The gadget that could make you a better driver.

How we get from here to there.
Nov. 30 2009 12:32 PM

It Knows If You've Been Speeding

Can a device that tracks when I swerve, accelerate, and brake make me a better driver?

Illustration by Mark Alan Stamaty. Click image to expand.

The everyday act of driving suffers from a feedback gap.

Sure, there are immediate signs when you're not doing something right, like when the rumble strips jolt you awake as you distractedly drift to the side of road. But more often, our only feedback comes in the form of run-ins with the law. I recently picked up a traffic ticket—my first in almost a decade—for driving 68 mph on the 45 mph Goethals Bridge (which, as I now know, is radar-controlled). Running late for the airport, I knew I was I driving faster than I should have been but never would have guessed by how much. My feedback came in the form of a $200 ticket and the officer's gentle reproach: "You were a little hot on the gas pedal there, Thomas."


Without consistent feedback, it can be tough for a motorist to answer the question: How good a driver am I? In fact, we tend to be overconfident behind the wheel. A risky driver may go for a long time without a crash out of sheer luck, the same way a person who eats a terrible diet may live for decades with no apparent ill effects. And when external feedback does arrive, in the form of a honk or comment from another driver, it is likely to spark cognitive dissonance (What's their problem?) in the face of our carefully constructed sense of self-esteem. 

But what if you had something in your car that was monitoring your behavior (and I'm not talking about your spouse)? What would you learn about your own driving? Would it change the way you act?

I was in pursuit of answers to these questions when I recently installed a ROVER in my car. The ROVER, from a Colorado company called Cartasite, is a small black box that consists of a three-dimensional accelerometer—which can measure rapid acceleration, hard braking, and erratic lane shifts—as well as a GPS and the ability to send data over cellular networks. Basically, it's like an iPhone that happens to be plugged into your car's Onboard Diagnostics port, that small interface (usually found beneath the steering wheel) that mechanics use to reference car trouble and which also, it turns out, collects a wealth of ongoing data—about things like engine load or the amount of carbon in the engine—that is usually wasted.

The arrangement was simple: I would drive, and David Armitage, CEO of Cartasite, would monitor my behavior and provide some relative benchmarks (the device is also installed in several thousand vehicles in Colorado). A few words about my driving. Having absorbed, in the course of researching my book Traffic,scads of dry analyses of the various ways things can go wrong on the road—not to mention the traumatic biomechanical consequences that can follow—I tend toward caution (with the aforementioned exception). Having a 6-month-old daughter and being well out of my 20s also tends to neuter those need-for-speed impulses. I generally treat braking as losing—some kind of admission I haven't adequately anticipated molecular disturbances in the traffic flow—and find nothing more satisfying than a perfectly timed approach to a light changing green. I also live in New York City, where on some weeks my entire driving profile is summed up thusly: 1) Tuesday morning: Start car, double-park car across street. 2) Leave car parked for one hour. 3) Return car to freshly street-swept curb. 4.) Leave car there until following Tuesday.

It just so happened, however, that during the trial I was doing more driving than usual, enough at least to provide a suitable sample. What I can report is that although the device was not visible to me and was not emitting any sort of signals, I would not have been more aware of its presence if it had been a giant eye suspended from the rearview mirror. I began, in fact, to anthropomorphize it a bit; it became "David," (i.e., Cartasite's CEO, whom I envisioned as having a window open on his desktop monitoring my progress with day-trader intensity). When, on I-95 South, a florist's van changed lanes in front of me without warning, necessitating a firm press on the brake pedal, I thought, "David's going to see that one, but how will he know it was the van's fault?" When I handed over the keys to the valet at the Foxwoods Casino (I was there for a planning conference, I swear), I briefly hesitated, with visions of a Ferris Bueller-style attendant throwing off my results. And when I brought the car in for routine maintenance, the puzzled mechanic came over to ask if I knew about the strange device in my OBD port. This led me into a brief sort of John Le Carré reverie, as if I were some West Berlin station chief who's just learned he's being watched: which I was.


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