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Looking Back At Oprah's Free-Car Giveaway 10 Years Later

Molly Vielweber's Pontiac G6 appears unremarkable at first glance. It wears forest green paint, rolls on five-spoke aluminum wheels, and it has a sizeable scrape in the driver's side door, the scar of a decade's worth of hard use. You wouldn't notice it parked at a big box store or cruising on the highway. Pontiac made hundreds of thousands of G6s in the 2000s, and a lot are still on the road. It's unremarkable in every way except for the front license plate, which reads, "Oprah 6." But this is not just any G6. This car is a part of television history. Vielweber won her G6 10 years ago at a taping of The Oprah Winfrey Show, when Oprah kicked off her 19th season in dramatic fashion by giving all 276 members of the studio audience a free car. It was an unprecedented stunt that changed lives, generated controversy and ultimately failed to provide enough of a marketing lift for Pontiac, which would be shuttered just over five years later. September 13 marks the 10-year anniversary of the memorable event, which caught everyone, including audience members, by surprise. In a masterful display of showmanship, Oprah dialed up the suspense to match the enormity – and cost – of the event. First she gave away 11 cars, which would have been a landmark TV promotion by itself. But then she coyly announced: "I've got a little twist." Models circulated throughout the audience carrying silver platters loaded with white boxes wrapped in red ribbon. One contained a set of keys, Oprah implied, for another audience member to win the final car. "Do not open it. Do not shake it," she commanded the crowd. Finally, with the suspense built to a fevered pitch, everyone opened their box. They all had keys. "You get a car! You get a car! You get a car! You get a car! Everybody gets a car!" Oprah exclaimed. "Everybody gets a car! Everybody gets a car!" This content is hosted by a third party. To view it, please update your privacy preferences. Manage Settings. Everybody did get a car. But not everyone kept it. William Toebe attended the show with his wife, Jillaine, and he immediately thought of the tax implications, which stretched to $6,000 or more for some audience members. It was a tough reality for many in the audience that day, some of which had been selected based on their need for a new car. "That responsible part of me stepped forward and wondered 'where am I going to get the money to pay the taxes?'" he recalled.

Junkyard Gem: 2004 Pontiac Vibe GT

The New United Motor Manufacturing plant in Fremont, California, built Toyota-derived machinery — badged as Toyotas, Chevrolets, Geos, and Pontiacs— from 1984 through 2010, and some of the very last vehicles that left the assembly line were Pontiac Vibes. The Vibe, sibling to the Toyota Matrix, mostly served as a ho-hum transportation appliance and/or fleet car, but a factory-hot-rod GT version could be purchased. Today's Junkyard Gem is one of those rare GTs, complete with the nearly unheard-of six-speed manual transmission, found in a self-service yard in northeastern Colorado. The regular Vibe had 123 or 130 horsepower, depending on the number of driven wheels, but the Vibe GT got the same 1.8-liter 2ZZ engine that went into the Celica GT-S. 180 horsepower, which was enough to make the 2,800-pound Vibe GT keep up with the 3,108-pound/215-horse Chrysler PT Cruiser Turbo that year. Sadly, no race series pitting Vibe GTs against PT Cruiser Turbos and Chevy HHR SSs on road courses ever materializedÂ… but it's not too late. The Vibe GT has something you couldn't get in a PT Cruiser or Chevy HHR, though: a six-speed manual transmission as standard equipment. In fact, the six-speed was the only transmission offered in the early Vibe GTs (an automatic became an option later on). You'll find plenty of three-pedal econoboxes from this era, because they were significantly cheaper than their slushbox-equipped counterparts, but the Vibe GT had plenty of competition from sportier-looking cars with manual transmissions in 2004. Not many were sold. This car is covered with nasty dents from golf-ball-sized hail (all too common in High Plains Colorado), so it may have been an insurance total that nobody wanted at auction. Sold in Wyoming, will be crushed in an adjacent state. This content is hosted by a third party. To view it, please update your privacy preferences. Manage Settings. Fuel for the soul. This content is hosted by a third party. To view it, please update your privacy preferences. Manage Settings. The kids, they were crazy about the Vibe (well, maybe not). This content is hosted by a third party. To view it, please update your privacy preferences. Manage Settings. Toyota had right-hand-drive Matrixes brought over to Japan from Canada, but a NUMMI-built version of the Vibe could be purchased there for a few years as well. This was the Voltz, and its advertising seems notably frantic even by the standards of Japanese car commercials.

This junkyard '91 Grand Am is as hooptie as it gets

I spend a lot of time in junkyards. A lot of time. With all this experience, I have learned to recognize a perfect hooptie when I see one, a car whose final owner got every last bit of use out of it when its value was hovering right about at scrap value. This 1991 Pontiac Grand Am that I spotted in a San Francisco Bay Area self-service wrecking yard a few days ago, from the final model year for the third-generation Grand Am, checks all the hooptie boxes just right. First of all, it's a low-option coupe with the wretched and unloved GM Iron Duke engine, a rattly, gnashy, thrashy 2.5-liter four-cylinder kludged together using off-the-shelf parts from the Pontiac 301-cubic-inch V8 during the darkest years of the Malaise Era and used in cars whose buyers just didn't care. Most of the paint has been burned off by 25 years of harsh California sun, but the car spent sufficient time in a damp, shady spot for lichens to build up here and there. There are skeletons-with-sombreros stencils sprayed here and there, plus a big moonshine-guzzling skeleton mural painted on the hood. Goodbye, property values! Still, someone felt some affection for this car, giving it the name "Good Ol' Snakey" and painting that name on the decklid. We can assume that the Iron Duke was a bit loose by this time, probably leaving a serpentine trail of blue smoke behind the car at all times. So, the combination of cheapness, ugliness, menace, and who-gives-a-damn functionality make this Grand Am an excellent example of a pure hooptie. Within a couple of months, it will be crushed, shredded, shipped out of the Port of Oakland, and reborn in China as refrigerators and Geely Emgrands. Somewhere in Northern California, though, a few of Ol' Smokey's friends will remember this car fondly.