Are We There Yet?

The race itself takes on a surreal quality as the string of electric cars queues up at the starting line. Just when they're expected to rev their engines, the cars silently motor up to the start line. When the starting gun sounds, there are no diesel fumes — just some fresh, clean air in the cars' wakes! There's a sorry lack of half-naked trophy girls among the spectators in the crowd; instead, just a bunch of tech freaks. Fan gear? They wear signs that say "Look Ma, no tailpipe!" or campaign buttons with pictures of windmills. Nobody's going to splash the winning driver with foaming champagne.

But when the Electric Imp pulls up to the line, Cliff Rassmueller slips on his helmet. He hits the pedal; his tires squeal. And the audience swears it smells the future in a collective whiff of burnt rubber.