A century from now, let no man or robot or digital personal companion embedded in the cerebellum at birth say that Car and Driver didn’t look at this thing from every possible angle.
Thus, we proceed with yet another trial of the
Model S.
This time we compare the electric car to its direct predecessor, the
hydrocarbon-burning automobile, much as our forebears must have compared
the first motorcar to the trusty nag, which was soon to be advertised
with hefty cash rebates and complimentary oat bags.
So as not to be seen as blithely unappreciative of a new technology’s
inevitable teething issues, namely the Tesla’s limited driving range and
the nation’s inadequate charging infrastructure, we developed a kind of
handicap for the Model S. The Tesla would not go up against a new car,
which would enjoy a de facto head start thanks to more than a century of
development. Instead, it would compete against a car more in line with
an electric vehicle’s limitations. Hence, we looked back over automotive
history for a suitable candidate. Way back, in fact. Actually, a bit
further, and further still, and keep it going, just a little ways more .
. . until we pretty much bumped into the horse again.
How would the car that’s heralded as the savior of humanity stack up against the humble Tin Lizzie?
Now, racing a 99-year-old Ford Model T against a new Tesla Model S
across one-fifth of America is, really, in no way fair to either car.
Neither was designed to be a continent crosser. At the time of our race,
the number of Tesla’s high-power,
quick-charge Supercharger stations
in our area of the country was zero. And the number of people who could
re-babbitt a Model T’s bearings probably rounded to zilch. While the
Model T was undoubtedly the single greatest catalyst for the
motor-vehicle infrastructure we now take for granted, it is also
woefully, dangerously obsolete. Even the flow of suburban or country
main streets is too fast for this 40-mph buggy. Every new car is endowed
with a level of power and braking ability that leaves the T, which
would prefer to just putter into town with this season’s prize-winning
pumpkin in back, terrifyingly out of step.
Would there be blood? With any luck, no. But there might be chaos, and almost certainly frostbite.
We would start at the Model T Automotive Heritage Complex on Detroit’s
Piquette Street, where the T was designed and first built. The
red-brick, New England mill–style building erected in 1904 survives as a
museum staffed by knowledgeable mavens who know the correct ways to
apply lapping compound and petcock sealant.
With Tesla’s Fremont, California, assembly plant being much too far
away, the finish line would instead be electrical pioneer Nikola Tesla’s
old Wardenclyffe laboratory in Shoreham, New York, on Long Island. The
lab, which opened in 1902, is itself in the process of becoming a
museum. Depending on the route each team chose, the race course could be
as short as 682 miles but long enough that the Tesla would need to
charge several times. The T drivers would most likely have to apply at
least some petcock sealant.
Each team determined its own route, using the same start and finish
lines. Both cars would have to be driven the entire distance, and each
team was assigned a chase truck for spares and the haul home. But there
weren’t any other rules because Tesla team leader Don Sherman would just
cheat anyway. The first car to Wardenclyffe would win immortality in
this magazine, copies of which do, after all, go into the Library of
Congress, where they’re left in the restrooms for anyone to read.
6 WEEKS prior to race
MODEL S TEAM: Crack mathematician Jessica Glomb of Battle Creek,
Michigan, sits down at her kitchen table to predict a winner. Factoring
in everything she knows (or can find on Wikipedia) about the Ford Model T
and everything she knows about her father’s Tesla Model S, she
concludes the following: The T will beat the S by one hour.
4 WEEKS UNTIL THE START
MODEL T TEAM: Given that few presently on staff at
Car and Driver have ever
driven a Model T,
the Ford team needs help. It needs a ringer if it is going to make it
through the 765 miles of two-laners from Detroit to Long Island. It also
needs a Model T. David Liepelt, a 40-year-old man who is perpetually
coated in a layer of motor oil, grease, and gasoline, is the best ringer
one could hope for. Three T experts in three different states all
independently direct us to Liepelt and the red 1915 T he’s owned for
half his life. He was, for almost a decade, tasked with keeping a fleet
of Ts running for the tourists at Henry Ford’s paean to the past,
Greenfield Village
in Dearborn, Michigan. Liepelt now works on steam locomotives. He is a
man of the Industrial Age. He doesn’t own a television. He, along with
his friend and fellow T owner Chris Paulsen, will be the core of the
driving team. Our man, Daniel Pund, will perform the role of ballast and
liability.
