When the Transportation Department announced this week that it had finalized President Donald Trump’s plan to roll back automobile fuel efficiency standards to a ceiling of 34.9 miles per gallon, the progressive left erupted in its usual predictable panic. My inbox was immediately flooded with hysterical fundraising emails from advocacy groups weeping about the return of the gas guzzler. I, however, felt only a profound, restorative peace. I poured myself a second cup of single-origin matcha, looked out my window at the smog settling over the skyline, and smiled. Finally, someone is holding you people accountable.
For years, the American driver has operated under the spectacularly arrogant assumption that they can commute thirty-five miles each way from a sprawling exurb to a midtown office park without consequence, simply because their vehicle has a green leaf badge on the tailgate. You thought your 45-mpg commute was absolving your carbon footprint. You thought you were saving the planet by shuttling your children to traveling soccer tournaments in a vehicle that merely sipped gasoline rather than chugging it. It was all greenwashing of the highest order, and it is over.
I tried to warn you this was coming. At a private COP strategy dinner last month in Dubai—it was just myself, a handful of climate envoys, and the chief executive of a major European oil conglomerate who asked to remain nameless because of the hostility he faces from people who simply do not understand market realities—I said exactly this. I told the table that the American consumer needs to bleed at the pump to truly understand their sins. The CEO agreed with me completely, and frankly, it was refreshing to speak with someone who grasps the big picture.
Now, drivers are whining to any reporter who will listen that they are going to "pay the price" for the administration's new 34.9 mpg baseline. Oh, you are paying the price? Let me play a tiny, sustainably-sourced violin for your household budget. You are the one who decided you absolutely needed a vehicle with the carrying capacity of a light infantry transport to pick up a week's worth of groceries.
We were frankly running out of aerodynamic tricks to hide the fact that our customers fundamentally want to drive a heavily armored living room.
The auto industry, at least, is finally being honest with itself. For a decade, they have been forced to pretend they care about the environment, spending billions on regulatory compliance to squeeze an extra three miles per gallon out of a six-thousand-pound chassis. The psychological toll on automotive engineers who just wanted to build a louder engine has been staggering, and the Trump administration's rollback mercifully frees them from this charade.
I find the outrage over this policy shift deeply offensive. You are furious at the White House for rolling back the standards, but you should be furious at yourselves for participating in the concept of personal vehicle ownership in the first place. The original Obama-era targets were a delusion designed to make middle-class suburbanites feel morally superior while hurtling down the interstate in a two-ton metal cage. The illusion is shattered, and you are upset because you have to look at the pieces.
The true cost of the transition must be borne by the person at the end of the supply chain who has the least capacity to lobby against it, otherwise the math simply doesn't work.
When Julianne and I discussed this over a quick zoom last Tuesday, she made a brilliant point about the necessity of consumer pain. If gasoline is cheap and your engine is efficient, you will never experience the necessary financial trauma required to force you onto a bicycle in February. The rollback to 34.9 mpg guarantees that your wallet will suffer every single time you pull a nozzle from the pump. This is not a policy failure; it is a vital educational tool.
So, to all the drivers out there weeping over the prospect of permanently elevated fuel costs: I do not pity you. You demanded the convenience of the combustion engine, and now you must pay the premium for your lack of vision. We are out of time, but go off.
The next time you pull into a station and watch your checking account drain into the tank of a Dodge Durango, I want you to look at the numbers spinning on the dial, take a deep breath of the unfiltered exhaust, and whisper a quiet thank you to the federal government for finally treating you like the problem you are.