War II and one man could design a car from scratch, Alec Issigonis sketched a box with a tiny wheel at each corner, a sideways drivetrain between the front wheels, luggage between the rears, and the people in the middle. The minimal 848-cc, 34-bhp, 10-ft.-long, 10-in.-wheeled grandsire of hot hatches wasn&amp;#039;t a hatch or hot when it was born in 1959. But it had room for four blokes wearing hats. And it was so small you could significantly improve its performance by dieting.   Princess Grace had one. Peter Sellers, Mick Jagger and Prime Minister Harold Wilson all had at least one. Nine out of 10 Brits who were around during 40 years of production owned, drove or at least rode in a Mini. My bank manager called her yellow Mini &amp;quot;Buttercup.&amp;quot; Mine was &amp;quot;Bogus.&amp;quot;   Minis starred in films and TV. There were Mini estates with wood slats on the outside, a jeepish Mini called the Moke and a pink Moke surrey with a fringe on top for Bermuda&amp;#039;s resorts.   Naturally, being British, Minis were raced from birth. John Cooper, the man who put the engine in the middle of race cars (winning the Formula 1 championship in 1959 and 1960) tuned and tweaked the little beast, and by 1964 the 1275-cc Mini Cooper S had soared to 75 bhp. Minis made you smile, and when they raced they made you laugh out loud.   Like eight Minis screaming around Brands Hatch in 1966, nose-to-tail and door-to-door. &amp;quot;If God had meant Minis to go that fast,&amp;quot; the announcer said, &amp;quot;he would have given them bigger wheels.&amp;quot;   Minis won the Monte Carlo Rallye three times. And a zillion races, scooting inside bigger cars on the corners and falling behind on the straights. You could calculate a Mini&amp;#039;s chances of winning at any track by the distance from the last corner to the finish line.   Over the years Minis slowly acquired creature comforts like roll-up windows, and, in the end, airbags. But the car never really changed.   Modifying Minis, though, was a national industry. &amp;quot;Bogus&amp;quot; was supposedly built for rally star Paddy Hopkirk for a 1989 Pirelli Marathon. Paddy told me he never heard of the car.   Bogus&amp;#039;s straight-cut gears sounded like a box of rocks at low speeds and tortured hyenas on high. It had 128 bhp at 7500 rpm, a full racing harness mounted on the rollcage, no back seat and black leather Corbeau racing seats. Perfect for the feral streets of London, I thought. It would blow the doors off anything this side of a Ferrari up to 50 mph, go through holes in the traffic that other cars couldn&amp;#039;t see and could park anywhere.   Years ago, running late for a signing at Silverstone, bounding along the back roads with the publisher&amp;#039;s brave and gorgeous blonde representative riding shotgun, Bogus was in full cry, following a Lancia sedan. &amp;quot;Look at them,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;They&amp;#039;ve got their windows rolled up, the air conditioning on, the stereo is probably playing some wall-to-wall fabric softener. They don&amp;#039;t even know they&amp;#039;re going fast.&amp;quot;   &amp;quot;What?&amp;quot; she screamed.   Those straight-cut gears had to go.   Now, after 40 years of developmental slumber, BMW has shown up with bags of cash, fresh engineers and a clean sheet of paper.   The new 115-bhp Mini Cooper looks like an old Mini that has been customized by the coolest customizer in Southern California with a chopped roof, 15-in. wheels and black glass at the rear corners. It is 2 ft. longer, wider and weighs almost twice as much. Inside it&amp;#039;s all retro-rocket `50s-diner full of old Mini cues. Luvly.   On the streets of London, old Minis wink their lights and wave at their new bigger brother. In the paddock at Rockingham race circuit, trick Jags and Italian exotica were ignored while the new Mini drew a crowd every time.   And on the narrow, wet, bumpy and twisty roads around Rockingham, the new Mini Cooper is a joy, at ease at 70, swallowing bumps that would have had Bogus hopping. The shift is as slick as any BMW&amp;#039;s, and the engine revs and revs. It&amp;#039;s comfortable and supple and with the radio on and the windows rolled up, you don&amp;#039;t even know you&amp;#039;re going fast.   No, it doesn&amp;#039;t scoot like the old Mini. And it doesn&amp;#039;t hop. It   doesn&amp;#039;t shake your brain pan and rattle your teeth. `Cause it&amp;#039;s not a Mini, really. It&amp;#039;s not a 40-year-old design. And it doesn&amp;#039;t try to swap ends when you downshift and brake on turn-in.   BMW&amp;#039;s new Mini is fun, it&amp;#039;s quick, cute and it&amp;#039;s made at the old Mini&amp;#039;s Longbridge works in England. But underneath its sleek new Mini skin, it&amp;#039;s not a Mini. It&amp;#039;s a Mini BMW. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.roadandtrack.com/car-culture/a691/a-tale-of-two-minis/>