Drive (43 page)

In Calvin Trillin's
Tepper Isn't Going Out
, a slight but charming novel about a man who becomes a New York folk hero because of his parking acumen, once Murray Tepper finds a parking spot he just sits there and enjoys it. But when Shoup and I talked about the book, he pointed out that Tepper wouldn't have stayed put so long if Manhattan charged the right price for street parking. The right price is the one that means there are always one or two open spots per block. Since the cost encourages turnover, time limits are unnecessary; in fact, any place that needs to impose time limits is not charging enough. A city should adjust the rate every quarter to ensure the 15 percent vacancy rate, always letting the market decide the price. “Nobody can tell you what the right price of gold is, or the right price of wheat or apples,” he argued. “It just happens.”

Free off-street parking isn't something that just happens, though, because planning departments always insist that developers include a minimum number of parking spots. Shoup doesn't have much respect for the ability of urban planners to determine how many spots are necessary. Since planners don't
learn anything about parking in school, they learn it on the job, but because parking is so political—NIMBY neighbours constantly squawk at the thought of anyone parking on their street—what they really learn is the politics of parking. “Planning will be looked back on as worse than phrenology, because phrenology didn't do any harm,” he said, referring to the nineteenth-century pseudoscience that claimed to be able to determine character and other traits from the size and shape of a cranium. The harm abundant free parking does feeds on itself: all that land dedicated to parking, which often sits empty for much of the day, increases sprawl, and that sprawl makes alternatives such as public transit and walking less feasible, which forces more people into cars, which increases the need for more parking.

Again, Shoup argued that the market should decide: freed from the arbitrary and capricious demands of the planners, developers will put in the right amount of parking—enough to meet their customers' needs, but not so much that they waste valuable space or money. When the Westfield San Francisco Centre reopened in September 2006 after a major renovation, it was triple the size, featured high-profile tenants such as Bloomingdale's and expected twenty-five million visitors a year—all without adding any new parking. A lot of people shook their heads at that, but the mall is close to thirty-two transit lines and sits across the street from a large parking garage that was rarely anywhere close to full.

In 1992, the state of California adopted another Shoupism: under the parking cash-out law, companies that pay for employees' parking must offer the equivalent in cash to nonparkers. So someone who works for a firm that pays $150 a month for each spot in an underground lot can opt to forgo the spot and pocket the cash. After the law came in, 13 percent of employees took the money—most switching to car pools or taking public transit, though a few started riding a bike or walking to work.

Although his ideas seem like so much common sense, Shoup still feels they're underappreciated. Many places want to thrive the
way Old Town Pasadena has, but few realize how crucial the meter money was to that success. Still, he knows some planners are curious because he receives more invitations to speak than he can accept. Cities pay him large lecture fees, fly him first class and then wine him and dine him, but they don't all do what he suggests because parking is so political. “All I can do is go and say, ‘You're doing everything wrong,'” said Shoup, who rides a bike 2 miles to campus, puts just 3,500 miles a year on his Infiniti and admitted that he's often mistaken as an enemy of the car. He insists he's not; it's just that people would live differently—read: drive less—if they had to pay for parking. The good news is that all that parking space is an accidental land reserve for housing that can bring in tax revenue even as it helps ease traffic congestion, air pollution and energy dependence. “The nice thing is that when cities adopt what I'm saying,”—he snapped his fingers—“like that, it works.”

DRIVERS WON'T BE KEEN
on shelling out more for parking, congestion tolls and gas or carbon taxes, but such measures are probably inevitable and they make sense as long as the revenues are strictly dedicated to public transit, local improvement projects and, in the case of gas levies, the development of cleaner fuels. Either that, or these charges should be revenue neutral: a carbon tax, for example, can mean a reduction in income taxes. North American governments should also be investing some of this money in high-speed trains in well-travelled corridors. France's TGV and similar rail services in other countries offer a fast, efficient and comfortable— and environmentally sensible—way to visit other places. Ultimately, though, individuals need to make the choice to drive less.

