Running out of gas

Because of the sheer number of people also trying to attend the Red Bull Grand Prix yesteday, the lines to get to the track parking lots were immense -- and by immense, I mean miles long. So it actually required more time -- almost two hours -- to get from the track entrance to the parking lot than it did to drive the 85 miles from Menlo Park to Monterey. That is ridiculous.

In our excitement and infinite stupidity, Chris and I jointly decided to forego getting gas on the way down to the track even though I had little more than a quarter tank when we took off that morning. Unware that we would be idling in line for hours, we figured that such a minimal amount of fuel would be nothing more than a footnote to our journey.

After moving along at a snail's pace or slower for about an hour in the entry line, the "you are about to run out of gas, idiot" light came on. But whenever we stopped on a hill (this happened often), the gauge would move back into safe territory, so we both ignored our impending doom by attempting to race a woman who chose to walk to the track rather than contend with the unbearable traffic. In the end, she won, but at that point the gas situation had progressed from irritating annoyance to doomsday scenario, so we paid her victory no mind.

If you are like me, you'd figure there was no better place to be than in the middle of a venue where gas literally fuels the entertainment. Not only that, but we were surrounded by countless cars and motorcylces, all of which presumable contained some of the much-needed energy source. But alas, none of the Laguna Seca staff, those not-so-helpful volunteers and equally disinterested paid workers, could assist us in any way other than offering insightful advice such as "I'd coast if I were you" and "Uh oh."

This predicament took on extra significance because, in my ten years or so of driving, I have never run out of gas before. There have been a few close calls, but I can truthfully state that, barring the occassional mechanical failure, my car stops only when I command it to. Fate has not yet shamed me with the prospect of walking (or catching a cab) to a gas station or calling Triple A to beg for a pick-up. Given our situation -- stuck at the far end of a gigantic parking lot of a race track crowded with a record amount of attendees -- I was certain that the streak was going to come to a humiliating and inconvenient end.

Fortunately, due in large part to my skillful coasting and the timing of our exit from the track, I managed to pilot my car to a gas station before encoutering the loss of power that I presume accompanies running out of gas. There, I had to convince an unsuspecting military-ID carrying patron to purchase gas for me, but that is another story altogether.

For now, I still bat 1000.