3 WEEKS TO GRID
MODEL S TEAM: Our strategy hinges on two simple data points, the 211-mile range C/D
recorded during our road test of the Model S and the 682 MapQuest miles
separating the start from the finish. Jessica’s father, Fred Glomb, 50,
a man of the Information Age and owner of a technology-consulting firm,
has volunteered his chocolate-brown Model S after seeing our petition
for assistance on a Tesla owners message board. His car is ideal because
he purchased it with the P85 Performance equipment, which includes the
largest-available 85-kWh battery and the dual onboard chargers that
would give us a chance at beating the T back to the Brass Era.
We must find two recharging stops both near our direct route and spaced
every 230 or so miles between Detroit and Shoreham. Further, they must
deliver 240 volts at 80 amps of charging power, like the Tesla High
Power Wall Connector (HPWC) that Glomb has in his own garage. Simple.
None of the existing Tesla Supercharger stations, which offer 75-minute
recharges, are close to our route. So we start investigating potential
charging locations, both commercial and private. We use PlugShare, a
website and app that lists kindred spirits willing to share their
electricity [
see sidebar], but not all chargers are created equal. Finding a high-voltage unit with the necessary amperage is challenging.
With preparation time dwindling, we still haven’t nailed down a suitable
second charging stop. We find Tesla Roadster owners and solar
enthusiasts Mark Doncheski and Mary Hermann in Danville, Pennsylvania,
but their existing charger isn’t compatible with the Model S. After
cajoling the couple for access to their 100-amp utility pole, we hire
electrician David Hayes to install the $1200 HPWC that we have shipped
in. Later, we’ll figure out how to bury it in the ol’ expense account.
2 WEEKS TO ENGINE START
VOICE MAIL OF MODEL T TEAM LEADER DANIEL PUND: Daniel Pund is out of the office at the moment. If you’d like to leave a message, please press 1.
10 DAYS UNTIL GREEN
MODEL S TEAM: To avoid surprises and check on our handyman work,
we reconnoiter two-thirds of the route. On this pre-run, we fine-tune
our speed-versus-range variables, finding that the ideal cruising speed
depends on terrain. We verify that both charge points can replenish a
sapped battery pack in about five hours. This preparation also raises
our familiarity with the route, diminishing the chance of a time- and
energy-wasting off-course deviation. It is either this or force the
Model S team members to catheterize themselves to eliminate the affront
to efficiency that is the human waste system.
6 DAYS AND COUNTING
MODEL S TEAM: After consultations with
Tire Rack
for a low-rolling-resistance-tire recommendation, we mount a set of
Michelin Primacy MXM4 radials with the tread rubber shaved to diminish
energy-consuming squirm. Inflating the tires to 50 psi raises sidewall
stiffness into the Cascade range. Wheel alignment is set to specs
supplied by Tesla chassis experts. Everything nonessential—floor mats,
gum wrappers, center-console lint—is swept from the Model S’s interior.
We tape the front body seams to shave aerodynamic drag. We consider
removing or folding the exterior mirrors but ultimately leave them
deployed for safety’s sake.
|
|
The Tesla team taped the front seams to lower drag.
|
24 HOURS REMAINING
MODEL T TEAM LEADER PUND: It seems prudent, at this point, to get
some seat time in a T, so I set out to learn how to drive the thing
with Liepelt, in the countryside near his house. It goes well, meaning
that I return from the experience only slightly more terrified of what
we are about to embark on than I was before having actually driven the
contraption I had incorrectly assumed was actually something resembling a
car.
If you ask any surviving geezer what he thinks of the Ford Model T, he
will likely have fond memories of it. Such is the appreciation for this
icon of Yankee ingenuity, this wide-eyed, old-timey charmer. This is
because the people who would have bad things to say about it all died in
or under or within the general vicinity of a T.
Model Ts are simple devices. But then, so are machetes. When describing
what sounds like minor mechanical mishaps in Model Ts, Liepelt is fond
of saying things like, “By all rights, that guy should have lost a
foot.” Lost a foot?! Who loses feet anymore?
9:17 A.M., TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15
MODEL T TEAM: We roar off on this chilly, gray October morning.
Us and the non-roaring Model S. Actually, we don’t roar, either. It
couldn’t have looked much like a race to the 10 or so bystanders, mostly
Piquette museum volunteers and a couple of perplexed passersby. Okay,
fine. With a subdued whine and a clatter, we roll off. Le Mans, this
ain’t.
9:19 A.M., TUESDAY
MODEL S TEAM: Detroit races by in a blur as electrons spew from
the Tesla’s batteries and go sluicing into the motor. We are winning
already! Probably.
