"So long, dead-asses," I mused, as the three cabs carrying Csaba, Aaron, and Dan slipped away in the morning half-light. "I've got those wankers covered like a cheap suit."
Under way in the little Honda at 6:02. A cabby in front of the Marriott has given me directions to avoid the worst rat's nest of roads that compose our national capital. North on Massachusetts, which turns into New York, and then onto the Baltimore-Washington Parkway to the Interstate 495 Beltway. Quick jog to I-95 and then book north. Inbound traffic is a snarl, but I'm running clean and green, held up momentarily by the myriad of stoplights until I hit the four-lane highway.
The gas-electric Insight hybrid is a little dream. The perfect speed is 85 mph, just enough to outrun mainstream traffic without setting off cop alarms everywhere. And still getting 55 mpg, according to the trip computer.
Nailed for a $1 toll at Baltimore's Harbor Tunnel, but otherwise easy running. The deal is to make a mandatory breakfast stop to keep things fair. Into a Maryland service area for 8.5 minutes to take on a doughnut and a load of black coffee.
Two more bucks to cross the I-95 bridge over the Susquehanna River and another two at the Delaware border where I-295 bypasses Wilmington and Philadelphia. Even with the slow start from D.C., the one stop, and the tolls, at two hours into the trip I've covered precisely 124.2 miles. Average speed is 62 mph and climbing.
Onto the New Jersey Turnpike, the MiG Alley of highways. Traffic thickens. The Anti-Destination League (ADL) has been alerted. Paranoia lurks. Running 70 to 75 mph in bumper-to-bumper madness. A brief flurry of road rage ahead. A babe in a white Celica cuts off a guy in a black Honda Civic during a tight lane change. He follows her, plugged to her rear bumper as they juke and weave through the rolling stock before both bail out at Exit 9 toward God knows what ugliness.
Three hours unfold, and there are the twin towers of the World Trade Center looming on the sunny eastern horizon. Victory in sight! Redemption! Eat it, you granola Timesmen!
Uh-oh, trouble: WCBS, the oracle of impending gridlock on Manhattan Island, warns that the Jersey entrances to the Big Apple - the Holland and Lincoln tunnels, the George Washington Bridge - are awash in traffic. Think 20-minute delay. The choice is limited. The finish line at the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue is within a Tiger Woods tee shot off the Lincoln Tunnel. Got to try it. New York, New York, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere!
Into the mire at 9:22 a.m. The ADL is out in total mobilization. Parked in a fuming glut of iron. Inching into the darkness of the tunnel. Insult added to the injury: They hit me another six bucks for the privilege of sitting in this fetid tube. Finally, at 9:54, after 32 minutes, I am disgorged. The smoky glimmer of the Big Town beckons.
Now a desperate zigzag, feinting around garbage trucks and more cabs than there are in the entire state of Kansas, 40th and Eighth Avenue, uptown to 52nd, and a half-block down Seventh to the hotel. Here I am. The clock reads 10:01 a.m.
Defeat. Shame. I’m greeted by a smug Csere, the train rider, and Pund, the air traveler—both of whom are relaxing on the steps, having arrived a half-hour earlier. The cursed 32 minutes eaten up by the tunnel and the 8.5-minute fuel stop. The little Insight ran the 232.8 miles in three hours and 59 minutes, averaging 60.5 mph and sipping 4.83 gallons of fuel. The gas, the tolls, and the breakfast tallied just $26.02. Hell, the airplane passenger probably spent more than that on the taxi in from La Guardia Airport. To be fair, we added another 36 cents per mile to cover ownership costs, for a total of $106.72.
Let me have another shot during off hours of commuting, and this trip can be made in three hours flat. Beaten but unbowed!
"So long, dead-asses," I mused, as the three cabs carrying Csaba, Aaron, and Dan slipped away in the morning half-light. "I've got those wankers covered like a cheap suit."
Under way in the little Honda at 6:02. A cabby in front of the Marriott has given me directions to avoid the worst rat's nest of roads that compose our national capital. North on Massachusetts, which turns into New York, and then onto the Baltimore-Washington Parkway to the Interstate 495 Beltway. Quick jog to I-95 and then book north. Inbound traffic is a snarl, but I'm running clean and green, held up momentarily by the myriad of stoplights until I hit the four-lane highway.
The gas-electric Insight hybrid is a little dream. The perfect speed is 85 mph, just enough to outrun mainstream traffic without setting off cop alarms everywhere. And still getting 55 mpg, according to the trip computer.
Nailed for a $1 toll at Baltimore's Harbor Tunnel, but otherwise easy running. The deal is to make a mandatory breakfast stop to keep things fair. Into a Maryland service area for 8.5 minutes to take on a doughnut and a load of black coffee.
Two more bucks to cross the I-95 bridge over the Susquehanna River and another two at the Delaware border where I-295 bypasses Wilmington and Philadelphia. Even with the slow start from D.C., the one stop, and the tolls, at two hours into the trip I've covered precisely 124.2 miles. Average speed is 62 mph and climbing.
Onto the New Jersey Turnpike, the MiG Alley of highways. Traffic thickens. The Anti-Destination League (ADL) has been alerted. Paranoia lurks. Running 70 to 75 mph in bumper-to-bumper madness. A brief flurry of road rage ahead. A babe in a white Celica cuts off a guy in a black Honda Civic during a tight lane change. He follows her, plugged to her rear bumper as they juke and weave through the rolling stock before both bail out at Exit 9 toward God knows what ugliness.
Three hours un
fold, and there are the twin towers of the World Trade Center looming on the sunny eastern horizon. Victory in sight! Redemption! Eat it, you granola Timesmen!
Uh-oh, trouble: WCBS, the oracle of impending gridlock on Manhattan Island, warns that the Jersey entrances to the Big Apple - the Holland and Lincoln tunnels, the George Washington Bridge - are awash in traffic. Think 20-minute delay. The choice is limited. The finish line at the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue is within a Tiger Woods tee shot off the Lincoln Tunnel. Got to try it. New York, New York, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere!
Into the mire at 9:22 a.m. The ADL is out in total mobilization. Parked in a fuming glut of iron. Inching into the darkness of the tunnel. Insult added to the injury: They hit me another six bucks for the privilege of sitting in this fetid tube. Finally, at 9:54, after 32 minutes, I am disgorged. The smoky glimmer of the Big Town beckons.
Now a desperate zigzag, feinting around garbage trucks and more cabs than there are in the entire state of Kansas, 40th and Eighth Avenue, uptown to 52nd, and a half-block down Seventh to the hotel. Here I am. The clock reads 10:01 a.m.
Defeat. Shame. I’m greeted by a smug Csere, the train rider, and Pund, the air traveler—both of whom are relaxing on the steps, having arrived a half-hour earlier. The cursed 32 minutes eaten up by the tunnel and the 8.5-minute fuel stop. The little Insight ran the 232.8 miles in three hours and 59 minutes, averaging 60.5 mph and sipping 4.83 gallons of fuel. The gas, the tolls, and the breakfast tallied just $26.02. Hell, the airplane passenger probably spent more than that on the taxi in from La Guardia Airport. To be fair, we added another 36 cents per mile to cover ownership costs, for a total of $106.72.
Let me have another shot during off hours of commuting, and this trip can be made in three hours flat. Beaten but unbowed!