Mile 12,847 of My 13,444-Mile EV Love Letter, Guess We Are Going Long!

Listen, I'm currently at mile 12,847 of what was supposed to be a 13,444-mile EV road trip (narrator voice: it will be much longer). After flying in from Anchorage, Rouge—yes, I named my car— to Denver and then driving through 28 cities across 18 states, I have achieved enlightenment. Or possibly just highway hypnosis. Either way, I have news: America isn't one country when it comes to EV infrastructure. We're more like 50 different countries wearing a trench coat, furiously arguing about outlets while pretending to be unified.

Kansas: Where Chargers Go to Die (Or Were Never Born) After touching down in Denver, I rolled into Hays, Kansas—population 21,000, public chargers approximately "thoughts and prayers." I found exactly one charger behind a closed Applebee's, which felt less like infrastructure and more like a philosophical statement about American decline. Kansas City bumped those numbers up to three whole charging stations, which honestly felt like Vegas after Hays.

Oklahoma City: The EV Witness Protection Program Oklahoma City boasts less than 1% EV adoption, making Rouge and me the cryptid (an animal whose existence is rumored but unproven, known only through anecdotal evidence like sightings, folklore, and footprints rather than scientific proof) sighting of the century. I'm convinced someone photographed us charging at a Walmart and posted it to a group chat titled "City Folk Problems: A Documentary." The lone charger I found was protected by tumbleweeds and what I can only describe as the melancholy ghost of an oil baron, softly weeping into the prairie wind.

The Midwest: Where Hope Charges Slowly But Sincerely Columbus, Indianapolis (twice, because I enjoy Hoosier hospitality that much!), St. Louis (also twice for wild consciousness-altering psilocybin stories with my friend Mich), Youngstown, and Glenview all radiated powerful "we bought one charging station in 2019 and added it to the tourism brochure" energy. St. Louis blessed me with charging stations possessing the reliability of a 1993 Toyota Camry and the speed of leaves growing—which is to say, technically happening but requiring faith to perceive.

Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, hit different. One charger at my old Playboy Resort haunt, where I spent electrified days teaching inner-city Chicago high school kids how to ski while secretly learning myself. Fun fact: it took me two full weeks to learn how to stop. The skiing, not the charging. Though honestly, both require a similar leap of faith.

New York City: Where Charging Costs More Than Your Rent New York City has charging stations EVERYWHERE, which sounds like paradise until you discover parking costs $75 an hour and your charging spot is fiercely guarded by a man named Sal who doesn't take Venmo, Zelle, or your tearful explanations about climate change.

Bernardsville, New Jersey, became Rouge's spa retreat for ten glorious days. My dear old friend Barbara offered her secure, luxurious garage—basically a parking palace—while I navigated uptown, midtown, and dozens of underground subway signs to attend dozens of the 953 climate events. Yes, 953. I counted. My feet also counted and filed a formal complaint.

The South: Bless Its Heart, It's Trying Charleston (twice for the views over the bridge and the No Kings rally), Franklin, Atlanta, Destin, and Jacksonville taught me that Southern EV hospitality absolutely exists—it just operates on Southern time, which is regular time plus sweet tea and thoughtful pauses. Atlanta scatters chargers like Waffle House locations: you'll find one eventually, but first you'll circle like you're hunting Easter eggs designed by someone's well-meaning but geographically confused grandmother.

Destin offered a near beachfront charger where I watched the ocean slowly, determinedly consume Florida while waiting for my 80% charge. It was meditative, in a "we're all doomed but at least the sunset is pretty" kind of way.

The Southwest: Mad Max Meets Silicon Valley Dallas, El Paso, Tucson, Albuquerque, and Phoenix created a charging network powered entirely by curiosity about California's massive solar panel obsession. Denver—blessed, beautiful Colorado—had actual infrastructure because they brilliantly figured out electric cars work great in mountains. Who knew? Well, I did, because I've been happily driving mine in Vail Valley for two years, gleefully gliding past gas stations like a refrigerator on wheels.

Phoenix deserves special mention for solar-powered chargers, which is genius until you're standing in 117-degree summer heat questioning every life choice that led you to a parking lot that could double as Mercury's angrier cousin.

But here's the miracle: this road trip has blessed me with gorgeous weather for 59.5 of the 62 days (September 3 through October 30). This seems statistically impossible and has me convinced Big EV is controlling the weather to make me look good. Those couple of days of rain? Obviously when the weather machine needed maintenance.