9:32 A.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: Before the race, Liepelt assured us that a Model T
doesn’t have the beans for expressway travel, so we planned to take
less-speedy and much less direct roads to New York. Ford advertised a
top speed of 40 mph for the 22-hp Model T. Our prohibition against
expressways lasts all of 15 minutes before Liepelt wrestles the T onto
the suburban Southfield Freeway and proceeds to crank along at a rate
that, while sitting atop the high-mounted park bench of a seat with no
belts and a gas tank directly underneath, feels entirely too fast.
Later, we get a radio message from our chase truck that we hit 62 mph on
a downhill grade. I holler over the wind to Liepelt, “You didn’t tell
me this thing could do 62 mph!” His reply: “I didn’t know it could do 62
mph.” Instrumented testing later confirms Liepelt’s car to have a
level-ground top speed of 55 mph.
1:10 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL S TEAM: Car owner Glomb, at the wheel, breezes us out of
Michigan and into Ohio flatlands at a steady 68 mph, arriving in
Poland, Ohio, with 24 miles of range remaining.
1:12 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: We are topping out at rates nearly 40 percent
higher than the car’s supposed top speed, thanks largely to an
aftermarket two-speed rear axle that somehow wasn’t mentioned in the
pre-race meeting. This device adds a tall lever to the mix of the T’s
already foreign controls. Model Ts have a two-speed planetary
transmission operated by the left-most of three foot pedals. Reverse
gear is engaged with the center foot pedal, and some minimal braking
force is applied through the right pedal. The throttle is operated by a
lever mounted on the right side of the steering column. Spark advance is
controlled by a lever on the left-hand side of the column. I choose to
ignore that one.
1:27 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL S TEAM: Our first charging stop is at
Lawless Industries,
a shop only 10 miles off our ideal route. Tesla Motors had introduced
us to Shawn Lawless, a member of the EV faithful whose enterprise builds
state-of-the-art parade floats. Besides hot-rodding his own Model S, he
constructs various electrically powered vehicles ranging from
commercial lawn mowers to 177-mph drag bikes.
1:48 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: Watching Liepelt or Paulsen get the T up to speed
is like watching Willy Wonka operate a fantastical machine. It is a
thing of studied beauty, a sequence of crazy motions accompanied by all
manner of crunching, popping, and rumbling. I am less adept, and, once
up to speed, simply hope to not have to stop. Despite the upgraded
mechanical drum brakes Liepelt added to the rear years ago in a fit of
sanity, the T doesn’t really brake so much as coast to an eventual
standstill. In a standard T, the only thing that happens when you press
the brake pedal is that a cotton-lined band in the transmission feebly
squeezes a drum attached to the output shaft until you collide with
whatever you were braking for.
2:02 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL S TEAM: While our Model S sucks up 205 volts at 78 amps,
our host whisks us to a nearby quarter-mile strip to see his electric
dragster do a nearly silent disappearing act, turning in an 8.5-second,
145-mph run. Afterward, we have a relaxing lunch and take a short nap.
2:02 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: On a farm road in Ohio we are passed by a scooter. I
look over at Liepelt and say, “Dude, we just got passed by a scooter.”
Liepelt, looking straight ahead, sighs, “Yep.”
2:14 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: Driving a T is a distinctly outdoor experience. If
it is cold outside, you will be cold. And you will remain so until you
get into a building. The only heater is the drivetrain’s wasted BTUs,
drifting up through the holes in the floor cut for the pedals. And we’re
running with the two-piece windshield folded because our faces provide
less wind resistance than a tall, flat piece of glass. But both the
speed and the turn-of-the-century disregard for the softness of human
flesh eventually are blown from my consciousness as we ramble through
Ohio farmland.
It is during the long bucolic splendor and mercifully flat landscape of
Ohio that we first check in on Sherman’s crew. A fortuitously placed
brother-in-law who happens to be driving through Ohio confirms for us
that the Tesla is not drafting behind some cobbled-up wind fairing
mounted to its chase vehicle. Our spy also reports the Tesla’s speed to
be about 65 mph. But alas, we already know that. The night before the
start, our chase-truck driver, David Beard, a man whose
great-grandmother was killed by a T, surreptitiously fastened a GPS
tracker to the underside of the Tesla’s chase truck. This handy device,
monitored on our smartphones, also serves to blunt what we assume is a
text-message misinformation campaign being waged by the Tesla team.
|
|
Top:
Driving a Model T at night is extra terrifying. Bottom: Not so in the
Model S, which has the luxury of properly functioning lights.
|
4:32 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: We are barely across the Pennsylvania border before
the T begins to sputter, backfire, and struggle going up hills. This is
not as easy to recognize as you might imagine, because a T always
struggles going up hills. Liepelt figures there must be dirt in the fuel
system. He empties the cast-iron sediment bowl below the gas tank and
pops the top off the aftermarket Rayfield carb. There is no obvious
contamination, but without another solution, we decide this stop must
have cured the problem and gamely pull back onto the road.
