My first car was a thing of goddamn-beauty. A 1984 Volvo GT, black. Rust holes in all the right places. Named her Jon Benet as, in my teenager years, I was a bit of a douchebag, and found the name too perfectly offensive to pass up. I still chuckle at the idea so maybe I haven’t changed as much as I’d like to think.
Growing up in Kansas City, your car is your life. The city spreads itself across suburb, exurb and farmland, highways tangled amongst the ranch houses and section 8 projects like vines growing outward to sunlight. In Kansas City, even the roads wanted out. Being without a car made you useless: a crippled dependent. The mass transportation system was a humbling experience of every hour departures, numeric puzzles and poorly considered routes that never changed as the city grew wider. Worse, only the Missouri side had a system to speak of. If you were Kansas bound, you had better luck hailing a tractor. I hear it’s gotten better. I can’t imagine it could have gotten worse.
Your sixteenth birthday was a rebirth of sorts. The aged and outstretch land lay before you like a new frontier. Your evenings got later, and your list of friends got longer.
When I moved to DC in 2003, shocked to discover a transportation system designed around the actual necessity of transport, I did some quick math and realized that having a car no longer made much sense. I abused my privilege as a teen, and god love them, the insurance companies took noticed and classified me as “high risk” driver who needed “special rates.”
Living without a car, after a life time of near worship, is both humbling and liberating. Some things become easier. Getting drunk for instance. Some get harder, like buying food. In the long run, you just learn to live in a fundamentally different way. Things become bite-sized. You don’t shop for a week, you shop for tomorrow. Big purchases become complicated ballets of favors, begging and scheduling. Meeting up with friends takes twice as long, and your day seems to get shorter by half. It’s a more relaxed, cardiac lifestyle in general, but their are definite oh-fuck-the-train-is-late moments that creep into your life and can not be worked around.
As I’ve watched gas prices rise over the last few years, a part of me feels a bit smug. Aha! You evil, profit-driven cartels! I’ve escaped your grasp. You can’t bleed me anymore. And as the global warming movement has swept the nation, I’ve gotten slightly smugger, knowing how little I’m contributing to the overall decay of the third rock. Bastard hippie, driving your Volkswagen! You’re no better than the double-popped collar douche in the hummer.
Then I started traveling. And I mean serious traveling. Between two and three times a month, I sit on a massive, fuel-inefficient jet and cart myself between cities. I remember when I thought I was doing alright by traveling twice a year. Now, if a month goes by without ingesting the stale and flavorless food at the SFO airport, I feel slightly anti-social. It doesn’t help that my very special lady friend lives on the opposite coast, or that she’s introduced me to the wonderful world of international vacations.
All of my wonderful better-than-thou feelings have disappeared into a righteous anger at the same bullshit every one else is dealing with. Gas prices are far too high. Our national transportation systems are over taxed, and our airlines sadly stale and lacking any real innovation. I’m just as fucked as everyone else.
Like most folks, I wish there was a silver bullet. There isn’t. Hell, the economics nerd in me wants fuel prices to rise even higher, as he knows that alone will spur the type of true innovations necessary to help reinvent our lacking infrastructure. He wants to see airlines fail, and highways clog. The “I’d like to eat and see my girlfriend this week” guy usually wants to punch the economics nerd and steal his wallet.
But so it goes. Crisis precipitates change. And it’s slow, and it’s awful, and in between the then and now a lot of people like me have to make sacrifices to get through it. And other folks will have to make actual, real sacrifices, the types of which I wouldn’t wish on any family anywhere.
Why more money wasn’t invested in trainable, mountable mutant pigeons remains a mystery.