The Pinto That Could Fly (Barely)

(Spoiler: Not a majestic animal—just a fire-prone tin can with delusions of Delta Airlines.)

Before you saddle up, this story is not about a horse.

It’s about a car.
A 1970 Ford Pinto.
My Pinto. My mistake. And, like most of life’s better disasters, it was entirely my mother’s fault.

Her name is Grace (my mother, not the car), which is rich, considering what happened next demonstrated exactly none of that.

I was a teenager at the time, full of hormones, hubris, and the kind of judgment that should’ve come with a warning label. One day, Grace borrowed my car to visit a sick friend. Her own car was in the shop again, where it practically had its own mailbox.

Being the obedient son that I was (mostly distracted with, oh hell, you know), I handed over the keys and off she went.

What I didn’t fully process in the moment was this:
Grace’s “sick friend” Edwina was no stranger to a stiff drink. Neither was Grace. These two didn’t just drink, they marinated.

Let’s just say the prescription Grace was taking over contained more bourbon than penicillin.

Hours pass. No Grace. No call.
I try Edwina’s. Nothing. This was way before smartphones when your only lifeline was a landline and the prayer that someone would pick up.

Just as I’m picturing missing persons posters, the phone rings.

“Sweetheart,” she says, calm as a preacher at brunch, “there’s been a little accident. Me and Edwina kinda… ran off the road.”

Kinda?

I grabbed my buddy Joey, who had a truck, a chain, and a God-given talent for pulling dumb ideas out of ditches, and we headed out.

Turns out they didn’t just run off the road, they launched over a ditch, cleared a fence, and landed my Pinto square in the middle of a cow pasture like it was trying out for The Space Force.

There they were. Two middle-aged women (one with bare feet. I’ll let you guess which one.) standing on the side of a two-lane country road, looking over at the Pinto like it had just fallen from the sky—and they had no earthly idea how.

The car? It looked less like a wreck and more like an unscheduled landing.

‘Grace and Edwina’s Flight School – Now Accepting Applications (No Refunds)’

Now, let me tell you something about Pintos. They were infamous for exploding on impact. That gas tank was a slow-motion firework show waiting for the wrong tap.

But somehow, no flames. No fireball. No trip to the ER. Just one demolished Pinto, two slightly inebriated and very lucky women, and a fence that’ll never trust again.

And me? I didn’t get mad. I didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Because, truth is? I hated that car. It rode like a washing machine on spin cycle, smelled like vinyl in a sauna, and cornered like a grocery cart with a bum wheel.

So when it died in that field and my mom didn’t, I felt only one thing: Gratitude.

I didn’t laugh about it that day.
But now?
Every time I see an old Pinto limping along the highway, I give it a little salute.
Not for its engineering.
Not for its endurance.
But for the memory of a Pinto that believed it could fly—and the two Southern women who gave it whiskey, wings, and one hell of a sendoff.

If this made you laugh, cringe, or question your mother’s driving record—leave a comment, share it with your favorite disaster, and hit that subscribe button.
Go on… Grace would want you to.