5:00 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: Bang! Bang! Sputter. Turns out, wishful thinking is
no substitute for a repair. Liepelt screws a new condenser onto his T’s
Pinto-spec distributor (hey, at least it’s from a Ford), and we again
choose to believe this will cure the T’s weak heart.
6:20 P.M., TUESDAY
MODEL T TEAM: Naturally, the fresh condenser doesn’t cure the
problem. We roll to a stop at a Sheetz gas station in Kittanning,
Pennsylvania. The name of the gas station roughly matches the words
Liepelt is muttering from under the Model T. While he’s taking the carb
completely apart, a gasket breaks. We have no replacement, and the car
is now leaking fuel. We run across the street to the improbably named
Dollar Horn (“Your Favorite Store!”) and wander around looking for
something to seal the leak. We end up with a roll of cork and an
assortment of rubber O-rings, profoundly confusing a couple of store
employees. Since the carb has already been cobbled back together, we
don’t want to risk taking it back apart. So we decide that one drip per
second is maybe a safe leakage rate, and we fill up the tank. Beard eats
a ham sandwich.
|
|
David Liepelt gets a ground's-eye view of his T.
|
6:25 p.m., tuesday
MODEL S TEAM LEADER SHERMAN: Charging complete, I take over the
Model S’s sumptuous driver’s seat for the second leg. The dash shows 270
miles of range available. Driving alone to limit ballast and, having
disallowed the use of the climate-control system to save electrons, I am
content to let the miles slip by peacefully.
7:45 P.m., tuesday
MODEL T TEAM: According to our GPS data, the Tesla has passed us
somewhere around Clarion, Pennsylvania. This is not good news. The Model
S has finished its first charge, and we have done a lot of standing
around. Enthusiasm flags. Also, our battery is dead. It’s barely
powerful enough to push light through the thick glass of the headlight
lenses. Other drivers, our real nemeses throughout the trip, are
charging up on us in the dark at a closing speed that spells certain
dismemberment. We pull off and swap in a fresh battery that Liepelt has
brought along. He’d feared that the car wouldn’t be able to keep the
battery charged. We carry on, expecting to run out of electrical power
in another hour. Beard comes up with the idea of charging the battery in
the Ram chase truck for what we assume will be another short-order
battery swap. We are aware of the painful irony: The Model T needs a
battery swap, but the electric car does not.
|
|
Sadly, they had no Yosemite Sam mudflaps to fit the T.
|
7:51 p.m., tuesday
MODEL S TEAM: Since my 251-mile stint includes Allegheny and
Appalachian foothills, I have to drop below 60 mph to appease the
battery gods. While you’re pitying the T crew, racing in the dead of a
starless, chilly night in an open touring car from the Wilson
administration, consider our plight. We have to accelerate with all the
swiftness of erosion and cruise at less than half the Tesla’s 134-mph
top speed as a train of semis whistles past.
8:29 p.m., tuesday
MODEL T TEAM: We stop at an Ebensburg, Pennsylvania, auto-parts
shop and ask for the longest jumper cables they have. The guys behind
the counter ask us what we’re up to. When we tell them, they ask us the
same question again. Beard hefts the dead battery into the driver’s-side
RamBox and tapes the jumper cables up over the cabin. We clip and tape
one end to the Ram’s battery and the other to the battery out back.
Voilà,
a mobile charging station. An employee pops his head out the door and
asks if we need anything before they close. “Probably” is the only
response we can muster.
|
|
Top: Our Model S owner, Fred Glomb, celebrates the successful end of his relationship with Don Sherman.
|
10:40 p.m., tuesday
MODEL S TEAM: The Doncheski-Hermann homestead is deep-space dark
by the time we roll in with 25 miles of range remaining. While the Tesla
draws 236 volts at 79 amps, Glomb and I sleep soundly in a warm
motorhome.
middle of the night, tuesday, or maybe wednesday
MODEL T TEAM: Everything starts to blur together. Pennsylvania is
an off-white smear of row houses sited close to the road, punctuated
occasionally by glaring gas-station lights. Behind us, Beard can barely
see out of the Ram’s windshield because it is coated in three quarts of
15/40 diesel motor oil that the T has been spitting since the start.
