Yahoo Autos I Have a History of Running out of Gas
From the July 2018 issue
The first time I ran out of gas, it was on the way back from Atlantic City in a champagne-and-gold 1985 Cadillac Seville. That sexy front-wheel-drive hunchback had a fake convertible top, a fake spare tire on the trunk, and, as it turned out, two fake gallons of gas in the tank. The Caddy, a hand-me-down from my grandparents, had a digital gas gauge that was downright braggadocious in its precision-now, thanks to state-of-the-art digital technology, you could know the exact volume of fuel, give or take a couple gallons. If you’ve never been to Atlantic City, a gold Cadillac running out of gas is the official city metaphor.
But for a faulty gauge, that embarrassing episode wouldn’t have happened. I am not, by nature, a gambler. And there’s definitely a connection between gambling and driving around on empty, because my friends who have an affinity for casinos are also the ones who tend to run out of gas. Not because they don’t have gas money, but because running on fumes apparently adds a little of that hitting-on-15 frisson to your daily drive. The downside is that sometimes you lose all your chips and end up on the side of the road calling me for help. And I’m going to make fun of you, because running out of gas is an avoidable mistake, like taking a Facebook quiz called “What’s Your Social Security Number?” or buying tickets to a Jeff Dunham show. You’re an adult and should know better.
But since so many people don’t know better, I once tested a product called Magic Tank that’s supposed to get your car to a gas station after you sputter to a halt. Which brings me to the second time I ran out of gas, in a Ford Fiesta with the EcoBoost 1.0-liter three-cylinder. The Fiesta’s gas gauge is calibrated to protect you from yourself, and the little hatchback made it another 13 miles after the range readout fell to zero. But eventually the twee three shut down, suddenly and without drama, and I coasted to the shoulder to see if Magic Tank could save me.
The stuff isn’t flammable and is somehow formulated to sit in your trunk for years. Apparently, it mixes with whatever fumes are lurking in your fuel system and forms something your car can run on long enough to get to a gas station. I pulled out the included cardboard funnel, jammed it into the Fiesta’s filler, and promptly poured Magic Tank all over the rear tire. Turns out there’s a bypass in the filler neck, and you need a funnel from the car’s tool kit to push past it and avoid dousing your shoes. But suitably fueled, the Fiesta fired right up and made it to a nearby station. I recommended the product to my range-challenged friends, who surely ignored me. What fun is it to tempt fate if you know there’s a backup plan?
The third time I ran out of gas was quite recently, in a red Lamborghini Huracán Performante. You might say that information constitutes burying the lede, but I was actually hoping you wouldn’t read this far. Because if you were plotting a graph of shame versus spectacle, this data point would be in the upper-right corner, possibly off that page and onto another one charting confusion versus incompetence. I should add that this particular Performante was covered with decals that screamed “Lamborghini Esperienza” and “Pirelli” and “Pertamina,” which is, ironically, a gas company.
The first time I fired up the Huracán, the gauge cluster flashed a warning to fill up. But the fuel gauge-a bar graph-showed a quarter tank. So I decided to take a quick rip out into the countryside before I circled back to the gas station. Shortly after I’d warped past a dump truck on a 55-mph two-lane, I hit the brakes to turn onto an adjacent road and the cacophonous V-10 went silent.
The car restarted but ran fitfully as I limped back toward town. I didn’t make it. As it happens, the Huracán’s bar-graph gas gauge stretches all the way across when the tank is full, and there’s a thin little needle that moves left with the display as the tank empties. But the last quarter of that graph, in red, never moves, no matter how little fuel you have. When the tank is empty, you don’t see the needle, either. I had plenty of time to think about user-interface philosophies while my neighbor Tim went for gas and while the passing traffic stopped to gawk at the Nürburgring-slaying Italian exotic parked on the shoulder. It was like the automotive version of the nightmare where you’re giving a speech to the class assembly naked. Perhaps the tricky gas gauge is Lamborghini’s way of hazing new owners. If so, I approve.
My Performante esperienza might’ve prompted me to contemplate the nature of finite resources, or humility, but I think that my ignominious strandings point to a more important life lesson: Below half a tank, you’re gambling.
You Might Also Like
