When I rolled a 1985 Pontiac Fiero into the driveway shortly after purchasing it in late September 1985, a teenage neighbor excitedly said, “Wow! A sports car!”
Well, not quite. The Fiero was sporty-looking, but ours came with a four-cylinder engine that turned out a modest 98 horsepower. These were more readily available, fuel-efficient and affordable than the better performing six-cylinder Fieros, so when GM offered low-interest financing to clear showrooms for new 1986 models, my wife and I made our move on a hard-to-find black five-speed manual transmission Fiero. We always liked the Fiero’s distinct looks and were attracted to their plastic bodies, which didn’t dent and wouldn’t rust.
I told Craig, the Queen City Pontiac salesman, I didn’t want the dealer advertisement on the car. “Ah, and some people say I drink too much,” he told me when I picked up the car, and discreetly pulled off the sticker before I drove home, smiling as Stevie Wonder’s “Part-time Lover” played on the radio.
I was back several times during the next few years, sometimes for one minor problem or another or an oil change and tire rotation, and a couple of times for recalls. Mike, the raspy voiced service manager who smoked too much, got to know me by first name, which probably wasn’t a good thing. Nick, our local Bloomfield mechanic, also got to know me on a first-name basis after replacing the clutch -- shortly after the warranty ran out, of course.
My wife learned to drive a manual transmission on the Fiero, which proved a nerve-wracking (and linkage-pin breaking) experience for her. It was normally, however, the car I commuted to work with on the Garden State Parkway. My most memorable experience was driving five hours on Route 22 during a fierce January 1987 snowstorm. The mid-engine Fiero did just fine while other cars whined and struggled, and I knew we would be together a long time.
I occasionally would put a car seat in the Fiero and run errands with my young son, sometimes taking him to his pre-kindergarten class in it. To prevent dirt on the bottom of his shoes from scuffing the Fiero’s passenger seat, I would place a small towel under his car seat. Twenty years later, I still have that towel in the Fiero, under the passenger seat. I can’t imagine, though, a parent of any 3- or 4-year old letting their child ride in a Fiero today.
Shortly after our second son was born, our family acquired its first minivan, and the Fiero became the third set of wheels in our fleet. That meant my wife and I drove it only once or twice a week, when we felt like it. On other days, it napped in the garage, while our newer, more practical cars jealously hung out in the driveway, getting wet in the rain or baked by the sun. Today, our other cars and some other drivers have come to respect the Fiero, which I roll out to the bus station or gym about once a week. I have the oil changed every year in a Monroe service garage by Chris, who never looks forward to it for some reason.
My two sons still haven’t driven the Fiero that’s older than them, even though they’ve mastered the manual transmission of a 2006 Scion tC that dad encourages them to drive occasionally. They seem afraid of the Fiero, perhaps fearing they will break it. “It’s going to be yours one day before too long if you want it,” I tell them. “You might as well start driving it.”
“Long may you run., long may you run.
Although these changes have come…”
(above photo) New Fiero with under-30 Charley in autumn 1985
