Traffic backup fuels panic
You don’t see cars broken down on the side of the road like you used to. When I was a kid, it was common to see whole families of hapless souls sitting in the grass, waiting, while the dad had his head buried under the hood.
Cars are better now, and cellphones bring help more quickly. I’m thinking of this because of the man my daughter and I saw changing a tire by the side of a ramp to I-79 yesterday.
“Poor guy,” she said. He was in a shirt and tie, rolling a tire to the front of the car. “Does he really think he’s going to change that?”
We didn’t know it then, but we ourselves were about to spend the next half hour of our lives trying to avoid being stuck on the side of the road.
You know how your father always told you never to let the gas gauge drop below a quarter-tank? I hadn’t followed that advice – not since 2004, when I got a Dodge Durango, a big, obnoxious SUV that slurped up gas like a Shop-Vac. It had a feature that showed exactly how many miles I had left, so I was reminded never to run out. But now, I drive a car that doesn’t baby-sit that way.
We set out yesterday with about an eighth of a tank. We planned to run some errands and stop along the way to fill up.
Things didn’t go like that, of course, or I wouldn’t be writing about it. We merged onto I-79 and right into an epic traffic jam. For as far was we could see in front of and behind us, there were two long snakes of cars, sometimes oozing forward but mostly just sitting there. We sat at the merge point for five minutes.
Once in the line, it took us 20 minutes to go a half mile. Road crews set up orange cones to close off the right lane. If there were road workers, we didn’t see them.
I was too busy watching the gas meter sliding into the red. As Grace sat next to me, biting her nails, I tried to remember all I ever read about gas consumption.
First, turn off the AC – that eats gas. Does the XM radio eat gas? Off it goes. Should I put it in second gear?
“We are so doomed,” said Grace.
After 35 minutes in the traffic line, the needle was bouncing at the bottom. I thought about what might happen to the 10,000 cars behind me if I were to run out of gas in this line. Would they blow through the orange cones and go around us, flipping obscene gestures as they passed? Would the jam-up extend to Erie and land me on the evening news?
“How will you know when we’re at the very end of the gas?” Grace asked. I couldn’t answer; I don’t think I’ve ever run out of gas. Really, with a convenience store or station on every corner, there’s no excuse.
After 45 minutes, we were starting to move. Not quickly, but enough that I could see some of the road signs. We were still three miles from the next exit. I thought I felt the engine sputter.
“Lean forward!” I said to Grace.
“What?”
“Scoot forward in your seat and lean up,” I said.
Worth a try. Maybe a shift in weight would help move the car along.
Grace rolled her eyes and leaned forward.
And so, it was like that, with our noses practically touching the windshield and our palms sweaty, that we limped off the highway and onto the exit.
“Turn right,” Grace said. “There’s a gas station right over there. “
“You’d better be right,” I said. She was. Thanks goodness, she was.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.