#electric vehicles

Imagine a car company with an unusual product strategy: it makes one car.

Not one car at a time, or one car until the next model year. One car, as a continuing design. The company improves individual components when technology advances, but it treats the underlying vehicle almost as an industrial standard rather than a fashion product. A door made fifteen years from now still fits the mounting points on a car built today. Suspension assemblies can be replaced without redesigning half the vehicle. Body panels are available individually. Engines, motors, batteries, computers, seats, lights, switches, and interior pieces can be removed and replaced without turning a repair into an archaeological expedition through discontinued part numbers. Technical documentation is public. Independent companies are encouraged to manufacture compatible components. Junkyards accumulate an enormous supply of interchangeable originals. Owners learn the architecture because the architecture stays put.

The result would be something like the automotive equivalent of the Fender Stratocaster. A Stratocaster made today is not literally the same object Fender sold in 1954, and musicians have spent seventy years changing pickups, bridges, necks, electronics, finishes, and virtually everything else attached to it. Yet the basic design has become less a particular year's product than a durable platform. Its longevity creates its own ecosystem. Parts manufacturers can confidently build for it; repair knowledge accumulates instead of expiring; secondhand components remain useful; and an old instrument need not become technologically orphaned simply because its manufacturer would prefer to sell another one.

Electric vehicles have a peculiar way of making gasoline cars feel complicated.

You plug the car in. Electricity flows into a battery. Later, that electricity turns a motor, and the motor turns the wheels. There is no gasoline to pump, no miniature sequence of explosions under the hood, and much less energy disappearing as waste heat. After spending some time with a good EV, it becomes surprisingly easy to look at the internal-combustion automobile and wonder whether we are seeing the mature form of transportation or an extraordinarily successful transitional technology.

That raises a much bigger question.

Suppose the United States eventually converted essentially its entire passenger-vehicle fleet to electricity. Where would all that electricity come from?

One intriguing answer begins in the enormous stretches of open land across the American interior. The Great Plains and neighboring regions contain abundant solar and wind resources, along with vast areas where large generating projects can be built. Could we simply build enough solar capacity there to provide the energy currently supplied by gasoline?

And if we could, could that electricity eventually appear wherever Americans currently expect to find fuel: interstate exits, highway service plazas, neighborhood filling stations and thousands of other places across the country?

It sounds like a project of almost cartoonish scale.

The surprising part is that the arithmetic itself does not rule it out.