My name is Steve and I love my Pinto. I know, you're thinking I must be a total loser with a repressed death wish to drive the biggest firebomb in automotive history. But I live this way so you don't have to. So what if driving a baby blue Pinto in L.A. is the most effective birth control known to man? So what if I instinctively reach for gauze bandages when I hear skidding tires behind me in traffic? As the ultimate junkyard shopping cart, my '79 Pinto can't be beat. When its huge glass hatchback yawns, there isn't much I can't stuff in there and drag home to the El Monte cat ranch. Scope it out for yourself.
The cavernous hatch swallowed this 727 Hemi TorqueFlite like Oprah popping a Twinkie. Sharp Pinto spotters will know this is a three-door Runabout with the optional '77-and-up all-glass third door and 47 cubic feet of cargo capacity. Pinto station wagons may have greater capacity, but their massive lift gates and limited angle of attack make loading a hassle. | 
When the 9-inch rear axle in my Nova exploded, I loaded the works into the Pinto for transportation to the repair shop. With the hatch closed, prying eyes aren't prying fingers. |
Here's the Flying Scot flathead six from my '59 Rambler American on its way to the machine shop (did somebody say birth control again?). The Pinto's rugged leaf-spring rear suspension and 13-inch Pep Boys radials laughed a hearty guffaw at this insultingly puny load. | |