Gleeful Guilty Hummer Hypocrite
The Hummer is going the way of the woolly mammoth and the pterodactyl. The news of the Hummer’s demise has been greeted with the same universal sense of regret as the sudden death of a rabid otter. Even the Chinese don’t want it now. And when the Chinese can’t make money on it, you know it’s toast.
The mindset of Hummer drivers has always been a mystery to me. (On a par with “Why did God create lobbyists?”) What message were the Hummeristas trying to convey? I’ve decided it’s some combination of:
- I have enough loot to burn as much gas I want, you little enviro-nerd, so breathe THIS!
- I’m a Type A person, and here’s some Type A-Ness (say it fast).
- If you even try to slow down in front of me, I’ll drive right over your crummy little piece of scrap metal.
- If we crash, you’re gonna feel like Tokyo after Godzilla.
- Look at me! I’m driving a vehicle named for a sex act!
I always felt like Hummer drivers were flipping the bird to the rest of us, without having to actually go to all the trouble of lowering the tinted glass and raising their jewel-encrusted arms. When you want flip off the whole world, it’s just easier to do it in a car that screams “Screw You.” If I ever meet the Governator, I’ll ask him what the heck he was thinking.
So I’m delighted about the Hummer’s downfall. But at the same time, feeling tinged with guilt and hypocrisy, because….
I bought a car this week. For decades I’ve been driving small, reasonable, practical vehicles mostly named Honda and Toyota. But before that, in my testosterone years, I was an exotic car lover. I drove two MG’s in succession, later a Malibu convertible, a BMW, and even a Peugeot Diesel. (Consumer tip: do NOT buy a Peugeot Diesel. Not only is it hard to spell, but the French make cars about as well as I make good decisions at the candy counter.)
Back then I always wanted to drive something unusual. Plus, I liked cars that went fast and cornered well. Cars that were fun. Cars that released my inner James Bond.
But the downside to cars like that is a quaint social custom called the speed limit. Constantly breaking it becomes costly. I paid more money in speeding fines and insurance premiums than I paid to the IRS. On top of that, after the Gas Wars of the ’70s I got environmentally conscious. (Crazy me. I thought everybody would. But then Reagan got elected and said not to.)
So last week my economical Japanese model finally wore out after 10 good years. I thought about getting a Prius. but didn’t really want to kill a bunch of people with a sticky accelerator. I considered a 40 mpg VW turbo-diesel, but couldn’t get myself to pull the trigger on a fat new car payment.
Then I saw it. There, on the internet, unbelievably, a 5 year old Subaru WRX with only 8,000 miles. Half the payment of a new car. And a WRX is fast! Turbocharged. Corners like a dream. Innocent looking. Sort of a sports car in disguise.
(Why only 8,000 miles? Evidently a wealthy Italian exchange student bought it, drove it a few months, went home to Italy for vacation and never came back. This is a good story, but I have this nagging fear that any day now some swarthy mafia type will turn up with a large knife, demanding the cocaine in the spare tire…)
So I bought it. And after three days, well, let’s just say I would safely bet my greatly diminshed 401k that I’ll be on a first name basis with the local constabulary. Very soon. It’s really fast.
But the thing is, gasoline goes through it like funnel cakes at a county fair.
So I’m wondering: if I use my bicycle for short trips, will Al Gore and the carbon gods forgive me?
© 2010 Greg Tamblyn
