Right Lane Loser

If wishes were low gas prices, beggars would drive. There was a time when gas for $2.79 a gallon would make a man cry, but now it’s cause for high fives. I, for one, refuse to sit around yearning for the days when two bits bought me enough petrol to fill the Packard for a ride to the barn dance and a fountain soda with my best girl. So I’ve decided to take action. I’ve become a hypermiler.

Hypermiling is the art of gas conservation, something I’d only previously practiced in delicate social situations. Older folks remember it as gas rationing during the War, and you drivers from the ‘70’s didn’t do much rationing because you were too busy blaming Henry Kissinger for your troubles as you slept in line for gas in your huge family station wagons with bench seating and optional lap belts. But as gas prices shoot up faster than Tina Fey’s approval ratings, hypermiling is all the rage, with plenty of techniques to choose from.

Strategies range from the logical (drive the speed limit, use cruise control) to the practical (avoid drive-thru windows, combine errands), and the innovative (eschew left turns and fast music) to the downright dangerous (draft behind bigger vehicles, drive barefoot, and never come to a complete stop until you arrive). Hypermilers remove extra weight from their cars, always look for pass-through parking spots and never idle - a hypermiler idling his car is like a pastry chef whipping up a batch of Yodels. Some extreme followers practice “ridge riding.” Driving in the right lane, you aim your right tires at the big white line separating the road from the shoulder, reducing friction under your wheels.

Times are tight, and every dollar matters. I clean out my 2003 Honda Accord of extraneous things. I fill the gas tank and do the quick math. I’ve been getting around 30 miles per gallon pre-hypermiling – not bad, but I’ve heard that some hypermilers increase their MPG by 50%. If that’s the case, I won’t need a refill until spring training.

Day One is here, and I drive in the right lane, going the speed limit and watching a parade of cars fly past. I’m going so slowly that I feel like I should be heading to the Cat n’ Fiddle for a 3:45 dinner seating of chicken cordon bleu, ambrosia salad and a nice glass of sherry for dessert. I really need to get to work, but I won’t give in. I continue on, flirting with ridge riding and making sure to back into my parking spot when I arrive. I’m a good ten minutes behind schedule as I double-time it to my desk.

Day Two starts just as Day One ended – creeping along alone in the right lane as everyone else drives like their hair’s on fire to my left. I avoid fast music – only non-confrontational talk radio and a Kingston Trio – Cowsills mix tape that really is a hoot. Spending so much time over here makes me feel like I’m stuck watching the cool kids arm wrestle each other while my mathlete pals and I trade graphing calculator tips. I’m turning into a Right Lane Loser. But I won’t stop, even though I realize hypermiling means chronic tardiness. I’m fifteen minutes late for work, and arriving home at night, my family’s started dinner without me. “Late and Hungry” – the hypermiler’s credo.

Day Three begins badly. On my way to the gym, I forget to time the stop light and sit idling for almost a minute. I leave the car on to run a few items into the post office and realize as I back into my driveway I forgot to combine errands! Back out I go, take three left turns and even have the audacity to turn on the car’s heat. I’m a failure, and I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.

As penance, I drive to and from work shoeless, a sockless foot giving me a real feel for the gas pedal - a barefooted supplicant to the Gods of Refined Oil, my sins forgiven with every speed limit-adhering mile I go. I also try drafting behind an 18-wheeler until the driver makes it clear he is not amused. Hypermiling is hard; it takes lots of patience and concentration, two things I’m finding in short supply.

I need some advice so I turn to Hugo Martel, local hypermiling legend. Hugo, (his name changed to protect him from hypermiling profiling) starting hypermiling before it had a name. “I was sick of giving my money to Exxon,” Hugo tells me, “so I just figured out how to use less gas.” Hugo is a proponent of EOC – Engine Off Coasting, something that can only be done with a manual transmission and intestinal fortitude. Hugo seeks out east-west routes because, “Those are the ones with the hills.” He speaks of a two-mile coast outside Boscawen in hushed tones and describes a four-mile coast on Route 9 just over the Vermont border like a renegade flower hunter describing a rare ghost orchid. Hugo turns the car off completely and lets gravity do the work. His advice? “You need to be vigilant. You can’t afford to get distracted. You need to pay very close attention to everything to do this right and not get rammed from behind.”

I know what he means. Day Four arrives, and I lose my concentration, finding myself in the cash lane at the toll booth. The woman in front of me must be trying to convert drachmas to dollars because it’s taking forever. I’m stuck behind the one commuter without EZ Pass! What year is this? Was she too distracted by the Falcon Crest marathon last night to get her exact change in order? Hurry up! I’m wasting gas, and all the ridge riding and drafting I can muster won’t make up for that idling at the toll plaza. And, of course, I’m late for work – again.

Day Five comes and goes with strict recognition of the rules- a day dominated by no sudden stops, no idling and a calm, steady pace with my right tires on the white line for frictionless driving. My gas tank hovers at the midpoint, which is good because tomorrow is every hypermiler’s dream - a road trip. I’m heading to New York City for the weekend, determined to wring every drop of gas from my tank before filling up.
Day Six arrives, and I deploy every technique I know – tire overinflation, windows up, heat off, cruise control and public radio on, drafting, ridge riding and staying at or below the speed limit, not an easy thing on a Concord to Manhattan road trip. A quick note – slow, early morning driving on empty highways while listening to the BBC World Service is akin to taking a fistful of Lunesta with a warm glass of milk. But the voice of Hugo Martel keeps me awake and alert, exhorting me to press onward.

By the time I’m south of Hartford, I’ve gone 460 miles on the same tank when the gas light finally comes on, more than 100 miles than usual. I should have at least four gallons remaining at this point, so I continue. The odometer reads 470, 480, 490, 500 miles! I’m determined to see how far I can go before spending another dollar on gas. But as the odometer reads 520, I start doubting my middle school math word problem skills and panic that I’ve miscalculated. I’ve never gone more than 450 miles without filling up, and I’m well past that now. I can’t wait any longer and find an exit and fill up the tank. It’s bittersweet realizing I still have more than three gallons to go before I would have run dry. I could have made it all the way to New York. True, I would have run out directly on the Cross Bronx Expressway, but I would have done so with pride, the epitome story of hypermiling courage and persistence.

Before I pull back onto the highway, I figure I’ve increased my MPG from 30 to 37, a 23% increase. Not bad for a neophyte hypermiler with a lead foot. And as I head south on the interstate, I smile as I ease into the left lane, hit the gas pedal and crank the tunes. I wave to the right lane losers as I speed towards the big city, trying to make up for lost time.