Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Atlantans' cars idle in mid-1970s time warp

By Brenda Deily Constan
For the Journal-Constitution
Published on: 06/03/08

Shifting into first, I pull into my neighborhood service station and gaze at the attendant shuffling numbers on the magnetic price board. Once again, the new arrangement is higher than it was the previous day, and I feel a bout of deja vu emerging like a developing photograph.

Lately the mere whiff of gas fumes, like Marcel Proust's petite madeleine, awakens dusky, archived memories. All at once I am behind the wheel of my little green Pinto, which idles monotonously in one of those mid-'70s Friday afternoon gas queues as I wait my turn to fill the tank. Sometimes the wait exceeds an hour.

This morning nearly 34 years later, there is no line at the gas pump, but I have just shelled out $4 a gallon to fill my tank. That's with regular. I scowl at the receipt that scrolls off the automated printer and curse the turmoil in the Mideast.

But it is not just the cost that bothers me. What is more alarming is that in the interval since our last energy crisis, we have made little headway in developing alternative fuels, reducing energy consumption, expanding public transit or reducing our reliance on unstable oil-rich nations to maintain our fossil-fuel-dependent lifestyle. Not to mention addressing the collateral damage to our air quality because of our complacence.

The failure is most egregious in our continued dependence on automobiles, especially big ones. As an avid cyclist, I am willing and eager to conserve gas by running errands on my bike. Nearly everything I need is within easy cycling distance.

Unfortunately, Atlanta's bike paths are primarily recreational, bypassing shopping centers, schools, churches and restaurants. And few of the streets in Atlanta have designated bike lanes, making the streets dangerous to cyclists and cyclists annoying to motorists. In fact, not long ago a careless driver and I collided, totaling my bike and sending me skittering across the hood of her car into the center of the road.

If hazards from motorists aren't enough to discourage bicycle use, cyclists —- and for that matter pedestrians —- in Atlanta face additional risks foreshadowed by our frequent orange and red alerts. No, not those pesky terrorist advisories, but rather air-quality health spots, cautioning us not to exercise outdoors. This is not exactly an invitation to reduce gas consumption by riding a bike or walking when distance allows.

For the not-so-athletic or the asthma-prone commuter, energy-efficient mass transit should be a feasible alternative. Regrettably, as in many other cities, Atlanta's transit system is not extensive enough to attract a ridership sufficient to dent fuel consumption by urban motorists.

It's not that MARTA natural-gas buses aren't out there cruising the city. But pull alongside one and glance through the windows. More than likely the driver is its sole occupant —- the helmsman of a ghost ship gridlocked among rush-hour commuters.

The image is a familiar one in neighborhoods across the city, and it's easy to understand why. In Atlanta, commuting by mass transit is a Herculean undertaking. For me it's nearly impossible. Even though I live close in, I have to walk a mile along busy streets to the nearest bus stop; catch a bus to the rail station; wait for a train; change lines downtown; and then catch another bus to my final destination. Not everyone is so stalwart.

Traveling to and from Atlanta's suburbs is even worse. Fortunately, unlike many Atlanta-area residents, I don't have to make this commute often except when I look in on my niece, who lives near one of the busy arteries that spin north off the Perimeter. Her home is not far, about 15 miles as the crow flies. I'd happily walk the mile to the MARTA stop and catch a bus, perhaps enjoy the camaraderie of fellow riders, and arrive for lunch lighthearted and without traffic-frayed nerves. But there is no bus line from here to anywhere near there. So instead, when I next go for a visit, I'll slip into my car, slide a couple of CDs into the changer, punch the recirculating air button on the dash and head out on five northbound lanes of interstate traffic.

As I jockey for a position and settle in among the throng of automobiles, for the next 50 minutes or so, I'll be just one more solo driver heading across town as we burn extravagant quantities of costly fossil fuel and guarantee tomorrow's familiar volley of smog advisories across Atlanta.

> Brenda Deily Constan lives in Decatur.

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