Quick Shifts

Each week I bring you the top stories in the auto industry along with my commentary or sometimes amusing thoughts about the craziness that goes on in the world of cars.   

Stories you’ll find today:

• Austin’s Newest Tourist Attraction: Self-Crashing Cars
• Kid skips bus, gets patrol car instead
• From golf carts to rocket engines: Harley’s wild resume
• Tennis balls: the duct tape of redneck engineering

Austin’s Newest Tourist Attraction: Self-Crashing Cars.  Tesla’s much-hyped robotaxis have finally started rolling in Austin, and within days they were already rolling into things, because apparently “self-driving” really means “self-crashing” when you hand the wheel over to a car that thinks a curb is just a suggestion. Locals have spotted them stopped dead in intersections, clipping poles, and generally behaving like that one friend who swears they’re fine to drive after two margaritas but then misses their own driveway. It’s not exactly the utopian future Elon promised, unless your vision of the future includes traffic jams caused by confused Teslas trying to negotiate a left turn while simultaneously auditioning for America’s Funniest Home Videos. If this is the revolution, it’s starting to look a lot like a demolition derby with better Wi-Fi.

Kid skips bus, gets patrol car instead.  In Florida a 12-year-old decided the school bus was overrated and swiped his parents’ truck for a DIY commute, except instead of pulling into the drop-off lane he treated the parking lot like Daytona, knocking over cones and attracting enough attention to trigger a police chase that ended with him smashing into both a parked car and a patrol vehicle. Witnesses say he was aiming for his old middle school, which makes sense because nothing screams “I miss homeroom” like a high-speed pursuit before first period. Luckily no one was hurt, unless you count the truck, the parked car, the police cruiser, and his parents’ blood pressure, which is now higher than his top speed. The kid’s joyride is a reminder that while most 12-year-olds are begging for screen time, some are busy trying to unlock the next level of Grand Theft Auto: Middle School Edition.

From golf carts to rocket engines: Harley’s wild resume.  Harley-Davidson didn’t just build thunderous V-twin cruisers—they moonlighted as lawn mower engine makers, boat financiers, rocket part producers, and even golf cart / utilicar manufacturers—essentially saying, “If we can’t roar down Route 66, we’ll mow, float, fly, or roll you to your mailbox.” Who knew?  They built engines for mowing companies during the Great Depression, flirted with boats (though the H-D name never powered them), even made drone rocket engines for military target practice, then later rolled out golf carts where shifting into reverse meant killing the engine first, and utilicars small enough for mail carriers or factory floors. And in the ’90s, they tried “Hot Road” cologne so slogans like “The Scent of Freedom” might’ve smelled more like “Eau de Miscalculation”—a bold move, but apparently no one wanted their freedom perfume. Driving a Harley is one thing, but apparently Harley also wanted you to mow your yard, float your lake toy, or even stink like a biker.  Seems to me they should just stick to motorcycles.

Tennis balls: the duct tape of redneck engineering.  If you’ve ever walked through a parking lot and spotted a random tennis ball jammed onto someone’s trailer hitch, you probably figured either a dog lost its toy or Serena Williams was moonlighting as a U-Haul driver. But the truth is way more delightfully redneck-engineer chic, because people cut a slit in a tennis ball and pop it over the tow ball to keep all that sticky black grease contained instead of smearing it across their pants leg, their shin, or worse, the back of your Sunday church pants when you forget it’s there. As a bonus it keeps rust away, cushions your shin from a bone-rattling whack, and makes the hitch bright enough that some half-asleep driver in a parking lot won’t ram it while backing up. This is really just one more reason the humble tennis ball is the duct tape of the sporting goods aisle. Sure, it looks ridiculous, but compared to spending $20 on a fancy chrome hitch cover shaped like a skull, a deer head, or the Dallas Cowboys star (the only one guaranteed to disappoint you every January), a fifty-cent tennis ball suddenly feels like the MVP of trailer accessories, turning Wimbledon into Wally World one hitch at a time.