I'm crossing back over the median from a bathroom break at a desolate Chipoltle's in the shadow of an enormous Meijer grocery store, making a beeline for the 2016 Tesla Model S 70D plugged into the Supercharger station. Inside it, the prize: The take-out Chick-fil-A sandwich I'd snagged earlier, presently off-gassing a delicious chicken grease fog into its interior. I'm focusing intently on the future and its palatable delights as I'm walking, while abstractly pondering the scene before me: A sexy, futuristic EV capable of more than 250+ miles on a charge, sucking down a vast quantity of electricity behind an Applebee's, next to a dumpster, in Lima, Ohio.
The spiderweb catches me totally unaware as I pass between two Superchargers. Sheer, abject terror. I sputter and juke, pawing at my face, stumbling towards the future as determined by Elon Musk. Focus too much on the metaphorical novelty of the thing, in this nowhere place, and you miss the enterprising spiders' masterpiece entirely.
It's time to leave. I've taken on 94 miles of charge, 440 calories worth of fried chicken sandwich, and a surfeit of spider silk. The door handles extend as I lurch closer to the door, still tensed, waiting to feel eight legs skittering on my neck. Inside, hopefully without an arachnid hitchhiker, there's no cliched starter button to push, just select "Drive" and go. The ultimate in convenience in Ohio's monument to convenience itself: The interstate rest stop.
The 70D is the new entry-level Model S, replacing the 60S and slotting in below the 85D and Tesla's more manic P85D. This particular one is an odd beigeish gold, treated with black and buttermilk leather and a stripe-y wood inside, but otherwise it's not significantly different than any other Model S. Despite the dual motors, Tesla is quick to point out this is not a performance variant. Sure, but it's not slow. Blowing past the occasional lane-challenged Malibu Classic driver or a trailer full of hogs is a tickle of the go-pedal away.
Perhaps a change of tire would bring out a little more "P" in the 70D, as the Michelins squirm and complain under anything resembling a spirited corner. Here on the Ohio-Indiana frontier, that means off-ramps are squirrelly affairs at enthusiastic velocities. The interstate—dead straight to the horizon—is no problem. Cruising is effortless, passing is a laugh, although speeds above 70 mph eat up enough juice to make a dent in the range. Slow and steady, with spurts of electroceleration, is the ticket.
Later: I'm parked at another Supercharger behind a La Quinta Inn in south Indianapolis, trying to be discreet. Meanwhile, the inescapable presence of the bizarre beige car plugged into the even more bizarre, bright red, toroidal object heightens my paranoia. What's the man with the unusual sedan doing loitering behind a low-rent hotel in Beech Grove? Perhaps I'm broadcasting my agenda too loudly without saying anything, a street preacher of sorts, barking the Silicon Valley gospel at a hostile heartland. A man approaches.
Oh no.
Despite the RealTree outerwear, he's all smiles. "That electric? How long's it take to charge?" I wait for the other hunting boot to drop, but I indulge his questions. Curiosity satisfied, he thanks me and saunters off.
A closer look reveals less glaring hostility among the natives whizzing in and out of the surprisingly busy La Quinta and surrounding chain stores, and considerably more rush-hour-induced tunnel vision. No one gives a whit that I'm assaulting their Heartland values with this Bay Area alternative-lifestyle-mobile. So much for my delusional freak flag—I'm the only one who sees that Bear Republic standard snapping in the stiff breeze above this little patch of Musklandia.
And what's more, traveling via Tesla in the great Midwestern expanses—prime real estate for traditional "you have to pee again? Hold it in!" American road trips—is bracingly refreshing . No, you can't be in too much of a hurry, but isn't it really ego and pride that cause us to steam through the flyover states? Fuel nozzle goes in, a sprint to the can, hop in the car, and you're back on the road, perhaps one-handing a fried chicken sandwich. As the greasy crumbs sprinkle onto your shirt like saturated snow, you're making good but uninspired time. There's probably a merit badge in it for you.
Back to the present: I'm at a Supercharger station. It's behind an Applebee's, next to a dumpster, in Lima Ohio. I've got cobwebs on my face and 20 minutes to burn while the Tesla gets an electron infusion. I'm dropping crumbs on the grass. The Tesla and I are making truly crappy time, but it gives me the headspace to contemplate the trip ahead, the gaggle of chain restaurant signs sprouting behind the Applebee's, and the delicious chicken grease. Thinking, just like time, it's a rare luxury that I hardly ever experience in a car.
Much like time, or thought, the Tesla itself is still a luxury item. Traveling this way, with enforced stops well under iron-butt certified distances, is a luxury, too. There are plenty of things I wouldn't do with the Model S—catching another spiderweb with my beard being first on the list. It's stiffly sprung and squirmy, but it covers the long straight paths from nowhere to some other nowhere pretty nicely. I'd choose a different steed for plucking the winding strings over the Continental Divide, but it's not a bad way to meander down the central plains, content in the fried chicken afterglow.
