I just finished George Woodbury's 1950 book "Story of Stanley Steamer" in which he restores and drives a 1917 Stanley Steamer. I found his description of the ride in a steamer uncannily familiar! Remember, steamers had no gearbox and were also silent, like our Teslas. From page 143-144:
"The ground, the familiar grass, and gravel barnyard outside the workshop slid out from under us. It seemed as though the machine did not move but that the driveway did -- and was moving swiftly. With the radiator cap in place once more there was no sound, and from where we sat, perched high on the leather upholstery, we could no longer even hear the low hiss of the burner. We paused for an instant then turned onto the concrete highway with a rush of reaccelerated speed. Trying to find a parallel, all I could think of was the difference between a sailing yacht and a motorboat. There was a slight easy motion as the machine rolled gently on its long limber spring to the inequalities of the road, but not the slightest trace of vibration. There was something uncanny-for an automobile, almost indecent -- in such behavior.
The highway which is a trunk route between Boston and the White Mountains is a two-lane concrete thoroughfare and more than well patronized-usually crowded to the appearance of a two-way funeral procession. The three miles of highway which connects us with the adjoining city of Manchester I have known ever since I have known anything. I have either ridden or driven in all manner of vehicles over this route-yoked cattle, on foot, horse and team, buggy and sleigh, bicycle and motorcycle, and every vintage of gasoline car from a 1912 Packard onward -- but never in such a strangely smooth and silent thing as this Stanley Steamer. There was an insidious quality about it, like a bad habit; this was not like driving anything, this was just like relaxing and being carried away.
We bad overtaken a fellow wayfarer, and from our lofty seats, high and towering as though on a load of hay, we looked down on the sleek crimson top of the sedan ahead. It was a relatively new car and bravely tricked out in chromium costume jewelry in the prevailing mode. Somehow it appeared to me curiously bloated and inflamed, like a skin disorder about to burst. It was moving rapidly, but so were we."
The highway which is a trunk route between Boston and the White Mountains is a two-lane concrete thoroughfare and more than well patronized-usually crowded to the appearance of a two-way funeral procession. The three miles of highway which connects us with the adjoining city of Manchester I have known ever since I have known anything. I have either ridden or driven in all manner of vehicles over this route-yoked cattle, on foot, horse and team, buggy and sleigh, bicycle and motorcycle, and every vintage of gasoline car from a 1912 Packard onward -- but never in such a strangely smooth and silent thing as this Stanley Steamer. There was an insidious quality about it, like a bad habit; this was not like driving anything, this was just like relaxing and being carried away.
We bad overtaken a fellow wayfarer, and from our lofty seats, high and towering as though on a load of hay, we looked down on the sleek crimson top of the sedan ahead. It was a relatively new car and bravely tricked out in chromium costume jewelry in the prevailing mode. Somehow it appeared to me curiously bloated and inflamed, like a skin disorder about to burst. It was moving rapidly, but so were we."
