So my uncle loans me this car. A fully electric, bright blue and white, Kia Soul.
I have exactly zero cars at the moment… so a free car sounds kind of amazing, and also my uncle is being super sweet. And I’m a hippie. Electric? Green? Be still my liberal heart.
I should add, I can rock my raybans, wind in my hair, blasting Black Sabbath and literally wearing my black belt and still fail, utterly, to look cool in this car.
The car apparently has a 200km range on it when the battery is full. If you have read the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, you may be familiar with the concept of “Bistromatics”. This refers to a number that can only be anything OTHER than what it purports to be. In this case, a 200 km range.
Perhaps it’s 200km on a level road, in good weather, at a constant speed, with no stereo, no climate control, and barely any load excepting, perhaps, a reasonably svelte driver who doesn’t mind carrying on a running dialogue of pep-talking the car.
Otherwise, it’s something like 75k before the car gently and politely starts telling you that you’re utterly fucked in about 25k. It likes to tell you this when it’s >25k from home.
So, I’m on my way home at night when this happens. I have never experienced having to plug in a car. The whole idea is surreal. Is there a dynamo crank? A place to stuff a couple of AA batteries? Does it have a remote control? I have no idea where to go, what it costs, how long it takes. I pull over in downtown Hamilton and go to the dojo at McMaster U, the only place I can think of that will have chargers.
Then I have to work out how to use it. Download an app, create an account, load up some credits, plug in your car like a glorified toy and… sit in it. With no heat and no music. For however long it takes. Longer, presumably, than charging a phone.
I spend a few hours in a foul mood, in the dojo parking lot, at midnight, fuming.
So I crawl in cold and hungry and irate after midnight last night, declaring loudly that this car is not for me. Everyone wants me to love the car. I do not love the car. I do not even have a genial relationship with the car. The capability of the car is one step above an e-bike with a slightly oversized basket.
Tito regales me with all the things I could have done differently to avoid this, while I sit there and protest that I DID do all these things, that I AM smarter than the average bear, that I DO know how to read the gauges. Then I insist on taking my parents civic because fuck-this-YOU-drive-the-thing-since-you’re-so-smart.
This evening he calls me up around 9pm and tells me “I ran out of battery, please come get me”.


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