The Cheburek – GTA’s Soviet Relic on Wheels.

TL;DR

If you want to feel like you’re starring in a budget Cold War spy movie while barely breaking 60 mph, the Cheburek is your car. It’s janky, it’s slow, but it’s got character. Lots and lots of character.

What’s the Vibe?

Imagine a car that was built in a factory run by a guy named Boris who’s been hitting the vodka since breakfast. That’s the Cheburek. It’s vintage Soviet design with all the finesse of a refrigerator on wheels.

Performance Breakdown:

Speed & Manoeuvrability Test:

Picture this: You’re blasting out of the Casino, pedal to the floor, and the Cheburek responds with all the urgency of a granny in a mobility scooter. Into the sewers we go, and it’s a bit like driving a shopping cart full of bricks — you point it, it thinks about it, then reluctantly changes direction. And the brakes? Oh, they exist. Technically. Press the pedal and it’s more like a suggestion than a command. You might as well be Flintstoning it to a stop.

Emerging from the underground, we hit the highway and swerve into oncoming traffic. It’s like playing Frogger, but the frog’s had a few too many vodkas. Cars zip by as the Cheburek wobbles and bounces like a jelly on a trampoline. It’s not pretty, but somehow, miraculously, we make it to the other side without becoming a hood ornament.

Now, the big test — top speed. We floor it, and the Cheburek roars like a constipated bear. 50… 60… 70 miles per hour! Trees blur by at a pace that would only impress a snail. Eventually, the engine decides it’s had enough and we top out somewhere just shy of 80. Yes, 80. A bit like taking a go-kart to a Formula 1 race.

Verdict? It’s not fast, it’s not agile, and it’s about as responsive as a brick in a swamp. But hey, at least it’s got character.

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The Getaway: Tonga Drive to LS Customs – The Worst 3-Star Chase You’ll Ever Experience:

Picture this: We burst out of the convenience store on Tonga Drive, bags of cash in hand, and dive into the Cheburek. The engine sputters, coughs, and then decides to actually work — and we’re off! Well, sort of.

First, we’re dodging cop cars like we’re in a geriatric demolition derby. The Cheburek lumbers along, steering like a fridge strapped to roller skates. The cops are gaining, and we’re screaming ‘faster!’ as the car struggles to hit 50. It’s like trying to run a marathon with a hangover.

Into the first corner, and the Cheburek leans so hard you’d think it was auditioning for a hip-hop dance video. Drifting? Sure. But it’s not so much ‘Tokyo Drift’ as it is ‘Soviet Slideshow.’

Now we hit the highway. The Cheburek’s rattling like a skeleton in a washing machine as we cut across oncoming traffic. The brakes? Might as well throw a brick out the window — at least that would slow us down. Cop cars whiz by, and we narrowly dodge a semi. ‘Narrowly’ meaning by the width of a vodka bottle.

Finally, the big push. We swerve across lanes and hit the gas. Top speed test, baby! The Cheburek roars, groans, and... 75! 76! 77! The speedometer creeps up like it’s being dragged uphill by a donkey. A cop car nudges us from behind, and the whole car shakes like a Jenga tower in a hurricane.

Somehow, by sheer luck or divine intervention, we limp into LS Customs. The engine’s smoking, the bumper’s hanging off, and I’m fairly sure the cops are still laughing. Verdict? If you’re planning a high-speed getaway in the Cheburek, make sure your will is up to date.

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Offroad Getaway: Convenience Store to Altruist Camp – A 3-Star Dirt Nap:

We burst out of the store like we’re starring in a budget action flick, cash in hand and cops in hot pursuit. The Cheburek lurches forward, wheels spinning like a blender full of bricks. And off we go — straight into the dirt.

The first hill is less ‘off-road beast’ and more ‘geriatric goat.’ The Cheburek groans as it claws its way up the slope, mud flinging everywhere like a toddler with a garden hose. Meanwhile, the cops are having a field day, easily gaining ground as the Cheburek wheezes and grunts like a hungover rhino.

Halfway up, we hit a bump — and by ‘bump,’ I mean a pebble the size of a shoe. The suspension throws a fit, and suddenly we’re airborne. The landing? About as graceful as a hippo on a trampoline. The shocks rattle, the undercarriage scrapes, and I’m pretty sure we just lost half the exhaust.

Now we’re in the valley, sliding through mud like a pig on ice skates. The Cheburek fishtails wildly, spinning around so many times it starts to look like a Soviet carousel ride. Meanwhile, the cops are tearing through bushes like they’re filming a Monster Truck rally.

