Announced by the sharp crack of a backfiring engine, the caravan of old Pontiacs and Fords wended their way off the highway and into the gas station-restaurant, arriving, it seemed, from another time.
Announced by the sharp crack of a backfiring engine, the caravan of old Pontiacs and Fords wended their way off the highway and into the gas station-restaurant, arriving, it seemed, from another time.
On a blustery May day, Carl and Frances Barrier's 8-cylinder Pontiac Deluxe, vintage 1940, needed this stop in the Kansas plains to fill up on 87-octane, $2.75 a gallon. In its day, the Pontiac never saw such numbers.
"This was the car we dated in," said Frances, 71, meaning the type of car not the actual vehicle.
The Barriers were on their way to Pioneer Village, an outdoor museum in Minden, Neb., housing early cars, tractors and airplanes. In its prime, their Pontiac traveled 15 miles on a gallon of gas, but now manages only 10.
Still, even though frequent fillings are necessary and gas prices are up enough to rile talk-show hosts, politicians and lots of others, the Barriers aren't reluctant to take out their old car.
"We don't even think about it," said Carl, 72, a retired manager with Raytheon aircraft, as he finished his $50 fill-up. "You talk about the $3 gas. But I went to work for a service station in 1946. Gas was 20 cents a gallon. I made $2 a day... When I retired I made over $200 a day." Taking that long view, he said, gas is still affordable.
And that kind of relatively unfazed attitude was not unusual among drivers encountered by an Associated Press writer on a drive along interstates and backroads from the motor city of Detroit to the freeway tangle of Los Angeles.
Along the circuitous, 2,900-mile journey, regular gasoline ranged from $2.60 to $3.49, with one station, a remote Mojave Desert outpost, charging $4.29 a gallon.
The cost was high enough for most to take notice and for some to make adjustments -- like trucker Kris Jacobs, hauling cheese from Wisconsin to New York City, who noted at a truck stop in Indiana that he has had to add a fuel surcharge. But fuel costs are not high enough -- yet -- to deeply change habits and plans.
After the initial shock and anger passes, it seems, we adjust to the new price. We grumble, we give lip service to alternative fuels, we think about hybrid vehicles.
Then on we drive.
A trip across America suggests the spike in gas prices caused a psychological tremor. Most of those interviewed doubted gas will ever go below $2 a gallon again. And if it went up another dollar or more...?
"Four dollars would represent a psychological panic attack," said Lisa Lanyon, 40, a college instructor, as she paid about $30 to fill up her 1995 Chevy Cavalier in Denver.
Ordinary folks on a budget adjust in many small ways. Las Vegas casino employee Andrea Johnson consolidates errands, walks when she can, and shops around for the cheapest gas in town. (Costco, for her.)
Polls have found drivers are more conscious of their gas consumption, that they are suspicious of the oil companies, that they hold President Bush responsible for the run-up. Members of Congress proposed giving taxpayers a $100 gas rebate. Hotels and resorts are offering guests gas vouchers.
But for the most part, as the summer driving season commences, Americans appear to be keeping to their plans, commuting alone many miles to work, trekking the country in motor homes, all in the face of rising gas prices.
The heart of America, it seems, still resides on four wheels on an open road.
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The trip started in Detroit, where gas could easily be had for $2.75 a gallon.
Penny Kabala's 1992 Dodge Spirit was stolen while she was at a doctor's appointment, and now when she begs rides from friends, she knows she'll have to chip in for gas. "No one wants to let you ride for free," she says.
For her new vehicle, Kabala has her sights set on a minivan, even if it's not the most efficient. "I have children and nephews. I want to use the van to go on outings as a family."
She works for Kowalski meat company of Hamtramck, a traditional home of auto plants that have now moved manufacturing operations elsewhere. Kowalski is feeling the gas price hike in a number of ways. Suppliers have started assessing fees to cover the cost of fuel, and Kowalski's manager responsible for company cars has been discussing hybrids vehicles.
