This new car I’m test-driving boasts all the latest bells and whistles – or, rather, beeps and bings. Peer sideways for too long checking traffic and the car emits an irritating sound. Should I take a hand off the wheel to scratch an ear, I’m admonished with a strident beep.
When the car determines it’s too near a white line, it tugs the wheel against my hands and brakes as a car slows ahead. Its haptic “buttons” feel like fingers pressing back – as if an invisible presence has its hands and feet on the controls: a ghost in the machine I’m inside. Heading back to the caryard, a cryptic tone sounds.
From the back seat, salesman Anthony says it’s the over-speed warning. We’re still on the 40km/h service road but the car “saw” the yard’s 5km/h speed-limit sign. Anthony advises disabling it on start-up.
The car doesn’t “know” me yet, so won’t detect if I’m tired anyway. I’ve read about some systems that are so crudely calibrated they’ll insistently demand you take a break by confusing energetic driving on a twisting mountain road with drunkenness or debility. Others declare you unfit to drive if you’ve had a cold or a rough night.
You’ve already seen yourself in the bathroom mirror. Who needs a robot to rub it in? I last faced this kind of surveillance and intervention 50 years ago, seated beside a human driving instructor with dual controls overriding my own.
I’m an experienced motorist, but in this new car I feel patronised. Between the white lines, human. In this robot-on-wheels I’m no longer autonomous.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
