It’s no surprise that gas is reaching record highs… and with the dollar in its current weakened condition, totals at the pump are putting everyone in a state of shock. I drive a Chevy Avalanche. It has a 5.3L V8, gets 16 MPG, and comes equipped with a 31 gallon tank. My most recent fill up cost $93.57 and required me to swipe my debit card twice because my bank will only authorize $74 per transaction. Sucks, don’t it?
Actually, no, it doesn’t. And let me explain to you why…
When I was ten years old, there were really only two kinds of cars that appealed to me: exotics, and anything else that could convert its rear tires into thick clouds of white smoke. That’s it. If it hauled ass or looked like it could take flight, it had my full approval — anything else was left to those boring, uninspired adults that refused to buy the cars that were so obviously the right choice in my young mind. Buicks and Oldsmobiles made absolutely no sense to me — it was as though everyone above the age of thirty caught a disease that made them refuse to have fun, and that is one perspective on life that I have never let fade with time…
Of course, at that time, I had no idea that sports cars were expensive. Or impractical. Or that getting tickets and going to jail for reckless driving was a real inconvenience. All I knew is that the right pedal means go, and that I had a hell of a lot more respect for those that were willing to plant it to the floor. So here I am… more than twenty years later, staring at the very real possibility of $4 per gallon gas in the next six months. It makes me smile, because while it doesn’t make me flinch, others will raise their hands in defeat. They’ll concede to the pressures of practicality and fuel efficieny, tear down the posters hung in the walls of their boyhood dreams, and buy some dainty little econo-wagon that sips fuel through a stir stick. They’ll reject the noise and excess of large displacement V8’s as somehow barbaric and uncivilized… and, in the process, flood the market with exactly the cars I want. At prices that makes gas prices completely irrelevant.
Let’s do a little math, shall we? My truck has decreased in value roughly $2,000 over the last eight months, largely due to gas prices. Let’s say that $2 per gallon is the point at which most people would question holding on to their bonerific beast of a pickup truck. If I were in the market to buy my truck, the savings associated with depreciation would cover 1,000 gallons of gas — or roughly 16,000 miles of driving — before $4 per gallon gas even comes into play. But my analogy is flawed… gas hasn’t risen $2 in eight months, and my truck is over four years old… it’s got 80,000 miles on the clock and enough sand under the seats to make a hermit crab feel right at home. What about the poor schmuck with a low-mileage Mustang GT that’s ready to pack up his balls and buy a Corolla? Depreciation is gunna be a bitch for that asshole, and that, my friends, means guys like me can afford a lot more $4 liquid dinosaurs…
I don’t even care about the fact that my truck is expensive to fill. Big deal. It carries surfboards and bikes, seats five, is a comfortable highway cruiser, and encourages me to ignore speed bumps. For the money, nothing else beats it short of a minivan, and I will NEVER own a minivan. Oh yeah? Never? You might think twice about that when you’re married and planning on — NO. NOT THEN, NOT EVER. Junior can ride shotgun in the ‘Vette. He’ll never be late for school, and he’ll be the only kid in his Kindergarten class that can describe what a twelve-second quarter mile feels like. He’ll know what a five-point harness is, have his own cute little crash helmet, and learn how to talk shit early in life when he sees his friends roll up to school in a fucking Honda Odyssey. Mmmm. I gunna kick ass at being a daddy…
The only thing that remotely bothers me is the perception that some people have of aging men driving flashy cars. Let’s face it — I’m not far from 40 years old, and my ride is likely to be viewed as a desperate attempt to impress women possessing more boobs than brains. Most of the time, the impression is valid… but there’s a simple way of telling men who love cars from men who want to be seen: a man that only recently became able to make the payments won’t look around at a stoplight. He’ll stare straight ahead, too busy anticipating a green light to notice your attention. It’s the car he wished he could afford when he was 25, and although he’s older now… more responsible… he’s still willing — if provoked — to disappear in a furious display of acceleration…
When I was 25, the best I could manage to finance was a used Camaro SS. It was jet black with silver stripes hugging either side of its scooped hood. It had polished chrome wheels, T-tops, and an exhaust note that could set off car alarms. It was the kind of car that made kids on bicycles say “Wow!!” as they watched it roll by, mouths open in astonishment. For two shining years of my life I wreaked havoc on the citizens of Austin, hanging the tail out through every corner and taking on anyone stupid enough to glance sidewise at me at a stoplight. The dream ended abruptly one night as throttle-induced oversteer and a weak clutch led me to test the durability of some steel-reinforced concrete. The concrete proved to be remarkably Camaro-proof, and one week later, I bought the truck I have today…
I like my truck, but it’s no sports car. It’s almost paid off, which means that a second chapter of horsepower-induced glee is right around the corner. Will it end in another Camaro incident? Only time will tell… but I do know know one thing: 400+ HP is in my future… balding head and gas prices be damned.
More to come…
— Bingo