Can 60 Get Me Over the Hill?

Ugh! Gas prices are killing me! I'm not lying, they are really going to kill me one of these days when I pull up to the gas pump and have a heart attack as the counter hits some ungodly number. My drive to and from a city 35 miles south of the valley did not used to render such hatred until this year. The 70 mile round trip was always shared by at least one other person up until this year when all of my carpool friends have gone to bigger and better things.

Besides the fact that I am forced to go to the pump every 5 days to fill up, the actual drive has seemed to be getting longer. Don't get me wrong, I love being by myself in my car tootling around town or on long car rides. I've got my new best friend, books on CD, as well as my back up friend, NPR. We could get lost for hours on deserted desert roads. Now our romance has a third wheel, making the drive more uncomfortable.

This intruder is my mileage counter, or as I like to call it, my money counter. Every mile dollar signs flash before me. It's disgusting to visualize. I try to focus my attention on the road, but will occasionally look down at my gas gauge with resistance. I can't believe a needle that was once pointing to a half a tank minutes ago has crept to a quarter of a tank. How could that be???

I've read all the myths about how to get the best mileage gas, however, they are just that, myths. Buying gas in the morning is really no different than buying it in the afternoon, besides the fact that I don't have to stand in 110 degree heat. Or the fact that Chevron has much better gas than Shell, it's all the same at the rate I blow through it. I have, however, been driving 67, instead of 75ish. This just makes me feel better, but I'm quite certain I'm going to get mauled by a big Chevy truck.

Gas station attendants that previously knew me from my candy addiction, now see my car pull up to pump #3 and shake their heads in the same manner. Gas addicts, candy addicts, we've been lumped in the same category...greedy SOBs.

This is why one late Friday night I was face-to-face with my problem of gas. I actually went out with some work friends in my city of employment. I wasn't used to doing this and the dinner we had didn't come until late in the evening. When I got into my car around 11 pm, I was tired. I turned my car on and saw the needle just a tiny bit above the red line. The closest gas station from the restaurant would cause me to cross over the interstate and pay almost ten cents more. I decided that I've driven on a low tank of gas before and this will be one of those times I can fill up at the station by my house as soon as I get home.

My decision of course was accompanied by little twinges of regret. I wondered if I should have pulled off at the last exit. This is the point of no return, since an Indian reservation separates the two cities from each other and there is only desolate highway on this journey. I decided, no, I would keep going, and I would be alright.

My next course of action was to take the speed down even further than my already grandma pace. 60 seemed like a decent number and I stayed at it. I also decided to turn off the AC. That was painful all in itself. Only in AZ does one still sweat after 11...yes, it's that hot! I was getting to the first exits into the valley and my gas light would have been blowing whistles and bullhorns to tell me to get some gas. I knew that there was a station right off the interstate with decent prices and I was going to pull in there.

Approximately 1/3 of a mile from this gas station, my car shut down. Oh, yes, I had run out of gas on a very busy interstate in Phoenix. I had no one to blame but my sorry self. The humiliating phone call to my almost asleep husband was too much to handle, but he is a good man and came with some gas to fill my tank up a little bit. I laughed as he approached and said I was baffled as to how this could have happened. He looked at me very doubtfully and said nothing. The cold shoulder was enough to know that this wasn't funny, so I shut my mouth.

I don't want to do that again, but I also still loathe filling up my car with gas. I think I'm going to find out where Maria Vazquez's Mexican Catering van loads and hitch a ride. She does the same route I do and I would get to eat tomales!