At nearby Murray's Discount Auto Store -- where sales manager Jerry Fleer feels "kind of stuck" with his 1991 Oldsmobile Bravada SUV because he can't afford to trade right now -- there's a novel alternative to a high-cost cars: electric-powered scooters. And yet, regardless of higher gas prices, the store has not sold one since Christmas.
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Shouldn't the fuel industry have developed a mainstream alternative to gas by now? That's the question of Tim Vargo, 45 -- not a petroleum engineer but a guitarist and songwriter who plays in bands in northwest Ohio and has started adding a fuel surcharge to his fee.
He has two trucks, including a 1998 GMC 3/4-ton pickup he uses to tow a trailer that carries lighting, PA system, instruments and stage equipment.
"If it means getting the gig or not ... you do what you can," Vargo says. "When you charge a surcharge you're being honest with the customer."
In the farming country of Crawfordsville, Iowa, three partners have heard the call for fuel alternatives.
Their biodiesel plant is rising on the site of a former farm. Corn and soybeans are Iowa's two biggest crops. Both can also be turned into fuel -- corn into ethanol, soybeans into biodiesel. Biodiesel consumption has increased from 2 million gallons in 2000 to 75 million in 2005. Rising oil prices present an opportunity for farmers.
The company was started by Donald Miksch and brothers Neil and Darin Rich (the company name, Riksch Biofuels, combines their surnames). The plant, to be completed in July at a cost of $8 million, will produce 10 million gallons of soy-based diesel fuel per year.
The plant will also provide a new revenue stream for farmers, creating more businesses in town and giving locals a reason to stay.
"This is the only way to build our town back," said Miksch, who is 27 and married. "I was one of those kids who left. I chose to come back here. I want to raise my kids here."
He drives two vehicles, a Ford F-150 pickup and a Jeep Liberty diesel.
"As soon as I can start using biodiesel, I will," he said.
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From the farms of the Midwest, where fuel is about the bottom line, drive into the West, where the vast spaces beckon, and where fuel is associated with the freedom to explore.
Consider the Wilkersons and the Ligtermoets and their travel trailers.
The idea of buying the trailer and truck to tow it was to save on hotels, for Shelly and Andy Wilkerson. They live in Las Vegas and like to take weekend trips into the Utah mountains with their daughter, two mutts, and their all-terrain vehicles.
Getaways can no longer be spontaneous. The Wilkersons -- Andy is in construction; Shelly is a stay-at-home mom -- have to plan, budget and save for the trips. After Memorial Day weekend they don't have any outings planned.
"We bought the trailer, and then gas prices went through the roof," said Shelly, 29. "Had we known gas would be so expensive ... I don't know."
The Ligtermoets are one month into retirement, which they decided -- long before gas prices breached $2 -- would be spent traveling the country. By the time they sold their home in San Diego and bought their 35-foot motorhome, the price of gas had doubled to more than $3 per gallon.
"You can't be happy about it," said Marinus Ligtermoet, 60, sitting in the 90-degree shade of a tree in the Zions Gate RV Resort near Utah's Zion National Park. "But you figure, hey, it's home."
He and his wife, Ans, left San Diego in early May. The next six months look like this: Utah; Boise, Idaho; Bend, Ore.; then to Spokane, Wash., for three weeks where they will watch the World Cup. Then up to British Columbia. They will drive up the Alaska Highway, then south to Seattle. After a cruise, they will meander down the Pacific coast. They are due back in San Diego to spend the holidays with their grandkids.
The couple's trailer has satellite television, an Internet connection, a washing machine and dryer, king-size, pillow-top bed, all pulled by a 2004, Ford F-350, one-ton, diesel pickup. Living entirely on Marinus' Navy pension, life on the road is still cheaper than the alternative: about $1,500 a month, give or take.
"Let's put it this way, I don't lose any sleep over it," he said.
Farther west lies the delirious accident of speculative money, imported water, and unfettered indulgence called Las Vegas.
Making the fantasy happen here are people like Ana Flores, one of nearly 10,000 employees of the MGM Grand hotel and casino.
