There are a lot of lights and sensors in our automobiles. Many we ignore. The "Check Engine" light, for instance, is a mysterious harbinger of who-knows-what. Its illumination can mean anything from low tire pressure to the breaking of the seventh seal and the arrival of the apocalypse. Yet there is one light that nobody ignores, or if they do, they do so at their own peril: the fuel gauge.
That's because the fuel gauge is one of the oldest forms of automobile connectivity, one that tells us when we might run out of gas. It's so important that it's been likened to a philosophical approach to life that offers short-term gain but long-term pain. Singer Jackson Browne wrote the hit song Running on Empty about it. It was a plot device on Seinfeld. On The Dealership episode, Kramer takes a car for a test drive and persuades the salesman to see how far they can go driving below empty. Some might say the fuel gauge is the "importantest" gauge of them all.
When that light goes on during a long trip, you take notice. No one wants to get stranded on a lonely highway, especially in winter. When the fuel gauge illuminates during city driving, it's less of an emergency and that makes it more of a danger. There are service stations around. It's a lot easier to procrastinate.
I fell victim to this complacency last week. The fuel gauge signalled my car was on empty while I was driving across town for an early-morning appointment. I decided to make my meeting and gas up later. When later finally arrived, I became distracted, as I am sometimes wont to do. There was another meeting to get to downtown and a few calls to make, and I neglected to gas up. I instinctively took the most direct route south on the Don Valley Parkway, forgetting that it was rush hour. That's when it got interesting.
Every city has its version of the Don Valley Parkway, a road so notoriously gridlocked that traffic crawls at the best of times and barely moves at the worst of times. These roads always have pleasant-sounding names. After all, what could go wrong on a parkway? They are cruelly ironic. Calling the static, unmoving horror that is the Don Valley a Parkway is like calling Alcatraz "Happy San Francisco Fun Island." People try to soften the pain by using the abbreviation DVP, which sounds like something you should be vaccinated against.
Anyway, the instant I got on the DVP I saw traffic backing up like a frat house toilet and a voice in my head screamed, "FUEL GAUGE!"
I looked warily. The needle was slammed on the red. I mean, it looked like that needle was doing something intimate to that red patch. Earlier, that needle and that red patch were just chatting over coffee. Now they were getting ready to pick out wedding china.
Could I really be on the verge of running out of gas on the DVP during rush hour? Was I going to be that guy? Me? The guy everyone hates? Then I remembered how unpredictable fuel gauges can be. I might have litres or might be driving on fumes. All I could do was think positive and try to conserve fuel. I kept the speed as constant as I could and coasted. Here, the DVP's pace was a help – but I worried the stopping and starting would burn up gas. It was time for extreme measures. I crossed both fingers as I gripped the steering wheel. Minutes passed like months.
I knew there was a gas station at the next exit, if I could just make it. The closer I got, the more the car felt like it was on its last few drops. I turned the radio off, as if that would somehow help. Then, miraculously traffic moved and I made my exit.
I've never been happier to see an Esso sign.
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Andrew Clark