I probably shouldn’t have bragged so much about the gas mileage or the amazing storage when the seats fold down or its more than adequate pickup on the highway.
Yes, it was probably the pickup line that did me in. God laughed and said, “I’ll give you pickup.” And zapped my Prius with the random potential to accelerate to 90 MPH in a New York minute.
I like to think I’m not given to drama, but I have to admit that being the driver of one of these once-adored vehicles has wreaked havoc with my imagination.
“What if I am in a carwash when it happens?” I wonder. “What would that look like?”
Even now, as I imagine the results of “put your car in neutral, don’t steer or brake,” I worry that some carwash owner will hang a hand-drawn circle sign : “Prius,” it will say, with a bright red line through it.
I wonder whether, no longer a paying wash customer, I’ll still be allowed to use the free vacuums. I need them to clear out the mud and sticks that have accumulated on what used to be covered by the floor mat I’ve been ordered to remove.
“Only paying customers,” I imagine the owner saying as I skulk out the back drive where he’s pointed me to avoid any living thing.
On the freeway, I hang a little closer to the curb lane on the off chance that the first two steps for the much-mentally-practiced TV news demonstration for stopping my car do not work.
“Put your feet on the brakes,” I remember the reporter saying. “Put the vehicle in neutral. Don’t turn off the power until you don’t need your power steering.”
Driving down the freeway, I leave nothing to chance.
“Staying over here on the right, we’ll be OK,” I assured my passenger friend Mary last week. “We’d hardly have to steer at all to get the car into the ditch.” She did not seem reassured.
The Prius is not helping my social life, either. I used to be sought after for carpooling because of my much advertised 50 MPG. Now I’ve been supplanted by an old Ford with floor mats that pulls a crummy 25 MPG. Forget the opportunity to pick up celebrity speakers at the airport. I have not even broached the subject of transporting my granddaughter.
“No worries,” I hear myself saying. “In an emergency, I could get her to the ER extra fast.”
Besides complicating my life, about the only thing the Prius is good for is its so-far reliability, remarkable gas mileage and the oddball theories people can’t stop themselves from offering.
“It’s because of a plastic part.”
“It only affects cars made in this country.”
“There is this one random moment that can happen – but usually doesn’t – when two wires or computer chips go bad at the same time.”
“If you haven’t had symptoms, you’re OK.”
“Sometimes there are no symptoms.”
With such high quality information going around, the only solution I can think of is to carpool with another Prius owner. Saves your social life. Saves your gas. Cuts the odds of a runaway car by 50%.
Copyright 2010 Pat Snyder