It’s losing fluids quicker than we are.
Improbably, our battery holds strong and never needs another swap. And,
more shocking, our sputtering problem evaporates. Liepelt reckons that
it was caused by low fuel pressure and that keeping the tank as full as
possible keeps the gravity-fed engine humming. We short-stint through
the night, stopping every 60 or so miles to top off the tank. We have
only the cold to contend with now. Well, that and fatigue, which is
taking over from the face-blistering cold as our most immediate concern.
I briefly fall asleep in the passenger seat of the T and awake with a
start, realizing there is nothing to prevent me from falling out.
3:21 a.m., wednesday, october 16
MODEL S TEAM: With the car recharged, Glomb hustles the Tesla
down the driveway, at least until we encounter two deer, which we shoo
from our path.
5:38 a.m., wednesday
MODEL T TEAM: A dude walking out of a gas station in Dover, New
Jersey, yells “Chitty, chitty, bang, bang! Where’d you find that thing?
In a barn?” To this, Liepelt is gracious, noting that the T has been
active in collector-car club events since the 1950s. The man responds,
“Did you find it in a barn?”
6:06 a.m., wednesday
MODEL S TEAM: When we ask what part of the George Washington
Bridge we just bought after paying $15 per axle in tolls for our
six-axle convoy, the toll taker answers, “One light bulb.” During the
sprint across Long Island, we scan side roads for the T. Satisfied we’re
leading, Glomb indulges the accelerator.
|
|
The sassy team shirts were the Tesla group's secret to success.
|
6:41 a.m., wednesday
MODEL T TEAM: We cross the George Washington Bridge at the
beginning of rush hour. The toll attendant shows no reaction to our
vehicle. Paulsen makes a masterful run through city traffic. The GPS
transmitter on the enemy car is dead. It ran out of power sometime in
the night. We know that Sherman’s team stopped for their second charge,
and we know where. Beyond that, we know nothing.
A text from the Tesla team’s photographer notes that they are six miles
from the end. We tell them that we are two miles from finishing in a
last-ditch hope that they’ll blast through their range trying to catch
us. But mostly just to make Sherman tense.
7:25 a.m., wednesday
MODEL S TEAM: After 22 hours and eight minutes on the road, we wheel the Model S up to the
Tesla Science Center,
our finish line. There are no brass bands, no curious media, and, most
important, no crowing Model T troglodytes to greet us. The gate is
padlocked, the birds are at peace, and for all we know, our rivals have
thrown a petcock in Pennsylvania. The Tesla’s average speed for the trip
is 32 mph or 58 mph minus the 10 hours of charging time.
8:35 a.m., wednesday
MODEL T TEAM: We pull into the Science Center windburned,
red-eyed and packed with Fritos, Cajun-flavored peanuts, and beef jerky;
we are in the state of calm that comes after being intensely tired for
an absurdly long time. The tough old buggy made it, running nearly
flat-out for 765 miles. We shake hands with the S team and head to a
group breakfast in the T. The S sits charging on its electrical
umbilical cord.
9:10 a.m., wednesday
MODEL S TEAM: Well, she might not have correctly predicted which
team would win, but give Jessica Glomb credit for at least getting the
winning margin right. Sadly, she’s absent for the high fives at Nikola’s
old stomping grounds. Considering that a century of intensive
development separates the Model S from the Model T, our winning margin
is astoundingly small. But then, so is all human achievement when
measured against the boundless infinity of the cosmos. Which is a lot
bigger than the number of restroom stalls in the Library of Congress, so
hurry it up, pal.
|
|
Vehicle
|
Ford Model T
Click here to view test sheet.
|
Tesla Model S
Click here to view test sheet.
