Because my car is a 1972 Pinto it may also be a final tribute to me. Film at 11.

My Pinto—“Charro”—gets 22 miles per gallon highway, 17 miles per gallon city. It gets 0 miles per gallon sitting in my driveway, where I kept it most of the time. I keep it there because self-immolation is not my idea of a good time. A reported 32 persons have been incinerated and 25 more have suffered near-fatal burns in a rear-end collision involving Pintos. Ford apparently had a better idea when it made the Pinto; the idea was to mass-produce a $3,200 bonfire on wheels. It my high school yearbook, in the section for ambition, I do not remember writing “Toasted Marshmallow.”

I remember buying my Pinto; it was the first car I ever bought myself. I bought it primarily because it was cute. I am attracted to cute things. If Chevrolet put out a Marie Osmond Fastback, I’d have bought it. The Ford people told me the Pinto was inexpensive. They told me it had good trade-in value. They didn’t tell me that it had a tendency to explode into flames upon rear-end impact.

Then again, I didn’t think to ask.

I drove it for five years without knowing it was a death trap. Just for fun, I used to back out of my driveway at 30 miles an hour. Once I even got hit from behind, at a speed of ten miles an hour, by a Lincoln Continental that skidded on a patch of ice. The Continental climbed into my back seat and was attempting to nibble my neck when it stopped.

No Pinto was going to make a flame-broiled burger out of me.

I was unhurt. Others have been considerably less fortunate in Pintos. A California jury once awarded $127.8 million in damages after a Pinto torched; the judge, who probably drives a Ford, knocked it down to $6.3 million. Three Indiana women burned to death in a similar accident, and later the Ford Motor Company was indicted for murder because of the way the Pinto was constructed. Upon reading these things I changed my driving style considerably.

I drove so defensively I could have made the Dallas Cowboys as a middle linebacker. I began, as they say, to watch my ass. When a car got within 100 feet of my tail, I switched lanes. I hung a huge sign on the back of my car—KEEP BACK. DANGEROUS LEPER. COMMUNICABLE DISEASE. I stopped using my seat belt so in the event of a crash I could be out of that rolling coffin faster than O.J. gets out of airports. On impact, I intended to bolt and let that bugger go down the highway in free flight. Let the captain go down with his ship. No Pinto was going to make a flame-broiled burger out of me. I thought of getting vanity license plates—72-DOA. I never kept more than a quarter-tank of gas because I’d read that your chances of incineration was low. Do you have any idea how silly you feel going only 40 miles between fill-ups?

“Fill ’er up?”

“No. Just two.”

“Two dollars?”

“No. Two gallons. It’s a Pinto.”

My social life sank to a new low, like I had terminal bad breath or something. Nobody who’d read the Mother Jones expose on the Pinto, listened to the radio or watched TV in the past year would ride with me. Even my wife refused. She took cabs.

“Ride in that thing? Are you serious? Do you hear the Pinto theme song? ‘When You’re Hot, You’re Hot.’”

When Ford announced it was recalling about 1.5 million Pintos, I was delighted. I got the noticed, but nowhere did it say my care would be “fixed” only “modified.” No guilt was admitted. I hadn’t realized Ford had hired Richard Nixon to do public realtions. The notice informed me that the insertion of a plastic shield next to the gas tank would add safety in low-speed collisions. Up to 35 miles per hour I was golden. Above 35, I was smoked sausage.

“I got the recall notice. I want you to neuter my Pinto—like the dog it is.”

“The first time I can fit you in is next Saturday,” my dealer said.

“This is Monday. That’s 12 days away.”

“Okay. Next Thursday.”

“Hey, I like a barbecue as much as the next guy, but I’m not Joan of Arc.”

“I’m sorry. A lot of other people have Pintos too.”

“You’re sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry. Look, I’m not Catholic. I’m not in a race to get to the hereafter. What I’m here after is a car I can drive somewhere other than to my own funeral.”

“This Friday is the best I can do.”

“Fine. If I don’t make it, send the protective plastic shield in my name to the arson squad.”

When I went to pick up the car I asked a stupid question: How much will you give me on a trade-in? The car is well kept, a one-owner with a new radiator, new battery, new tires and 60,000 miles.

“Two hundred bucks.”

“Two hundred bucks? Are you kidding? The car’s in great shape.”

“It’s a Pinto. Nobody wants it.”

“Hey, you sold it to me. You allowed me to drive it, knowing I was just a rear-ender away from the disco inferno. You owe me at least $200 in psychological damage alone. Look, I got new stuff on this car. Battery. Radiator. Tires. The tires alone gotta be worth $150.”

“What kind of tires you got?”

“Firestone Radial 500s.”


[Editor’s Note: On November 28, 1978, Firestone recalled $14.5 million Radial 500s.]

[Photo Credit: Blair Pittman c/o Wikimedia Commons]

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