The Flying Car Arrives—Eventually

When I was a boy, I believed in flying cars with the same unwavering faith that other kids reserved for Santa Claus, the tooth fairy, and the notion that adults knew what they were doing. I had read science-fiction books about people going to work in automobiles that soared above traffic, landing on skyscrapers, and parking in garages designed with a very large budget and no neighbors.

Then came The Jetsons on Saturday morning television, and I thought the idea settled. By the year 2000, I knew I would be flying to the grocery store, gliding over the neighbors' roofs, and arriving at church without having to explain why I was late. The future was on its way, and all we had to do was wait.

The year 2000 came and went, however, without so much as a flying Yugo passing over my head. We had computers that could do arithmetic faster than a college professor, telephones that took photographs, and refrigerators that seemed to require more instructions than a nuclear power plant.

Yet the automobile remained stubbornly grounded. It was a disappointing turn of events. I spent my childhood preparing for an era of aerial motoring, only to discover I was still expected to sit in traffic behind a fellow who believed that a red light was a philosophical anomaly.

It turns out I wasn't the only one promised this magnificent future. Americans had heard about flying cars for more than a century, and the predictions were made with the confidence of a politician promising to reduce taxes while increasing every government service known to humanity.

In 1917, Glenn Curtiss produced the Autoplane, an early attempt to combine an automobile with an aircraft. It looked like an ordinary car attacked by an airplane and left with several inconvenient appendages.

It was an ambitious contraption, though one must admire the spirit of a man who looks at a perfectly serviceable automobile and decides it really needs wings. By 1923, Science and Invention magazine was predicting that so-called helicars would solve New York City's traffic problems by 1973.

The invention would presumably allow motorists to rise above the streets and avoid the congestion below. This was a splendid idea, except for the little difficulty that every motorist in New York would presumably have the same idea at the same time.

A traffic jam is inconvenient enough when everybody is on the pavement. Put the whole business in the sky, and you have merely transferred the argument to a higher elevation.

Henry Ford, who knew a thing or two about automobiles, predicted in 1940 that a combination airplane and motorcar was coming. The postwar years brought fresh enthusiasm, new prototypes, and a public convinced that the future had finally obtained the necessary paperwork.

The Aerocar even demonstrated that a roadable aircraft could fly and drive, and it got consideration for production. Unfortunately, the public did not rush to buy enough to make the business work.

In 1957, Popular Mechanics promised readers that the Hiller Aerial Sedan would be their flying car by 1967. One could supposedly order four-door models, sports models, or trucks.

I imagine the advertising department was particularly proud of the truck, because nothing says progress quite like delivering a load of lumber to a construction site while disturbing the air traffic over three counties.

Then came The Jetsons in 1962, and the matter was settled again, at least in children's minds. George Jetson drove a flying car to work, lived with a robotic servant, and complained about his employer.

We were promised machines, conveniences, and a leisurely existence. Somehow, robotic servants have arrived, and most employers still expect you to show up on time, preferably without landing on the roof.

By the time Back to the Future Part II showed flying cars in 1989, we had become so accustomed to the predictions that we hardly questioned them. The year 2015 arrived, and we got smartphones, social media, and people walking into telephone poles while looking at their screens.

It was progress, certainly, but not quite the sort of progress ordered.

Now, however, comes Tesla, the automobile company favored by Storey County's more technologically adventurous citizens, with a new Roadster that promises to do what generations of engineers, inventors, magazine editors, and Hollywood cartoonists have assured us was just around the corner. Elon Musk unveiled a second-generation Tesla Roadster, equipped with cold-gas thrusters and a curious assortment of technological marvels intended to lift the vehicle briefly into the air, perform aerial maneuvers, and generally make ordinary motoring look as exciting as a toddler playing chicken in a parking lot.

Musk announced on his social media platform that the future does, indeed, have flying cars, and I am delighted to hear it. I have been waiting for the future since childhood, and it is comforting to learn it hasn't forgotten my address. It is merely running late.

The Roadster is said to accelerate from zero to 60 miles per hour in less than a second. This will be useful for drivers who are always late, although it raises the question of what happens to the driver during the acceleration. At that speed, one's body might arrive at the destination before one's stomach has finished considering the situation.

Tesla also promises that the car can make short jumps and spin in midair. I am uncertain what practical purpose this serves, unless the neighborhood has become so congested that one must leap over the fellow in front of the driveway.

Still, it is difficult to criticize a machine for offering possibilities that the average motorist has never before enjoyed. We have spent a century attempting to make driving more convenient, and now somebody has devised a way to make the automobile perform gymnastics.

Naturally, an obstacle between the demonstration and the day that ordinary citizens can buy one and drive it home. That obstacle is the federal government, along with state governments, aviation authorities, traffic laws, safety requirements, and the general human tendency to object when a stranger suddenly rises into the air beside the school bus.

A law professor has pointed out the long process before vehicles of this sort can legally operate on public roads. It is hard to imagine every state will welcome a driver who decides, in the middle of rush-hour traffic, that the pavement has become beneath his dignity.

Nevada might be especially interesting. We already have motorists who treat lane markings as decorative suggestions. Give them the ability to fly, and I fear we will discover the most dangerous thing in the air is not a bird, a plane, or a malfunctioning flying car, but a fellow who believes his turn signal is an optional accessory.

Imagine the regulations. The Department of Motor Vehicles would need a new examination. Applicants would have to demonstrate that they could parallel-park, merge onto a highway, and maintain a safe altitude above a school crossing.

The written test might include questions about right-of-way when two flying cars meet over an intersection, and whether a vehicle descending through a cloud has the same obligations as one entering a roundabout.

Then, there would be licensing fees, insurance requirements, inspection stations, and probably a special permit for zipping over your mother-in-law's house. The government would need to decide whether a flying automobile belonged to the Department of Transportation, the Federal Aviation Administration, or whichever department answered the telephone first.

And what of the police? Would an officer pull you over, or would he have to pull himself up alongside you? Would speeding tickets be issued in miles per hour or feet above ground level? If a driver parked on the roof of a courthouse, would the vehicle be towed, impounded, or left there until the owner returned with a ladder?

These are not trivial matters. They are the sort of questions that keep a civilization from advancing too quickly, and a writer awake late into the small hours.

Tesla says production won't begin until 2028. Even then, there is no guarantee that the vehicle will be delivered on a particular date, or indeed delivered at all. The company has accepted reservations, but the fine print is cautious enough to make a man wonder whether he is buying a flying car or reserving a place in the next century.

The vehicle's price has not been announced, either. This is perhaps wise. A person can dream of owning a flying car indefinitely, but once he learns the price, the dream may suddenly become a used bicycle.

Still, I remain hopeful. One day I may climb into a flying car, press a button, and rise gracefully above the traffic. I shall look down upon the highways, the brake lights, the impatient commuters, and the fellow in the pickup truck who has been driving in the left lane at 40 miles an hour since the Eisenhower administration.

Then I shall discover that the airways are just as crowded, the flying-car registration has expired, the insurance company refuses to cover aerial maneuvers, and the FAA has closed my preferred route pending an investigation.

I shall return to the ground, park at the curb, and walk the remaining distance. It will be a magnificent achievement in transportation technology, and I shall be 20 minutes late.

After all, some things about the future were never going to change.