Fun Fact: Yes, you can hypermile an Xterra

I knew I was hypermiling the second I slipped behind a Prius and closed the gap.

I don’t hypermile.

Ever.

Except that day.

Laziness wrapped around my neck like a sleepy, flannel noose and I scoffed at stopping at one of two Providence gas stations on my way home – to Connecticut. Pffft, I said audibly to myself. I had plenty of go-juice to get home.

I thought.

Then, as soon as I got on the 6/10 outbound, the gas light glowed brighter than the setting sun, exploding in my cataract-dulled eyes.

Well, shit.

But I had AAA. Wait, nope. I let it lapse. No AAA.

Where were all the 18-wheelers? None. Zero. This highway’s usually packed with them. But not that day. I magnetized to a cargo van, but that peeled off quick onto a Cranston exit, which up until a year ago would have had me home already.

The day I became a hypermiler in my 2002 Xterra.

Then I spotted the Prius, up ahead, going a little faster than everyone else, ironically, like they usually do. Problem was I had to accelerate to catch up to him. The eggshell betwixt my shoe and the accelerator starting cracking a little, like the ice that you know is holding you up, loosely, dangling you over the icy abyss of hypothermia.

Caught a little downhill and tractor-beamed into the slipstream of the coal burner. I felt a little like the truck driver in Duel for a bit here, with my giant steel winch bumper bearing down on the organic tinfoil of the Prius. But I had to squeeze closer to get the aero benefit, which probably wasn’t likely anyway, since the Prius probably pushed all of its patchouli-laced air right up into the flattest part of my rig, smashing into it, like suddenly sticking a hand out the window of a 747 at 30,000 feet.

Did I mention it was July and approximately 1,000 degrees? No AC in my first-gen Xterra. That broke about 30 seconds after I bought the truck five years ago.

Behind a Prius. One thousand degrees. Windows rolled up. Six-cylinder heat blowing through the firewall as if there were no ‘wall’ at all.

Lookin' for some hi-test. Photo by Camila Quintero Franco.

The next several exits had gas stations, eventually, but all required the agonizing wait of several traffic lights in the sprawl of the rush-hour maelstrom. Traffic lights meant texters behind the wheel. Extra cycles between greens. More fuel being burned by my hyper inefficient V6.

No. Stay the course. Thousand points o’ light. There’s a gas station right off the highway in Coventry by golly, about halfway home. I can make it. I can follow Sierra and her Coexist bumper sticker for a little while longer.

I can do this.

Traffic eased up a skosh. The Prius started pulling away, so much so I had to let’er go.

I was alone. No wind blocker. No slipstream savior.

The gas light seemed to glow brighter, to throb even, pulsating like it was going to shatter the glass of the cluster and spurt all that was left of the fumes in the tank into the cabin as a final stamp of ‘I told you so’.

I eased up on the eggshell and got into, like a shamed puppy with an untrained bladder, the slow lane. Can you imagine? A rally driver in the slow lane. Might as well start re-webbing the lawn chair and pick out some black socks to go with my sandals.

My fuel exit was getting closer and the needle was dropping lower. Now it dipped below E. Almost below the actual letter. All cars have some sort of reserve in this area, but not my Sally. She consumes fuel just sitting in the driveway. On a good day, downhill with a tailwind, I get 2.7 mpg. It’s really about 13, but you get the idea. When I start it the hole in the ozone layer widens a bit.

Was that knocking? Was that chuffing? I think I’ve reached the end. Even the fumes were gone and the tank seemingly started imploding under the vacuum.

But there’s the exit.

I blinker up and take the turn, foot off the gas, coasting, big grippy tires trying to drag me to a stop. I can see the Shell station up ahead. Like playing Operation, I gently, without touching the sides, press down gingerly on the accelerator and slip into the Shell.

I’m saved. I’m saved!

Never so happy to stick my debit card into the pump, I let the Eau de Brontosaurus flow into the tank. I could almost hear it splash into the empty bottom with a tinny reverberation. Ahhh, so refreshing, this fuel. This magic juice of life. The pump kicked off after the biggest fill up I’ve ever witnessed. Then I squeezed some more in for good measure.

A smile washed over my face as I replaced the gas cap and closed the fuel door. I jumped back in and got back on the highway.

Now you’d think I would have learned my lesson. Drive easier. Save gas. You don’t have to get home immediately. Enjoy the rest of the commute. Relax. Chill. No.

I floored it all the way home.

Thank you Prius, for being useful for at least one thing.

Where there's mud, there's life.

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