The AI Doomers’ regulatory capture grift has a historical echo. When new technology threatens the status quo, the backlash is predictable.
In 1908 a Model T could do about 45 miles an hour. A working horse on a decent road managed 8 to 12.
But people did not greet the horseless carriage as a charming gadget. They called it a devil wagon, a juggernaut, a Moloch. Georgia’s Court of Appeals said automobiles should be classed with ferocious animals. Woodrow Wilson, still at Princeton, called reckless driving the worst menace of the day and added that he would not blame a bereaved father for getting a gun. Central Park shut motors out because horses bolted. New York ferries refused cars, partly from fear they would explode, mostly because no horse would share the boat.
There were actual deaths. Detroit in 1917 had 65,000 cars, 7,171 wrecks, and 168 dead, three-quarters of them pedestrians. Nationwide the toll climbed toward 20,000 a year by the mid-1920s. Almost half were children. In New York’s 1922 safety week, 10,000 children marched; 1,054 of them stood in for the previous year’s child dead. The Times later wrote of a “homicidal orgy of the motor car” and said the horrors of peace were starting to look worse than the war.
People fought back with more than editorials. Farmers dumped nails and glass. Some plowed ruts a buggy could use and a car could not. In Golden Gate Park a commissioner wanted special police with shotguns to shoot the tires of speeders. In Hennersdorf, in 1913, someone strung a wire between trees and decapitated a couple in a passing car. Motorists began fitting wire-cutters. Prince Edward Island banned automobiles outright from 1908 to 1913. The Swiss canton of Graubünden kept them off the roads from 1900 until 1925.
Britain had already tried the clean version of a capability freeze. The 1865 Locomotives Act, the Red Flag law, held self-propelled vehicles to 2 mph in town and 4 in the country, with a man walking ahead waving a flag so horses would not panic. That is slower than a brisk walk. The rule sat on British road motors for three decades. When Parliament repealed it in 1896 and raised the limit to 14 mph, enthusiasts tore a red flag in half and drove from London to Brighton. The run is still held. Historians still argue the cap helped hand the early industry to France and Germany.
In America, cities imposed limits of 5 and 10 mph were horse-wagon speed written into an ordinance. Cincinnati put mechanical governors on the 1923 ballot: no car inside city limits faster than 25 mph. It lost, 14,000 to 92,000, but it got to the ballot. Auto clubs spent those years fighting horse-pace rules, and popularized the term “jaywalking” for the old habit of treating the roadway as a place to walk.
Now imagine if in 1914 the leading makers met in Detroit and issued a joint pledge: No production car will exceed “superequine speed”. Anything faster is an uncontrollable force, a superhorse, a species-level traffic risk. They ask Congress to bind the cap so a shop in Ohio cannot defect.
It sounds like what Bernie Sanders and Dario Amodei are cooking up today. When a society meets a new prime mover, the first instinct is to freeze it at the performance of the old one. It’s not surprising to see it happen again.