These are difficult times for
people like me. I love to drive. Nothing soothes me more than a
long, empty stretch of road and a full tank of gas and no known
destination. I love the rumble of the road, spotting a café in
a town, stopping for pie and coffee and listening to locals talk
about the price of cattle. I love hearing meadowlarks as I rattle
by their perches on fence posts. I like to roll down my window and
moo at the standing cattle and wonder if this urge is an affliction
that will someday produce its own special medication. I love
driving into a thunderstorm and listening to the rhythm of my
wipers.
I know I can’t begin to justify my addiction, but
there it is, for all of you eco-purists out there, who want to call
me a hypocrite.
I am guilty as charged.
With
the price of gasoline stuck in the vicinity of $3, and knowing that
to wish the price would fall runs counter to my broader view of
energy conservation, I had to do something.
First, I gave
up my beloved 1986 GMC pickup which sports 226,000 miles on the
odometer and which has faithfully conveyed me for more than a
decade, but slurps up gasoline faster than an elephant eats
peanuts. It might get 15 mpg on a good day, moving mostly downhill.
It’s now fired up only to keep the battery charged and
the fluids circulating and to use only when absolutely necessary. I
rely on my 1999 Subaru Forester on a daily basis, and although I’ve
never really developed the personal bond with this vehicle that
I’ve experienced with other cars in my automotive past, I can say
nothing but good things about her performance and efficiency. It
always starts, and even at above-freeway speeds manages to get 30
miles per gallon.
But I knew the Subaru and I could do
better, and I knew it would require a sacrifice. My motto used to
be: “Stay with the traffic flow or get out of the way.” I could
move from tranquility to road rage faster than you can say,
“slow-moving Winnebago.” Some of my friends suggested counseling.
Instead, I slowed down.
If you’re under 40, you
probably don’t remember that in 1973, President Nixon ordered a
reduction in speed limits on all federal highways to 55 mph to
conserve energy. For a country accustomed to speed, the
double-nickel limit shocked the motoring public. Imagine driving
across the desert from Green River to Grand Junction, Colo., at 55
mph — it was excruciating. It had never occurred to most
Americans that driving at a slower speed had anything to do with
fuel economy. I was skeptical and decided to put his proposal to
the test. So I drove from Louisville to Cincinnati one weekend to
visit my parents and scrupulously monitored my speed both ways. I
became a believer when my gas mileage improved by 15 percent.
Still, the national speed limit was opposed by many
Americans, particularly the trucking industry. In 1987, lobbyists
convinced Congress to raise the speed limit on rural interstate
freeways to 65 mph, but it wasn’t until 1995, 21 years after its
inception, that the 55 mph speed limit was finally abolished by
Congress.
Well, I have imposed my own national speed
limit upon myself. I keep my speed under 60 on two-lane roads and
under 65 mph on interstates. I try not to make a nuisance of myself
by creating logjams for faster moving vehicles. If there’s no
opportunity for cars and trucks to pass, I’ll pull over and let
them go by, but if timid drivers who lack passing skills miss clear
opportunities to get by me, they’re going to save fuel whether they
like it or not.
Keep in mind that I live in the rural
West and don’t fight heavy freeway traffic on a daily basis, where
trying to drive at 55 is a suicidal gesture. But out here, when the
road is relatively empty, I’ve begun riding for free. Did you know
that northbound between Monticello, Utah, and Moab, you can coast
for nine miles?
The bottom line for all my energy-saving
efforts has been an increase in my fuel economy from 30 mpg to 36
mpg — or a 20 percent improvement. On a 15 gallon tank, that
means I travel 90 miles farther than I did before.
Beyond
that, I feel calmer. With some notable exceptions (those
mega-motorhomes!), my road rage has gone into hibernation. Life
seems easier now that I’ve removed myself from the fast lane. I’ve
never been happier. I almost feel like a damn patriot.
Jim Stiles is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a
service of High Country News (hcn.org). He is
the publisher of the Canyon Country Zephyr in
Moab, Utah.
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