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Last weekend, I committed the ultimate act of bravado: I drove my '09 Toyota more than 300 miles over a dark, frigid, sloppy Interstate highway, utterly defying Transportation Secretary Ray Hood's suggestion that I quit driving it until Toyota had figured out how to fix my accelerator pedal.

Yeah, my Toyota Matrix, the metallic bronze jewel that stands out in Walmart parking lots like a neon light in the tenderloin district; the one with the VIN starting with 2T1; the one I'm told could take the bit between its teeth and race off like a spooked bronco if I'm not careful.

Secretary Hood quickly took back his warning to quit driving until the glitch was fixed, which relieved me a great deal. I live two miles from the nearest grocery store and pharmacy, and I rely on my Toyota to get me there when my beans and bacon need replenishing and my prescription vials are running on empty.

Hood's amended advice: "If you're in doubt, take it to a dealer."

Miss Peggy insisted that I do just that. She turned the driver's seat over to me until she could be sure the little car would behave itself on the road.

"You're not as likely to panic," she said.

"All you have to do," I told the service rep at my Toyota dealer's, "is slip the transmission into neutral. The engine might race, but the car will just coast."

The service rep grinned like a guy whose Toyota wasn't on the endangered list.

"You're about the 35th owner who has told me that," he said. He didn't venture an opinion on whether the throw-it-into-neutral strategy was the right one. But I think it is.

The problem with taking it to the Toyota dealer was that, on first visit, he didn't have a clue as to what to do about a sticky accelerator. The company was still studying the problem and hadn't yet told the dealers what the solution might be. Later, I got an e-mail saying the problem was solved. But when I called the dealer, I was told I'd have to wait my turn and I'd get an e-mail or a phone call when the time was right.

In the meantime, the dealer put my Matrix up on the rack and told me my tires were worn and needed replacing.

"At 25,000 miles?" I asked.

"They don't put the best tires on 'em at the factory," the technician said. But he would be willing to replace these for a mere $620. And by the way, there was a nail in the left front tire and he would fix it for $18.50.

One of the neat things about the Matrix is that it has a dashboard warning light that lets you know when tire pressure is down. So far mine had shown no loss of pressure. As long as I didn't pull the nail out, the tire should hold until I found a tire dealer willing to sell me a set for under $620.

"If you find a better price," the service rep said, "bring me the quote on the tire dealer's letterhead, and we'll match it."

I wondered why I should bother to bring the quote to him after I had negotiated a better deal with another vendor. Before the left front tire went flat, I found a set for just over $400. They've held up well for the first 500 miles.

This is not intended as a slam at Toyota. I have no doubt that my Matrix is a fine car. It has a strong little four-banger under the hood that gets you onto the Interstate in a hurry and darts in and out of Atlanta traffic like a goldfish darting through a school of herring.

But the massive recall has reinforced my suspicion that even the Japanese can pull boners. It raises the nagging question: If they can't design a gas pedal that works right, what else can't they design?

I understand that there may be brake problems on the Prius, Toyota's world-beating hybrid. I'll let the green folks driving that little jewel worry about that.

I really haven't been driving around with sweaty palms. I know there's a remote chance that my accelerator will misbehave, but it's far more likely that the car will keep its cool until the dealer gets around to fixing it. I feel a lot safer in a Toyota than I do in a commercial airliner.

When I fly, I know that I'd have a far better chance of winning a multmillion-dollar lottery, assuming I bet on the things, than being killed in an airplane crash. Still, I like to fortify myself with a calming beverage when I go aloft, and while in flight I keep watching for potential landing sites, just in case the engines conk out. They've never quit yet, but I'm sure the pilots have appreciated my keeping a watchful eye.

With the Toyota, things aren't nearly as dicey. I drove through rain thicker than gruel all the way from Anderson through Charlotte, and beyond to Salisbury. I tried to keep a semi in front of me so I could be guided by its tail lights. And I kept my hand poised over the transmission lever, just in case my Matrix got spooked by the cold and rain and darkness.

It worked. I'm back home writing this and waiting for the call from the service department announcing that it's my turn. I reckon I'm a survivor.

Write to Gene Owens at 315 Lakeforest Circle, Anderson SC 29625. E-mail: Swampscum2@aol.com