Gabe, a third-generation San Francisco resident, says he grew up playing with Nancy Pelosi’s kids, went to high school with Gavin Newsom, and is now driver as they are politicians– it’s in his blood. He has been operating taxis, Ubers and Lyfts since 1995, and in the overdue 1990s he even took part in organizing a taxi drivers’ strike. Over the past two decades, he has also written about driving, passenger transportation and motorcycle riding. And if you think we’re kidding when it comes to car chase movie tropes, Gabe was a US Marine machine gunner during the first Gulf War, so he’s at least ex-military. He drives a gray Hyundai Ioniq 5 EV (9/10, WIRED recommends) and keeps military service ribbons pinned to his dashboard. There’s also a 100-year-old ukulele sticking out of the center console.
The chase begins as planned: one of us hails a Waymo a few blocks away, drives it to the edge of the parking lot, and then runs to join the others in our pursuit vehicle. – You know what you have to say, right? Gabe says from the driver’s seat as we try to fasten our seat belts. WIRED flashes.
“Hurry up!” Gabe says. “You’ve never seen old movies? You jump in a taxi and say, “Follow that car!”
But Waymo just sits there. For two agonizing minutes. We have plenty of time to stare awkwardly at our prey – a vehicle shaped like a cartoon shark with rotating gadgets implanted in its skin – as it stares at us through 29 cameras and five lidars, mapping our outlines.
“He seems shy,” Gabe says.
“It’s a shame. It’s such a shame,” he tells WIRED. “He knows he’s being cheated.”
Then at 10:42 Waymo starts moving. WIRED shouts: “Follow that car!”
Less than a minute later, Gabe sighs. “I’m not used to driving so slowly.”
Before we go Furthermore, let’s get something out of the way: Driving an autonomous vehicle, especially for the first time, is an instantly chilly experience. It starts like a ride at an amusement park – an empty gondola pulls up, you enter and close the door. Then it becomes opposite from a ride to an amusement park. No emotions. No strolling around. No clatter. Just you, pliable black leather, the default computer voice, and – for now – the steering wheel, ghostly turning this way and that.