My 1975 Ford Pinto: Driving Into Confidence

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– Updated on December 14, 2025

Photo of a barefoot young man sitting on the hood of a 1975 Ford Pinto

While my dad owned the Renault, a little Ford Pinto was my daily driver for a short time.

I’ve always been an anxious driver. I’m a little embarrassed to admit it, but it’s true. My eyesight plays a major role — because of an accident at birth, I’ve never had 3D vision. I’ve adapted, but my depth perception has always been iffy. I’m far less anxious now after 40 years of driving; funny what experience will do for confidence. But when I came home from engineering school at the end of my freshman year in 1986, I had not driven all school year. Recall that I got my license just two weeks before starting school. I had no real driving experience and was daunted every time I got behind the wheel.

While I was wrapping up the school year, my Aunt Betty wrote to me about working for her courier service all summer. Betty was a strong, independent, entrepreneurial woman, the matriarch of my father’s extended family. She had built a business successful enough that she won a contract with AM General, which had recently begun building the military Hummer. That’s what we all called them then. When the military took delivery, they called them Humvees. That was their right. But ask any South Bender of the era — we all agree, the military was wrong.

Betty had more business than she knew what to do with, and she needed help. When I explained that I didn’t have a car to get back and forth to work, she said, “I have an old Ford Pinto that you can keep for the summer. I was going to have you drive it for deliveries most of the time anyway.”

1975 Pinto 4

Ford called this Pinto’s color Medium Copper. I always thought the color looked more like, well, poop, than shiny pennies.

This Pinto was the coupe rather than the Runabout hatchback. What a uselessly small trunk it had. Betty also owned a yellow ’76 Pinto hatchback that she let my cousin Lisa drive that summer. Lisa was able to carry a lot more in her car than I ever could in mine. Ford should have made all Pintos either hatches or wagons.

1975 Pinto 2

The Pinto offered a La-Z-Boy driving position: leaned back deep in the seat, feet way out in front. It magnified the Pinto’s low-to-the-ground stance, and it seemed like most other cars towered over it. Despite being a small car, the Pinto was fitted with a giant steering wheel that rubbed my thighs no matter how I positioned my legs. Fortunately, after the car got rolling the manual steering was light and easy.

The Pinto’s odometer showed about 65,000 miles. Either those were very hard miles, or the car had rolled 165,000 miles. The car showed every sign of high wear. Rust was starting to eat the rear fenders and had already eaten through some of the floor pan. While the engine was basically reliable, it had cooling problems. After a long trip, the radiator usually dumped its contents through the overflow tube onto the ground.

1975 Pinto 5

I also couldn’t back up the car, because its reverse gear had been stripped. You’d think that would have taught me to always park so I could drive forward to get out, but I ended up pushing that car out of a parking spot about once a week. One client’s office was on a hill, and twice — meaning I didn’t learn the first time — I pulled into a space against their building only to have to push my car out later and then chase it down the hill. Have you ever caught a 2,400-pound car, rolling backwards and gathering speed, by an open door and tried to climb in?

My Pinto had the 2.3-liter Lima engine, a version of which ended up in the 1980s Thunderbird TurboCoupe. Mine must have been mistuned, since it would accelerate briskly right up to 30 mph from a dead stop without my touching the gas pedal. In sharp contrast to its overeager throttle, the Pinto’s manual brakes were weak, so stopping could be a real adventure. In emergencies, I had to stand on the brakes with both feet to stop the car. I thought that was part and parcel of manual brakes. But one day when I was out running parts in one of the vans, Betty sent one of the experienced drivers on a paper run in my Pinto. When he got back, he gave Betty what for about sending me out in “that unsafe car.” Turns out the brakes were totally shot. One brake job later, and I needed only one foot to stop the car.

One of AM General’s plants was in La Porte, one county to the west. I liked runs to La Porte because it involved a long, straight and fast stretch of Indiana State Road 2 seldom visited by the Indiana State Police. On one trip to La Porte, going well over the speed limit, the whole back end of the car suddenly started shaking violently. Instantly, dust and rust bits filled the cabin. As I slowed down, the shaking diminished. As I pulled over, it became a rhythmic “whap” that was clearly coming from the left rear corner. It turns out that my frugal aunt had put retreaded tires on the Pinto. Most of the tread on the left-rear tire had fallen off. One section held on by a thread, and it beat the crap out of the fender with every go around.

Fortunately, a good spare was stuffed in the tiny trunk. But when I cranked the scissor jack into place against the car’s frame, the metal crumbled away. I couldn’t find a solid piece of frame anywhere that would let me lift up that car. Thankfully, someone had squeezed a bumper jack into the trunk and soon I was on my way.

1975 Pinto 1

This job taught me to handle myself. One morning Betty sent me on a series of runs in one of the vans. My first stop was at a small manufacturer in Elkhart that I had visited before. But the plant was dark and there were no employee cars in the lot. I drove in and was met by a crew of men who looked like every stereotype in a mafia movie. They surrounded me and asked sharply what I was doing there. I told them I was there to pick up a shipment. They moved in closer and explained bluntly that the plant had moved to a new location and that I needed to leave, pronto.

Fearing sleeping with the fishes, I hightailed it out of there and found a phone booth where I looked up the company in the phone book and called them. They cheerfully told me their new address, and I drove out to it to pick up the parts.

I was to deliver these parts to a giant, labyrinthine plant in South Bend. The guard at the gate gave me directions to the loading dock. But those directions took me down alleys that were narrower than my van. It took me a good while to navigate that plant’s vast grounds to find the receiving department.

I didn’t get back to the office for several hours. Betty was fuming. “Where in the hell were you all day? I have a good mind to fire you for not checking in. I was worried sick. I thought I was going to have to tell your dad that you were lying in a ditch.”

It’s just part of being in my family to meet sharp confrontation with the same energy back. “I was out there facing all sorts of problems,” I said and recounted my day. “And I solved them. Every last one of them. If you needed me to check in, that’s an expectation you needed to set when you hired me.” I surprised myself with how well I stood my ground.

Betty backed down, saying only, “If you do this again, I will fire you.” I replied, “Now that I know that you want this, you will get it.”

Despite all of this — or maybe because of it — getting into “my” Pinto every morning felt straight up terrific. The Pinto and I explored the highways, stopped at the 7-11 for Big Gulps, listened to top 40 music on WLS, and soaked up sunshine all day. I earned five bucks an hour for the privilege, great summer job money in 1986.

More importantly, I returned to school that fall a much more self-possessed man. Betty gave me trust and freedom I’d never had at home, and I honored that trust. Immersion therapy works — by summer’s end, I could navigate South Bend’s streets without a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. The Pinto had thrown everything at me, and I’d handled it.

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