Flores, 22, has plans -- and she carefully figures gas prices into them.
She's a nursing student at the Las Vegas campus of the online University of Phoenix and works in a casino gift shop. She earns about $10 an hour, and spends about $20 every week on gas for her 2003 Mitsubishi Lancer. Every dollar matters in her budget.
She's hoping to save enough within the year to buy a one-bedroom condominium. Billboards everywhere advertise low down payments and mortgages for as little as $800 a month. Flores is hoping $3,000 and her good credit will be enough to get her started in home ownership.
Chasing that American dream, she hopes the erosion of another -- cheap gas and freedom on four wheels -- won't betray her. She's confident things will work out.
Not so Bob Silverman, a Las Vegas cabdriver for 28 years.
He goes through about 20 gallons of gas a day. He keeps 40 percent of his fares, but the responsibility of buying gas is his. And it's up to $3.16 a gallon this day.
"It's killing me," he said. "This is going to cause a recession."
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"Gas Food 24."
This is one of those few places on the road where the price of gas has little meaning.
In the middle of the Mojave Desert, if you lacked the foresight to fill up in Las Vegas to the east or Barstow, Calif., to the west, you'll pay what's asked at the white, peaked roof building off Interstate 15 -- on a recent stop, $4.29 a gallon for regular.
Allen Young, 47, has run the service station for more than 20 years and says his price reflects supply and demand in the desert and the additional overhead involved with operating such an isolated business. He and his employees live in six adjoining mobile homes. There is no town to commute from.
Most customers pay the markup agreeably, buying just enough to get to the next stop. Without cash, some have been desperate enough to trade Rolex watches and Gibson guitars for gas. Occasionally a customer accuses Young of highway robbery.
The station sells about 30,000 gallons a month, as much as a busy station closer to civilization can sell on one weekend day. But their profit margin might be 25 cents a gallon, while Young makes about 40 cents.
"I don't pull any punches about it," he said.
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In few places does the car occupy the position it does at the end of the journey, in Los Angeles.
Absolute necessity. Ultimate expression of identity -- and vanity.
As much as anywhere in America, you are what you drive here.
To become the boss, you drive what the boss drives. Better to have a lousy apartment and a cool car than the other way around. Even if you have an old car, you spend the money on "dubs," local slang for fancy wheels. Sometimes dubs are worth more than the vehicle itself.
Few consider carpooling, and the relatively new L.A. subway has an unspectacular, if steady, ridership.
Yes, polls have shown that interest in buying smaller cars has risen with gas prices, but sales of certain lines of SUVs -- Hummers, Lexus, and Land Rovers -- are as strong as ever.
At a Land Rover dealership in Beverly Hills, saleswoman Dawn Marone said a certain vehicular snobbery explained why there are so few minivan "mom-mobiles" at a local park.
"Everyone's in an SUV. And it's, 'Whose SUV is better than the other SUV?' Everybody's got to have the best one they can afford regardless of gas," said Marone, herself a mom and SUV driver.
"Gas prices are totally hurting me," she added. "But I will never not have (an SUV)."
And that car will shine. Business at the popular Red Carpet car wash in tony Manhattan Beach was brisk on a recent day, as Richard Whitford, fleet manager for a communications company, waited.
"People complain about paying $3 for gas, but they'll pay $3 for a bottle of water," Whitford said, making a common comparison to another California indulgence. "They don't even think about that."
At the end of the road, it's clear LA is hardly alone in its complex attitudes about wheels and the fuel that makes them turn; it may just be a caricature of a broader American self-portrait.
Back up the road in Kansas, talk of gas prices led Frances Barrier to question the material excess most of us, even she, takes for granted. To complain about the price of gas, in her estimation, seems trivial.
Besides the two antique cars that she and her husband drive, they own a pickup and other vehicles.
"My dad had one," she said.
Indeed, she added, back in the 1930s, when her large family either raised or grew all their food, the death of the old family truck prompted her father to separate the cab from the bed and make a wagon -- pulled by horses.
No worries about gas prices then.
Source: Associated Press
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