As I made my way down the highway, my frustration mounted.
It was rush hour, and the road was packed with vehicles. Stop-and-go traffic made things unpredictable. You never quite knew when you’d be able to speed up or would need to slow down.
I’m no rookie when it comes to the rush hour slog. So, I followed protocols, intently watching the brake lights of the car in front of me.
But that vehicle – a Tesla – proved erratic. Its brake lights would come on suddenly and intensely. And I would need to slam on the brakes to avoid a collision.
Teslas are notoriously tall cars, and I struggled to see beyond it. But as traffic in the other lanes started outpacing ours, I figured out what was going on.
There was plenty of blacktop in front of the Tesla. But the vehicle was not filling that gap. Instead, the driver was braking early and often, leaving me in a bind for no good reason.
After a few agonizing miles, I seized an opportunity to move into an adjoining lane and pass the Tesla. As I did, I peeked over – and immediately discovered what had caused me so much agony.
The driver had one hand on the wheel, and the other on a smartphone. Much of her attention was on that device, rather than the road.
It was a reckless decision. And I, the driver behind her, had borne the brunt of it.
My blood boiled. But my rage extended far beyond the woman sitting inside that metal box.
When I was a new driver, I despised Lexus vehicles.
The sedans and SUVs with that stylized chrome L on their hoods were fine enough. But the people who owned them were not.
I loathed the entitled jerks who tailgated me at high speeds or cut me off on the road. Most of the time, these drivers were piloting a Lexus. And as I connected the dots, my disdain for the luxury car label grew.
I began to see the brand as an enabler, allowing drivers to violate the rules of the road without consequences. It seemed like the outrageously high price tags for Lexus vehicles came with a superiority complex – one that drivers asserted at every turn. And poor chumps like me were left to clean up the mess.
As I’ve grown older, my vitriol for Lexus has turned to indifference. But that’s mostly because there’s a new clubhouse leader in despised car brands.
Tesla.
Now, to be clear, I have a healthy respect for the automaker with the stylized T on its hood. Disrupting the entrenched United States market as an outsider is daunting enough. Yet, Tesla has managed to break through while changing the way the industry develops cars.
When I bought my Ford SUV, most models were gas-powered. By the time I buy my next one, Ford might also have several electric options for me to consider. Tesla has everything to do with that shift.
But Tesla has also taken The Lexus Problem to new heights. The company is helmed by the bombastic Elon Musk, who once infamously expressed his desire for human driving to be outlawed.
Tesla has moved toward this goal by developing autonomous modes in its vehicles. But the self-driving features have been imperfect, and even deadly at times.
The company has tried to fix these mishaps with software updates. And it’s taken steps to remind drivers to stay alert when the car is on autopilot, in the event they need to take over.
But that message only goes so far.
Indeed, Musk’s bold claims have caused something of a halo effect. Many Tesla customers believe the car can drive itself and slack off on the fundamentals.
Whether they have autonomous mode engaged or not, Tesla drivers can act like the one I was stuck behind on the highway — checking their phones more intently than the road. In their minds, the high-tech car itself absolves them of responsibility.
So now, instead of battling aggressive Lexus drivers, I’m forced to reckon with passive Tesla drivers. The behavior might be different, but the entitlement complex is the same.
These drivers claim superiority on the road. And the rest of us are forced to reckon with them.
I’ll never forget the first time I tried cruise control as a driver.
I was on a road trip with my father, and he encouraged me to engage the feature for the miles ahead.
I set my speed, using the controls next to the steering wheel. I took my foot off the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel.
The car zipped along as seamlessly as before. I was amazed.
Soon, I saw a slower vehicle ahead of me. I checked my mirrors, engaged my blinker, and turned the steering wheel slightly, gliding into the passing lane. Once I cleared the slower vehicle, I glided back into my original lane.
I was taking to cruise control quickly. But I wasn’t comfortable.
And so, I tapped the brake and pressed my foot back onto the gas pedal. This disengaged all the cruise control settings, putting me fully in charge.
My father looked over at me incredulously, an implied question in his silent stare. I replied assertively.
I just don’t like being on autopilot.
And that was that.
Now, cruise control was a far cry from today’s autonomous modes. You still had to pay attention to the road, even without a foot on the gas.
Even so, I didn’t enjoy the partial lack of control. Too much could go wrong, and I didn’t trust myself to snap back into it before it did.
Such perspectives are basically unheard of these days. People seem to enjoy going on autopilot — both in the car and outside it. With cutting-edge technology at our fingertips, it’s easier than ever to fill the gaps in our day-to-day. And we’re all too eager to do so.
This by itself is not a concern. Efficiency is a desirable attribute. Boredom is not.
Still, going on autopilot does come with some strings attached. We must pay attention to our surroundings. And we must be ready to spring into action if need be.
All too often, we willfully ignore these requirements. Or we deprecate their importance.
In doing so, we end up like that Tesla driver on the highway. We prefer what’s on our smartphones to the task at hand.
Sure, that driver wasn’t using Tesla’s autonomous mode. (Don’t worry. I looked.) But that’s beside the point.
You see, the autopilot mentality is pervasive. We use it to abdicate responsibility at every turn — whether we have the system engaged or not.
And this mindset can be disastrously corrosive.
Without accountability, standards degrade. Without accountability, people get hurt. Without accountability, justice goes unserved.
How can avert major mistakes if we’re not engaged? How can we learn from the mishaps that we encounter if we’re not involved? And how can we make the world a safer place if we’re checked out?
We can’t.
Autopilot is a tool. Going on autopilot is a poison pill.
It’s time for us to stop taking it.