The Mileage Miracle – A True Story

Well, mostly true. I changed my wife’s name from Shannon to Gladys to protect her anonymity. And I changed some of the details of the story in a desperate attempt to enhance the humorous effect. But the pics were not altered in any way. Oh, wait, that’s also not true. I cropped them. Anyway, here we go with a semi-true story featuring altered pics that happened last weekend.

I didn’t wake up that day to settle any arguments over the existence of a Deity or the propensity of that Deity to personally intervene in our everyday banal existences. I got up to take my wife to the local urgent care facility. She was experiencing some serious back and leg pain post-COVID. I could have fixed her up with the same opiods that the so-called “doctor” prescribed, but somehow that medical degree carried more weight with my wife than my doctorate in street savvy.

She was still in pain when I left her. “Babe, I know you’re hurting, but I gotta run,” I explained. “I’ve got a luncheon to get to. Give me a sign that you’ll be alright.”

She tried to give me a V for victory sign, but was too weak to raise her forefinger to complete the V sign. But I knew what she meant. I doffed my cap, blew her a kiss (I didn’t want to get too close to catch her back pain disease), and headed to the garage. But before I left, I gave her a parting message. “Oh, and I’m taking your car. Mine’s way low on gas.” She responded by frantically waving her hand with partial V sign at me.

“Shit,” I exclaimed as I started my wife’s car. Her car was low on gas, too. She showed a quarter tank of gas and a 70 mile range. I was staring at a 90 mile round trip. My mind flashed to Ellwood Blues.

Except, something was out of whack.

I just knew I could coax more than 70 miles out of a quarter tank of gas. But could I squeeze out 90 miles? Maybe. After a couple miles on the road, I spotted our local gas station in the distance. The price was unusually inexpensive. The temptation to stop and gas up was overwhelming, but the lure of going farther was positively intoxicating. To paraphrase this Roxy Music song’s lyrics, mileage was the drug and I needed to score. I thumbed my nose at Big Oil as I drove on by in states of euphoria and Illinois.

Reality set in as I hit the highway toward my destination. The 70 mile range quickly dropped to 60. What if I couldn’t make it, and I was stranded in the desolate wasteland known as the Chicago suburbs inhabited by just several million people? I knew I could exist on melted snow and roadside grass (not that kind, although it wouldn’t hurt) while I walked to civilization. I steeled my resolve and drove on.

I reached my destination late but with sandwiches remaining. I stuffed my pockets full of food for what appeared to be a potentially harrowing trip back home.

When I started the car for the return trip, lo and behold, my range was now showing 70 miles again, and I was barely below a quarter tank. My spirits were buoyed and I set out, but not before I took a quick detour to a waterfall nearby. I didn’t care if it was manmade. It was pretty even in the dead of winter. I filled my water jug, just in case.

I cruised for miles, and it wasn’t until I passed the so-called 70 mile range that the indicator for a low gas level came on.

But still a 70 mile range remained. I pressed on. After almost another 10 miles, I pulled triumphantly into our local gas station.

Still another 70 miles were available to me. I could have traveled farther. I contemplated taking a ride out west to DeKalb, IL, the town where barbed wire was invented. But that seemed like a stupid and pointless exercise, kind of like this blog.

I headed home, but not before I decided to NOT fill up my wife’s car’s gas tank. I mean, still 70 miles to go, just like when I got in. Am I a bad guy? Sorry, wrong blog post.

I didn’t set out that day believing in much of anything. Oh, sure, maybe I believed in the value of a good shoeshine, cuffed trouser legs, the smell of hot asphalt, and the joy of doing something kind for myself. But maybe after that car ride, maybe, just maybe, I now believe in miracles … or efficient highway driving resulting in better gas mileage. One of those two.