Horseless carriages

During a recent trip to San Francisco, I caught a glimpse of a self-driving car. It wasn’t exactly difficult to spot thanks to a roof-mounted LiDAR suite and large orange lettering, but nevertheless my friends and I watched intently as it drove across the street. And then, just a few minutes later, I spotted another. And another. Our Lyft driver chuckled at my amazement.

Cruise’s self-driving car on the streets of SF.

“Those things are everywhere,” he said. “I actually cut in front of them, they usually let me through.”

Huh? They’re already here? Well, duh.

In the past few years, a combination of technological breakthroughs, increased testing on public roads, and astronomical investment have catalyzed the industry in a significant way. The question of self-driving cars isn’t a matter of if, but when.

The first cars — naively called horseless carriages — redefined communities and the ubiquity of transportation far beyond the wildest expectations. Similarly, self-driving cars are set to change the world. And I promise that’s not hyperbole. As this technology increases in prevalence, ripple effects will be wide and inescapable. The jobs of as many as 4 million Americans within the transportation sector will disappear while an expected $7 trillion will be added to the global economy.

Argo AI’s self-driving car being tested in Detroit.

In retrospect, it’s hard to rationalize my surprise in that moment. It wasn’t a reaction born out of ignorance, as I had generally kept up with the news. Rather, there was just something surreal about seeing it in action firsthand. Potentially the most impactful technology of our lifetimes was merging into the center lane just ahead — I couldn’t help but stare with awe! The experience got me thinking.

Current leaders in the world of self-driving consist of a variety of tech companies with futuristic-sounding names. Waymo. Argo. Cruise. The list goes on. But this technology wasn’t born in the labs of some Silicon Valley powerhouse. The origin of self-driving cars is a fascinating and peculiar one. It’s the story of a deadly war, a radical government agency, and a bunch of crazy scientists in the middle of the Mojave desert.

An unlikely beginning

Congress turned to the Pentagon to protect vulnerable troops in the Middle East.

Following the invasion of Afghanistan in the early 2000s, America had a critical problem on its hands. Hundreds of men and women were dying on the front lines due to improvised explosive devices that specifically targeted military convoys. Congress demanded a solution, and the obvious answer was unmanned ground vehicles. If military vehicles could traverse the off-road terrain of battlefields without the need for human drivers, surely the lives of countless soldiers could be saved.

Unfortunately, as promising as this vision was, execution proved to be incredibly difficult. The Pentagon burned through hundreds of millions of dollars in working with incumbent defense contractors by the likes of General Dynamics. Yet, after two full years of trying, results were largely nonexistent. Computing and sensor technologies were just not being improved upon quickly enough to create autonomous systems. It was time to look beyond traditional partnerships.

That’s when the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) got involved. To understand DARPA, you’ll need to erase any preconceived notions of cumbersome bureaucracies that you may have. DARPA is a government agency unlike any other. It’s lean, with a size of just 220. It thrives on a sense of urgency — employees even have their “expiration date” printed on their ID badges as a reminder of their limited tenure.

Most importantly, though, DARPA has a stellar track record of thinking and delivering big.

The agency is best described as a deep-pocketed investment firm that seeks to accelerate technological breakthroughs that can provide value to the military.

Previous DARPA endeavors gave us GPS, speech recognition, and drones.

Oh, and the internet — no joke.

DARPA’s Tony Tether at the Grand Challenge.

Tony Tether, then-director of DARPA, embodied the bold spirit of the agency wholeheartedly. He announced the 2004 Grand Challenge: a fully-autonomous 142-mile race through the Mojave Desert with a $1 million prize. The grueling race would take vehicles through switchbacks, steep gradients, and paths as narrow as 10 feet — capabilities that were hitherto only dreamt of. When someone asked, “Why are you making the race so hard?” DARPA responded, “That’s what makes it the Grand Challenge.”

The rough terrain of the race may have reflected the original military needs of the technology, but the similarities stopped there. Gone was any reliance on the traditional defense contractors that had failed the Pentagon — the Grand Challenge was open to anyone.

Really, I do mean anyone. The unique nature of challenge brought together droves of researchers, hobbyists, and even high school students. Tether himself was surprised by the support, and explained how the prospective competitors were united by a shared vision:

“These were just ordinary people who dreamed of having a car that was driverless.”

The Grand Challenge had it all. Solid funding, motivated participants, and a clear vision. What could possibly go wrong?

Rollovers. Fire. Tumbleweeds?