|
|
Base Price
|
$440 (in 1915)
|
$94,570
|
|
Price as Tested
|
$440 (in 1915)
|
$105,470
|
|
Dimensions
|
|
|
|
Length
|
134.5 inches
|
196.0 inches
|
|
Width
|
66.0 inches
|
77.3 inches
|
|
Height
|
82.0 inches
|
56.5 inches
|
|
Wheelbase
|
100.0 inches
|
116.5 inches
|
|
Curb Weight
|
1802 lbs
|
4785 lbs
|
|
|
Powertrain
|
|
|
|
Engine/Motor
|
flathead 8-valve inline-4, iron block and head, 1x1 bbl carburetor
|
AC permanent-magnet synchronous
|
|
Power HP @ RPM
|
22 @ 1600
|
416 @ 8600
|
|
Torque LB-FT @ RPM
|
83 @ 900
|
443 @ 0
|
|
Driveline
|
|
|
|
Transmission
|
2-speed pedal-shifted
|
1-speed direct drive
|
|
C/D Test
Results*
|
|
|
|
Acceleration
|
|
|
|
0–50 MPH
|
26.3 sec
|
3.6 sec
|
|
0–60 MPH
|
-
|
4.6 sec
|
|
0–100 MPH
|
yeah, right
|
12.1 sec
|
|
¼-Mile @ MPH
|
25.3 sec @ 49
|
13.3 sec @ 104
|
|
Top Speed
|
55 mph (drag ltd)
|
134 mph (gov ltd)
|
|
Braking
|
227 feet (50–0 mph)
|
160 feet (70–0 mph)
|
*Tesla Model S Test Results from Instrumented Test published in our January 2013 issue |
The Slow Fuel Movement
Driving from San Diego to San Francisco in an electric
Fiat 500e
is like using a Norelco to cut your lawn. An 85-mile range and a
four-hour charging time make the 500-mile trip a near impossibility if
you’re depending on public infrastructure. But there is another way:
Download the
PlugShare
app, which maps charging stations, including those in the garages of
your fellow Americans. More than 5800 people have added their homes to
the nationwide database, inviting strangers to use their electricity and
their toilets.
Many are in California. We found 65 in San Diego, including one at a
bayfront beach house owned by Lew Mills, a clinical psychotherapist.
When we called to invite ourselves over, he replied: “I’m having a
party. I’ll put you on the guest list.”
Stopping to purchase a $28 bottle of rye, we were obeying not just
party-going politesse, but also a convention of PlugSharing. This
would-be utopian collective operates on a barter economy, such that
private charging often ends up costing magnitudes more than the $2 you’d
pay to charge at a commercial station. It’s designed to be used in
emergencies, when there are no public stations available. Or for when
you’re desperately lonely.
Mills barefooted out to hook up the Fiat in his garage and then invited
us to revel. He said he shares his plug to help combat range anxiety,
the electric car’s most pernicious foe.
The next day, 75 miles north in San Juan Capistrano, Judy Soroudi also
invited us inside after plugging us in. “You shouldn’t have come to a
Jewish mother’s house,” she said, “if you didn’t want chicken soup.”
After feeding us, she told a wistful story of giving a sea captain a
ride to his regatta while his vehicle was charging. Chauffeuring
visitors is commonplace among PlugSharers, out of kindness but also
because it’s easier to drive someone 10 minutes down the road than to
entertain them for hours while their car recharges. Soroudi said she had
no qualms about inviting strangers into her house because “people who
care about the environment are nice.”
Not that all PlugSharers are peaceniks or reek of patchouli. Dan
Flaherty’s Annapolis ring glinted from the sunlight streaming into his
Malibu home, where he offered coffee and bacon while the Fiat juiced up.
The former fighter pilot and Harvard Business School–educated CFO told
us that he signed up for PlugShare to usher in the future.
Eighty-five miles north in Santa Barbara, Jay Hennigan said that yes,
his plug was available, but he pointed us to exactly that future in the
form of a public charging station at a nearby bank. After experiencing
the camaraderie of PlugSharing, charging there felt like being a
fisherman eating canned tuna at sea.
Steve Scholpp’s house in Cambria was indispensable, as topping off the
battery at his carport is the only way to make the 75 mountainous miles
to Big Sur. Hypermiling through the Santa Lucia Mountains was like
riding a very slow roller coaster. We chugged up the peaks at a
range-maximizing pace slow enough to anger Winnebagos, and then
regenerated into the valleys as if riding a one-car Space Mountain.
Farther up the coast, while we were charging at Will and Jill Beckett’s
house in Santa Cruz, Jill made an observation about the world of EVs,
which she described as “inhabited by nerds who only like to talk to each
other about cars.” In their own way, EV drivers are every bit as
enthusiastic as the guy who shows up at the Porsche Club dinner flying
Martini colors. It is a tight cohort, implicitly trusting and almost
tribal.
But the conditions that make this possible will not exist forever. As
the public infrastructure gets built and electric cars become more
widespread, the community will undoubtedly become diluted. This is
PlugSharing’s summer of love.
