The Old Man and the Prius
“Me and Jenny, we’re not allowed to be in the car anymore when your dad is driving,” my friend Mike quietly announced. As my old man was the best driver I knew at the time, I assumed I had misunderstood him. But after the surprisingly simple clarification that can only occur between a four year old and a six year old, I determined that I had indeed heard him correctly and was now keenly aware that swimming lesson transportation logistics would need to be looked at in the days to come. It seemed that Mike’s mom had taken issue with my father’s most recent automotive achievement.
The fact that Chris (Mike’s mom) thought my dad was reckless comes as no surprise to me today. She’d seen us riding on the hood of his car for years. He’d let us hang on to whatever we could grip (preferably not the windshield wipers) as we proceeded down some of the quieter roads that were closer to home; kind of like an inexpensive amusement park ride, if you will.
He had no hang-ups about safety, and if there were seatbelts in the Datsun, I never saw them. It is possible that he had actively and aggressively removed them in some kind of 60’s style anti-establishment act of rebellion; but more likely than not, he simply dismantled them while in the process of fixing something else and, not seeing the need for seatbelts in the first place, didn’t take the time to put them back.
His speed in those days was governed only by the limitations of the Datsun, which fortunately were many—I’d hate to think how fast we could have gotten to daycare in a Porsche. In addition to mocking the speed limit, he frequently passed in the breakdown lane, and had a special knack for “straightening the curves.” (Not in the metaphorical way that the Dukes of Hazard sang of, but in a very real and lane crossing way like the Dukes boys actually drove.)
He had a respect for personal property, but government land was fair game, and this made our B210 one of the first off road sports utility vehicles in the neighborhood. No, he was not a heavy drinker, he was just a really great driver.
The automotive achievement which Chris found to be the straw that broke the camel’s back, related to a shortcut he had recently discovered. It seems that you can save between 3 to 5 seconds of driving time when turning from South Street to Newcastle Ave if, instead of using the road and taking the 90 degree turn that Mapquest recommends, you cut the corner (again not metaphorically), drive up onto the sidewalk, and pass between the 10 feet of otherwise useless space that exists between the Marconi’s house and the telephone pole. I myself found (and still find) the innovation of this “South Street Passage” to be amazing. Plus, I as mentioned, it’s a time saver. Chris found (and still finds) this innovation to be a sign of a chemical imbalance.
But those were the old days. He graduated from the Datsun to an Oldsmobile, still driving like a champ. In an event my therapist and I have discussed at length, he let me drive the Oldsmobile on a Vermont highway at the age of 10. Mind you, I was not sitting on his lap steering. I was driving. Sweet. Next he moved into a Subaru, which, like the Datsun, had a hole in the backseat floor-board so you could drop things onto the street, then turn around and see them roll away in the rear view mirror. This was awesome, and I hereby challenge any parent to offer their child the choice between a backseat DVD player and a hole in the car’s floor-board. (Let me know how that works out for you.)
The Subaru died of natural causes one afternoon and he upgraded to a Jetta. The Jetta was a great car, and the German engineering finally enabled him to achieve the speed he needed to get some really expensive tickets. He loved the Jetta and probably would have kept it forever, though he did complain that the Nazis had failed to create a single flat surface on the dash for which to place his coffee. When the Jetta could take no more of his abuse he moved on to a Saab. The Saab was nicknamed “the black Swede” and I don’t mind telling you that the Sweeds took more than a little abuse since every time something broke, it seemed to cost about $400. I swear he’s not a racist, he was just a really great driver.
However, in 2006 he decided that his real problem was not the Germans or with the Swedes, but rather it was with the Arabs. That is to say he got tired of going broke filling up his car with gas and bought a Prius. To play on a phrase from a close friend: this changed everything. As it turns out, my dad values saving money above aggressive driving. I’d say his priorities are ranked something like this:
1. The New England Patriots
2. Saving money
3. Really good coffee,
4. Aggressive driving
4. Everything else.
Anyone who has ever driven a Prius can tell you exactly what happened. For those of you who don’t own a Prius (and who, by the transitive property, hate the environment), I’ll explain: See, in the middle of the Prius dashboard, in what would be an excellent place for another cup holder, our friends at Toyota have placed a gas mileage meter. The meter gives you a down-to-the-second measure of the average number of miles per gallon you are achieving at any given moment. As you use more gas, your mpg goes down. Conversely, using less gas gives you the positive and immediate feedback you craved when you bought the Prius in the first place.
It took about a week for him to start watching the gas efficiency meter with all the single-minded focus of Captain Ahab. And as he did, he realized that slow acceleration, consistency of momentum, and speeds around 60 miles-per-hour resulted in the highest number of miles per tank. The highest number of miles per tank, of course, resulted in the lowest gas bills per month and the rest is history.
He no longer drops the pedal to get onto the highway, nor does he weave through rush hour traffic, nor even does he cross the double yellow line in the “suggested” no passing zone to zoom past an “old lady” on his way to the White Mountains. No, he slowly builds up to a reasonable speed and keeps it constant to the best of his ability. And what if he gets stuck behind a slowpoke? Well, that’s now become an opportunity for “drafting”. Christ.
So what? Has the old man who was once the model of driving by the laws of common sense, upon which the foundation for the 79mph philosophy was built, fallen from grace and joined the ranks of the sleepers? Well, not exactly. He gets credit for creating a new mindset around a higher priority. But more impressively, his work in the field of perpetual monitoring of miles per gallon had yielded an important piece of research for the rest of us.
You may or may not know that the stated “suggested” speed limit through a toll-booth is 10 miles-per-hour. Most people, myself included, take it at around 20. Through his persistent exploration in the discipline of momentum maintenance I can tell you for a fact that EZ pass will still pick up a signal at no less than 45 miles per hour. Yeah, he’s still got it.