San Diego: EV Disneyland, But Real San Diego is where EVs go when they die and ascend to vehicle heaven. Chargers everywhere. Perfect weather. Everyone drives silently past you in their own EVs, nodding with the knowing serenity of people who discovered cars don't have to sound like angry lawnmowers having territorial disputes. Only one glitch: Special shoutout to the Tesla Collision Center in Phoenix, where the supervisor refused to partially repair Rouge's deer-damaged headlight and mirror, though he also wouldn't confirm whether my Model 3 might just... stop working if they did. He gave me the corporate equivalent of "I'm not saying your car will become a $50K paperweight, but I'm also not NOT saying that," while the Tesla folks in Tucson were like "yeah, we can totally fix that." Apparently Tesla service operates on a choose-your-own-adventure repair philosophy. Denver—blessed, beautiful Colorado—had actual infrastructure because they brilliantly figured out electric cars work great in mountains. Who knew? Well, I did, because I've been happily driving mine in Vail Valley for two years, smugly gliding past gas stations like a refrigerator on wheels.

Washington, DC: Where Your Car Is Your LinkedIn Profile DC ranks #2 nationally with 20% of new vehicles being EVs, partly because everyone's terrified their Tesla will show up on C-SPAN looking judgmental about their policy positions. The city throws $10,000 at public charging stations like a drunk congressman at a fundraiser. They even reduce your registration fees, which is adorable considering you just spent significant bucks on a car that runs on hope, lithium, and your belief in a better tomorrow.

My favorite part? Experts say DC policy wonks buy EVs to match their political beliefs, meaning your driveway is literally your political yard sign, except it cost slightly more than a yard sign. Like, the GDP of a small nation more.

The State Policy Hunger Games: A Beautifully Chaotic Nightmare Buckle up: seventeen states offer EV incentives from $1,500 in Rhode Island (enough for two winter tires) to $7,500 in Oregon and Maine (enough to feel briefly hopeful about humanity's future). But here's the plot twist—forty states simultaneously charge you EXTRA registration fees for your EV, from $50 in Hawaii to $260 in New Jersey. It's like receiving a gift card and immediately being charged a "gift card holding fee."

California operates TWENTY-THREE different rebate programs, requiring a master's degree in bureaucratic archaeology just to navigate their website. I spent three hours there and now I speak fluent government confusion. Meanwhile, Alabama, Arkansas, Hawaii, Idaho, Kentucky, Montana, and North Dakota offer zero incentives—zilch, nada, nothing—explaining why driving through those states felt like piloting friendly alien technology through bemused territory.

Colorado panicked when federal credits died in September and started throwing money at EVs like an enthusiastic relative at a wedding. But my absolute favorite: Georgia, Iowa, Kentucky, and Oklahoma actually TAX EV charging stations per kilowatt-hour, because apparently their motto is "Why encourage when you could lovingly hinder?"

Why This Actually Matters (The Serious 30 Seconds) Climate change is happening faster than my charge time in Ohio. Every gas-powered vehicle is a mobile carbon bomb, and we're running out of time to defuse them. EVs offer instant torque (you'll smoke every Mustang at stoplights while feeling morally charged up), library-level quietness, and virtually no maintenance. No oil changes, no transmission fluid, no mysterious 3 AM googling "is my car bleeding?"

Just a clean powertrain versus the fluid-filled nightmare of combustion engines requiring constant feeding like very expensive, very angry pets.

The Phrase That'll Save Us All

After 12,847 miles, two panic attacks, and one incident where Dear Deer Dawn decided to physically merge with Rouge (previous update explains all), I've found our movement chant:

"Start plugging. Stop pumping."

Tattoo it. Tweet it. Yell it lovingly at your gas-guzzling neighbor while offering them a test drive. This is how we fix this: one charging station, one awkward Whole Foods conversation, one converted die-hard fossil fuel driver at a time.

America's EV infrastructure is held together with clear Gorilla tape (like Rouge's mirror and headlight currently), good intentions, genuine effort, and California's tax revenue. But it's growing. People are trying. States are learning. And the future doesn't have to smell like a gas station threw up.

Now, who wants to join me from Atlanta to Boston? Bring jokes and snacks. Rouge and I are ready.