In the concrete veins of Melbourne, I found myself ensnared by the seductive allure of modernity: an electric beast known as the Cupra Born. Oh, what a blast! Its acceleration was a raw, undiluted shot to the system, nearly mimicking the ferocity of my Suzuki VStrom motorcycle, a steed I thought unmatched in its visceral punch.
So there I was, astride this silent beast, feeling the rush and the electricity tingling through my veins. But like all trips, the high wore off when faced with a most mundane yet unnerving question: “How do I refuel this metallic demon?”
Guided by the digital whispers of an app called Plug Share, a product of our tech-hyped era, I was led to a desolate stretch in Leongatha. There stood the charging monolith – cold, indifferent, seemingly mocking my ignorance. The universe played its twisted game, rendering me a helpless participant in a farce: a stuck plug, the mocking display ‘platform failure’, and the frustrated call to the charging monolyth manufacturer who probably thought I was a jesting bogan.
Then, like a mirage in this electric wasteland, a Tesla driver pulled up. She hinted at salvation, a button perhaps. But it was hidden, concealed in such an absurd location that even the best of journalists would be hard-pressed to make it up: a diminutive lock emblem on the driver’s door rest.
With power levels sinking to a dismal 40%, I was trapped in the treacherous labyrinth of our supposedly advanced electric infrastructure. The shadows of uncertainty loomed as I sought another electrified oasis, this time at RACV Resort in Inverloch. This station, too, turned out to be an exercise in futility. But, after engaging in verbal warfare with a tech support fellow (who, to his credit, was the voice of reason in this modern hell), my vehicle began its slow rejuvenation.
While the car sipped electricity at a painfully leisurely rate, I sought solace in a bar. The beers flowed, acting as a balm for the soul. But with every gulp, time dilated. The battery crawled up, but my ability to navigate reality dwindled. And so, ensnared by my own indulgence, I took shelter in the vehicle, lulled into slumber by its humming promise.
Morning cracked open its bright eye, revealing the scenic charm of Inverloch. Shaking off the haze, the journey resumed: the beach, Phillip Island, and the beckoning arms of Melbourne.
The lesson? Electric hell is real, and it’s paved with good intentions and terrible user interfaces. In our race towards the future, perhaps we’ve forgotten the simple virtues of the past. But then, isn’t that always the way? Drive on, fellow travellers, and may your journeys be ever electrifying.
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