Finally, we make it to the Altruist Camp, the Cheburek covered in mud, smoke pouring out of the hood, and the horn blaring for no reason whatsoever. Verdict? If you’re going off-road in a Cheburek, pack a map, a miracle, and a tow truck.

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Climbing Mt. Chiliad: Grapeseed to the Summit – A Soviet Slog:

Ever tried to make a cow climb a ladder? That’s what it’s like taking the Cheburek up Mt. Chiliad. We start in Grapeseed, where the road is sort of paved and the Cheburek still thinks it’s a car. The first incline isn’t so much ‘steep’ as it is ‘slightly inconvenient,’ and already the engine’s groaning like a pensioner with a bad hip.

Halfway up, and the dirt path gets rougher. The Cheburek starts sliding sideways like a drunken toddler on roller skates. The tires? Might as well be made of Crisco. Every bump feels like a punch to the kidneys as the suspension rattles, the shocks scream, and the exhaust threatens to fall off for the third time today.

Now, the final ascent. The Cheburek is wheezing, sputtering, and moving slower than a snail in quicksand. The summit is in sight, but the incline is brutal. We’re flooring it, the engine is howling like a cat in a blender, and the speedometer is stuck somewhere between ‘meh’ and ‘you’re joking, right?’

Somehow, through sheer Soviet stubbornness, we make it to the top. The Cheburek is smoking, the hood is barely hanging on, and there’s a puddle of something ominously black pooling underneath. Verdict? If you’re taking the Cheburek off-road, you’d better be a masochist or a mechanic — or both.

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Descent of Doom: The Cheburek’s Final Flight Off Mt. Chiliad:

We’re at the summit of Mt. Chiliad, staring down at the valley below like we’re about to launch a space shuttle — except instead of a rocket, we’re in a Soviet shoebox held together by rust and regret. There’s only one thing left to do: floor it.

And floor it we do. The Cheburek lurches forward, tires squealing like a cat that just saw a bathtub. The first bump sends us airborne, the ground drops away, and suddenly we’re floating like a tin can in a wind tunnel. The hood pops up like a flap on a jack-in-the-box, the passenger door swings open, and I’m fairly sure the muffler just bailed out like it’s auditioning for an action movie.

We hit the first landing with all the grace of a refrigerator dropped from a helicopter. The windshield shatters, the trunk lid is now somewhere back up the mountain, and the Cheburek is rattling like a paint mixer in an earthquake. But we’re still moving.

The second bump sends the back bumper spinning off like a ninja star, narrowly missing a deer that’s either very brave or very stupid. Meanwhile, the Cheburek is shedding parts like a dog in summer — doors, mirrors, the radio antenna — all tumbling down the mountain in a hail of twisted metal.

We hit the bottom with a thud that sounds suspiciously like the transmission giving up on life.

Somehow, by some cosmic joke, we didn’t explode. But the Cheburek is now a bare, skeletal husk of what it once was, smoking, creaking, and missing every single window. Verdict? If you’re taking the Cheburek down Mt. Chiliad, pack a parachute, a prayer, and a personal injury lawyer.

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In-Game Use Case:

• Best for: Drifting around corners like a wannabe Vin Diesel while your friends bet on how long before it flips.

• Avoid for: Anything involving speed, stealth, or survival.

• Pro Tip: Drift tuning turns this clunker into a poor man’s drift machine. Just don’t expect it to win any races.

• Best for: Roleplaying as a washed-up mobster or Eastern European taxi driver.

• Avoid for: Anything involving speed, stealth, or survival.

• Pro Tip: Use it as a decoy. Park it at a heist location and watch the cops laugh themselves silly while you escape in a real car.

The Verdict:

The Cheburek is like a junkyard dog — scrappy, unreliable, and missing a few parts. But somehow, against all odds, it keeps going. If you’re the kind of person who likes their cars with ‘character’ (and by ‘character,’ we mean rust, dents, and a distinct burning smell), then the Cheburek is the rolling dumpster fire of your dreams. The Cheburek is the kind of car you drive when you’re feeling nostalgic for the days when seatbelts were optional and safety standards were a suggestion. It’s slow, it’s ugly, but it’s got that underdog charm that almost makes you forgive its complete lack of practicality.

What’s Your Take?

Survived a Cheburek downhill run without losing all the doors? Managed to hit top speed without setting yourself on fire? Tell us your most ridiculous Cheburek moments below!? Got a Cheburek parked in your virtual driveway? How many hills did you actually make it up before it started smoking? Let us know!