For some people who live in cities, an alternative to owning a second vehicle—or even any at all—may be to join a car-sharing service. Kevin McLaughlin is the president of Toronto-based AutoShare, which allows members to pay an hourly rate to drive its vehicles, which are parked at over one hundred locations around the city. Gas and insurance are included in the cost, so the
service is ideal for people who need a car for the occasional chore. The average member drives about ten hours a month. I met with McLaughlin in the spring of 2006, several weeks after Massachusetts-based Zipcar arrived in Toronto. Initially worried about such a well-financed competitor, he soon realized his new rival would not only help to build the market, it would also validate that market, making it easier for him to get the financing he needs to expand. Convinced that there's the potential for his company to sign up as many as 10 percent of Torontonians and to have a fleet of several thousand, he said his biggest constraint, aside from raising capital, is finding and paying for places to park the company's cars.

McLaughlin grew up with posters of race driver Gilles Villeneuve on his bedroom wall, his uncle raced cars and his father still owns a 1938 Cord and a 1929 McLaughlin-Buick (in fact, his family is distantly related to Sam McLaughlin, the Canadian automaker who sold his company to General Motors). And he has been able to combine his youthful love of cars with his adult concern for the environment. McLaughlin, who worked as an environmentalist in Vancouver, admitted that the reaction from people in the movement has been mixed. Many have applauded his attempt to reduce the number of cars on the road, but some don't like that cars are involved at all. “This isn't the solution, but there really isn't
a
solution,” he said. “It is part of the solution.”

MY ROAD TRIP ALSO HELPED
me to better understand why many people love cars so much. And my own affection for the automobile grew as I started to see the car—even my old car—less as an appliance and more as something fun. It certainly wouldn't be the first thing I've enjoyed that was bad for me. As always, I gather, moderation is necessary. The members of the Classic Car Club, in London, may have found the right balance. James Evans, the club's co-owner and managing director, was unshaven and dressed in jeans. We sat in old leather chairs and he explained that his
members are car lovers who are “money rich and time poor.” In the last few years, he has seen an attitude adjustment, especially after the congestion charge came in. “They just can't be bothered owning a car in London,” he admitted. “It's just become such a hassle, such a chore. And it's become very expensive to own a car.”

Evans grew up just outside of Glasgow, the son of a Jaguarloving mother and an auto-hating father. “He would always have a rubbish car, like a Vauxhall Viva, which is dreadful, and he would drive a car until it physically stopped,” he remembered. “And the number of times I was in the car and it would break down—I'd have friends with me, and be like, ‘Oh God, this is so embarrassing'—so one day I decided the one thing I would always have would be a nice car.” In 1997, he was saving up to buy a Ferrari 308 when he heard about the Classic Car Club, which had started two years earlier with eight vehicles. He joined, then started working there, then bought it in 1999.

Located in an old garage on the edge of The City, London's financial district, the club doesn't look at all fancy from the outside. Even the office is far from elegant, though it does feature a foosball table and a jukebox dominated by 1970s and 1980s music—from The Stranglers' “No More Heroes” to Dexy's Midnight Runners' “Come On Eileen”—as well as an Esso gas tank bubble gum machine, a half-height Michelin Man, and steering wheels and a Jaguar grille on the walls. There's also an old dentist's chair, and when I asked Evans about it, he joked, “Oh, that's to make people join.”

Seems to work: the London site has 450 members and the club now operates in Edinburgh, Glasgow, Copenhagen and New York, with plans for further expansion in other U.S. cities. For an annual fee, members can book a car by redeeming points based on the type of car, time of year and day of the week they want to drive it. A Saturday in the summer, for example, is worth more than a Wednesday in winter. The club has three mechanics and two valets to fix and clean the sixty-vehicle collection, which is worth more
than one million pounds and includes forty or so classics and sports cars, from Rolls-Royces to Porsches to E-type Jaguars. The rest range from a Mini and a VW Beetle to several high-end SUVs (since some members have given up their own cars, opting instead to take transit or walk to work, the club now offers cars suitable for family trips).

