It’s quite amazing how far the human mind will travel to avoid reality, especially if that reality is stark and unrelenting. Faced with a need to make change, hard decisions or sacrifice, we will almost always procrastinate. Or rationalize. Or equivocate. If the news is particularly desperate, we’ll seek the sanctuary of any evangelist/shaman/sidewalk fortune teller willing to convince us, however briefly, that everything will be all right. Indeed, I suspect that the old adage that “statistics don’t lie but liars use statistics” is more a reflection of our desperation to believe untruths rather than the deceiver’s desire to perpetrate them.
And, Lordy, do statistics lie. My favourites, being the petrol-dipped gear head that I am, are official fuel economy standards, the numbers trumpeted whenever someone wants to a) brag about some supposedly planet-saving technology or b) convince us, the willingly deceived, that he or she really is doing something about it.
Oh, we north of the 49th can take some small solace in the fact that our regulatory books are a little less cooked than those of our American cousins, but, for most of us, the fuel economy numbers on the window sticker tags in showrooms are built of the same fantasy balanced Greek budgets come from.
Of course, everyone — at least everyone save the dedicated high-miler — realizes that the boasted numbers are pure flights of fancy. But, goes the rationalization, they at least give us a relative basis of comparison. Even if the numbers are 10%, 20% or even 30% optimistic, they are equally skewed so we at least know that car A or technology B is more frugal than that other gas hog we are considering.
On a limited basis, that’s probably true. Compare a Toyota Yaris with a Hyundai Accent and, since both feature small gasoline-fuelled engines with manual transmissions, the correlation, if not absolute, is at least valid.
Where the convenient comparison starts falling apart is when you start comparing new technologies to conventional ones using either the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s (EPA) or Transport Canada’s official figures. After all, the reasoning behind the mass switch to turbocharging, such as the Ford EcoBoost engine, BMW M and Mercedes-Benz AMG models to name but a few, and hybrids, which is pretty much everybody, is that these higher-tech alternatives are less wasteful than what we currently drive. And, indeed, they are. At least according to official figures. Ford’s EcoBoost V6 F-150, for instance, is touted as getting 8% better fuel economy than the V8 it supplants. Making the argument more persuasive is that the theory makes sense as well: Make the engine smaller so it sips fuel under light load and then turbocharge it so it doesn’t sacrifice performance when we need it.
Out on the open road, it’s not quite so simple. Yes, there can be some fuel economies, but only if you never use all that horsepower at hand. Dip into all those turbocharged ponies and the gas mileage is seldom superior to that of the gas guzzler it’s supposed to supplant. While I always enjoy this new spate of turbocharged engines (they are waaay powerful), I almost never see an improvement in fuel economy. And lest you think me a profligate solitude, Consumer Reports, hardly a bastion of wastrels, recently found that the 3.7-litre EcoBoost V6 in the aforementioned F-150 pickup did not increase real-world fuel economy over the 5.0L V8 it’s supposed to supplant (it does tow better, however, which explains its popularity).
The same principle applies — or, more accurately, is applied — to the first few generations of (non-plug-in) hybrids. Essentially, their electrical “boost” works in the same manner — having the electric motor there to supplant the gasoline engine, displacement and, therefore, fuel economy can be reduced. The same presuppositions hold, however; you have to dramatically alter your driving habits to capitalize on their potential frugality. One high-miler website, for instance, recommends that you keep the throttle pedal in the exact same position even when driving up and down steep hills. Yes, it saves precious drops of fuel, but it does turn you into that a—hole that we all curse on the 401 for puttering in the fast lane at 75 kilometres an hour up hills and then speeding like a demon down the other side.
The issue that we’re all trying to avoid is that with improved fuel economy and reduced emissions will come some sacrifice. As much as it forces us to face that dreaded reality, it behooves us to understand the fantasies we’re being fed. Environmentalists want us to completely change the way we live. EV proponents expect you to abandon the freedom automobiles have promised for more than a century — namely, to go where you want when you want. Hybrid manufacturers need you to dramatically alter the way you drive if their wares are to be optimized. Those pimping turbocharging as a panacea for profligacy merely want you to suspend reality.
And we the consumer? Well, we don’t want to change a damned thing.
Diesel still superior to hybrid
Diesel is the perfect solution for real drivers seeking better fuel economy. The argument can be made that both turbocharging and hybridization (at least in their initial guises) are better at meeting government standards than improving real-world fuel economy. Indeed, a cynic (that might be me) would contend they are only about meeting regulations. North American testing typically emphasizes urban driving (a boon to hybrids) and light-load open-road motoring (where turbocharging is especially effective). Drive harder — and I don’t mean tire scorching away from every stoplight — and their fuel economy suffers, often dramatically. Hybrids, for instance, have not made much of an impact in Europe. Their gasoline motors, despite being smaller, are not particularly frugal at autobahn speeds. It also helps explain the European preoccupation with diesels: The harder you drive an oil burner, the greater its advantage over a gasoline engine.