By that time, Sandstorm had managed a speed of 49 mph and an autonomous run of a hundred miles. The guys were excited about the progress they’d made. But the robot still had its mechanical idiosyncrasies. It was apt to see obstacles that weren’t there, or miss obstacles that were, or even misinterpret pre-programmed commands. What if something like that happened while Sandstorm was onstage at the conference?
The following morning, an audience of hundreds watched the autonomous vehicle creep out onto the stage, apparently thanks to the benefit of high-tech sensors, engineering and computers powered by “Intel inside.” The crowd cheered in response. The applause felt good to the Red Team members present. Here they were at a Silicon Valley event being treated like celebrities. The recognition validated their sacrifices and the worth of the project. It also made the team thankful that no one realized that during the onstage demonstration, a Red Team member had hidden in the space under Sandstorm’s steering wheel, prepared on a moment’s notice to slam his hand on the brake pedal if the massive robot threatened to roll off the stage into the crowd.
On Friday, March 5, 2004—eight days before the race and just three days to go before the qualifying events—Chris Urmson rose early in the morning, put on his usual uniform of a mud-spattered baseball cap, fleece sweater and worn jeans, laced up his running shoes and decided that today would be the day to stage Sandstorm’s culminating test challenge.
Urmson, Peterson, Spiker and the rest of the Nevada squad tested Sandstorm in the worst conditions they could imagine—frequently, along sections of the trail the old Pony Express had followed more than a hundred years earlier. “Red is really gung-ho about testing hard,” explains Peterson. DARPA had said its route would be about 150 miles. The longest run Sandstorm had made was a hundred miles. But with the race a little more than a week away, everyone on the team was hoping for a longer run to boost their confidence.
The goal was just like the race: 150 miles in ten hours. The route amounted to a flat oval, about two miles around. While they prepared Sandstorm, Urmson and Peterson tinkered with a new part of the software: a component of the speed-setting module designed to slow down the robot when it approached a curve. The new code was designed to allow Sandstorm to drive more quickly on straightaways.
The code worked wonderfully. During a few warm-up laps, Sandstorm managed to get up to 49 mph along the straightaways and then the new algorithm slowed it down as the robot headed into the curves. In fact, as Urmson and Peterson watched the robot, they wondered whether it slowed Sandstorm too much. An adjustment to the algorithm during a refueling break seemed to improve things. On the first lap they watched as Sandstorm cruised into a curve, slowed a little bit and then accelerated through the curve’s exit. At the end of the second lap, Sandstorm was heading fast into what Urmson would later describe in his field test report as a “soft S-curve” to the left. The right-side tires drifted off the road into deep sand, and when Sandstorm tried to correct things, to get back on the track’s packed-down dirt, it steered too hard to the left. The right-side tires bit into the soft sand. The left-side tires came up off the road. Behind, in the chase car, Urmson watched, horrified, as Sandstorm tipped up and over, and came to rest upside down—right on top of the e-box and the gimbal housing all the vehicle’s most sensitive equipment.
The robot had been designed to insulate the box’s components from being damaged in all sorts of accidents. Front-end collisions, rear-end collisions—pretty much any collision that happened on the ground plane, Sandstorm would be able to withstand just fine. But the robot had one fatal weakness: a rollover. Because Humvees sat comparatively low and flat, their geometry made rollover accidents almost impossible.
Unless you were testing a robot Humvee in the Mojave Desert, apparently.
A History Channel crew had come out to film the test run. They rushed out onto the track with their cameras and shoved one into Urmson’s face, asking him to list the damage. Urmson looked at the wrecked robot the team had spent the better part of a year engineering: at the crushed gimbal, the compacted GPS antennae, the flattened e-box and the connecting rods bent out of shape. And he let fly with the expletives that made him one of the few people to ever have to have been bleeped by the History Channel. “Shock and disbelief,” Urmson says when asked to describe his reaction, more than ten years later. “But mostly disbelief.”
Disbelief, because they had felt like they’d been making such great progress. Disbelief because they were just days from the qualifiers. Disbelief because this had happened on the second lap of a two-mile track that Sandstorm was supposed to drive for seventy-three more laps.
Most of the crew figured Red Team was over. That they’d never be able to repair the robot in time. Somebody called Pittsburgh to inform everyone else about the accident. Red’s assistant Michele Gittleman took the call. She recalls sobbing when she processed the news.
Maybe a crew led by someone other than Red Whittaker would have given up. But Whittaker didn’t even consider it.
At the Nevada Automotive Test Center, Urmson, Peterson, Spiker and the rest of the team attached the four-by-four chase vehicle to Sandstorm with the help of some nylon webbing and managed to flip over the robot. Spiker, the most mechanically minded among them, went over the engine to look for problems. The engine was flooded with diesel fuel but aside from that, everything looked okay.
The other guys assessed the electronics equipment. The GPS units were toast. The gimbal suffered the worst impact and would need to be completely rebuilt. The main LIDAR unit was irreparable. Luckily, an extra gimbal and LIDAR sat in storage back in Pittsburgh. They towed Sandstorm to the mechanics shop and for three nearly sleepless days and nights they worked to fix everything they could. And they nearly did it.
The race was March 13, 2004. Heading into the qualifiers the week before, at the California speedway in Fontana, the GPS system worked, which meant the robot could locate itself in the world. The sensors were active, which enabled Sandstorm to perceive obstacles. The computers could calculate the trajectories required to follow the path set out by the Red Team mapping crew. The only problem? “We had no time to calibrate,” recalls Whittaker. Which meant Sandstorm viewed the world through a distorted lens.
Think of each sensor as its own individual eyeball. You are able to see one version of reality because your brain is able to amalgamate the view from your two eyes into a single picture of the world. Sandstorm amalgamated the information from four different LIDAR units plus the stereo-camera system. Ensuring that the robot’s sense of the world resembled the actual world required calibrating the individual sensors—a time-intensive process of trial and error. “Think of calibration as alignment,” Whittaker explains. “Even in the car shops they align your headlights, right? And when there are multiple sensors that will fuse data into a common model, it’s important that they’re all aligned. If you just bolt it back together you’re creating a kind of Frankenstein, and maybe it’s a little cross-eyed.”
And so the cross-eyed Frankenstein’s monster limped into race week, belching diesel exhaust, dented and scratched, but otherwise intact. Red Team would compete against twenty other entries from across the United States. In the qualifiers each of the twenty-one robots would have to navigate a mile-long obstacle course to progress to the main event.
Soon after his arrival at the California Speedway, Urmson wandered around to see what he could learn about his competition. He saw Doom Buggy, created by the only high school admitted to the competition, Palos Verdes, near Los Angeles. An undergraduate from UC Berkeley, Anthony Levandowski, led the team behind the only two-wheeled entry, a robot motorcycle that was able to balance itself with the help of a gyroscope. UCLA’s entry, the Golem Group, was led by a guy named Richard Mason, who had seeded his project with $28,000 he’d won on Jeopardy!
On