Evans and I stepped out of the office and into a large space crammed with cars, and he proudly showed off some of the gems, including a 1965 Buick Riviera, a 1985 Ferrari Mondial and a 2006 BMW Z4M Coupe. One of the most popular cars with the members is the 1967 Citroën DS Pallas; Evans opened the door and insisted I sit in it. I sank into the leather seat and marvelled at how comfortable it was.

“Man, it's so luxurious, I could sleep in here,” I exclaimed.

“They don't make them like they used to, as they say,” he boasted. “You could go all the way across the States in that, couldn't you?”

If I had, I'm sure I would have stayed on the road a lot longer.

I HAD NO COMPLAINTS
about my Maxima, though. I spent a few snowy days in Vancouver with my friend Grahame Arnould, who is a cartoonist. He then joined me on the drive through the mountains to Calgary. Grahame wanted to hook up with a red-headed Pilates instructor in Nelson, B.C., and that wasn't too much of a detour so I said sure. But the morning we were to leave, we awoke to a travel advisory for the main highway, so we took an alternative route to Hope, crawled along an icy road for the first part of the day and lost so much time that we never made it to Nelson. Instead, we spent the night chatting with Norm the ex-con bartender at the Hot L Saloon in the tiny border town of Midway. The next day, it was getting dark by the time we reached Fernie; hearing reports of blowing snow in the Crowsnest Pass, we decided to spend the night. In the morning, we cleared several inches of snow off the car and left town despite a travel advisory.
In Calgary, I did a night on the town with Blake O'Brien, a friend who runs his old Mercedes station wagon on cooking fat, and predictably enough, my start the next morning was later than I'd planned. For the rest of the trip I was on my own, trying to get back to Toronto safely but quickly.

The snow seemed to blow constantly on the Trans-Canada Highway. Sometimes it wisped across in straight lines; sometimes it swirled across in a ghostly dance. The white road ahead was disconcerting, but it was bare underneath. After dark, though, the blowing snow made the visibility poor, so I tried to limit my driving to daylight hours and stayed a night in Swift Current. After I crossed from Saskatchewan into Manitoba, the sky cleared and I saw a rainbow, but it was soon snowing again. And it had been bitterly cold for days.

From Winnipeg, I headed south to North Dakota, past Fargo, through Minnesota to Eau Claire, Wisconsin. I woke up to more snow on the car and drove through flurries and blowing snow for about an hour before it cleared up. I started to make good time. Driving past Chicago was a hassle, but I was beginning to think I'd make it home late that night. Once I reached Michigan, though, the skies filled with dark clouds, and soon I faced more flurries and then heavy snow. I drove past several collisions, including an SUV upside down in the ditch, and by 5 p.m. reluctantly conceded that I'd be spending one more night in a hotel.

The next day, nine and a half weeks after I started, I arrived home. My car had made it. In fact, the dead battery in Bridgeport, California, was the only mechanical problem I'd encountered during the 14,992 kilometres through seventeen states and five provinces. A few weeks later, though, my mechanic Gord Donley suggested I start saving up for my next car because the fuel and break lines were rusting badly. He figured I might get another winter or two out of it, but six months, almost to the day, after I returned from my road trip, he pronounced my wheels dead. Well, he didn't so much say the car was dead as recommend euthanasia.
It was early in June when I dropped it off, but when I checked my messages later in the day, it wasn't his usual, “Your car is ready.” Instead, I heard, “Please give me a call.” Donley said the brake line was leaking and he wouldn't even let me drive it home. Fixing it would cost two thousand dollars and the car wasn't worth that much; although it had only 176,255 kilometres on the odometer, it also had oil and coolant leaks and busted air conditioning.

I was bummed, naturally. I had no wheels. But there was more to it than that: it had been my first ride, and though I'd never given it a name and or lost my virginity in the back seat, I'd had some good times in it. I'd done a road trip to the Maritimes, travelled to Maine and back and enjoyed my great adventure to California in it. As the day wore on and the news sunk in, my melancholy grew.