I took an Uber to the airport after work today, and was a little surprised to be picked up by a white Tesla Model 3; usually I ride in a clapped-out Toyota Prius with slack seat belts and a smell like the disinfectant they use in 1980s barber shops in South East London.
I’ve been in four Teslas in my life, and of the two that I’ve been inside in California, I’ve felt as sick as a dog. It may be the back seat, it may be the stop-and-go traffic on the freeway, but it feels like the throttle on this car was forever throbbing, just like when I’d been in an old taxi in Hong Kong and the driver seemed to think constantly pumping the accelerator pedal was somehow the correct thing to do.
So for half an hour or more, it was all I could do to not boke all over the car I was in. I counted down the moments until I could fall out of the car and stand, gulping in air, by the entrance to the terminal.
Now, my sample size is small, and I don’t know if I’d be as bad in the back of a different car, but the car from the airport to the hotel didn’t do that to me, and nor did the car to the office this morning. And I don’t really want to spend time and money increasing my sample of rides-in-the-back-of-a-Tesla. So much for my espousal of the scientific method.