Elon Musk revealed, in a dramatic demonstration on Thursday night at SpaceX’s rocket-testing facility near Waco, Texas, a new “flying” Tesla Roadster prototype. The car hung upside down on a curved track, then performed aerial stunts—including jumping over a Tesla semi, Evel Knievel–style—using air-powered thrusters designed in collaboration with SpaceX. The demo was impressive despite Musk’s awkward manner, which in the context of a supposed literal flying car came off as nerdy charm.
After revealing the car, Musk paraphrased a quote from Peter Thiel, his former PayPal partner: “We wanted flying cars, instead we got 140 characters.” The line, which was part of a 2011 “manifesto” published by Thiel’s venture-capital firm Founders Fund, was intended to indict the feeble ambition of the technology industry. Instead of solving big, important challenges, the world’s smarts—and money—had been devoted to small-potatoes social-internet start-ups such as Twitter.
One obvious oddity of the line—which has since been removed from the manifesto—is that Founders Fund’s most important investment at the time was Facebook, a social-network platform. But another is the idea that anyone actually wanted a flying car for real. That ambition may never have represented an actual dream. Like a jet pack, a flying car represents not just the future but the idea of individual freedom delivered through technological conquest.
Taken at face value, a flying car is not an impressive dream—or at least it hasn’t been since the Wright brothers more or less attained it. Automobiles have always moved on the ground by rolling via motor. The earliest practical airplanes also rolled until they flew (and hopefully landed again). An airplane is, in a way, merely a car with wings.
[Derek Thompson: Why flying cars are an impossible dream]
In 1917, Glenn Curtiss built literally that: His Curtiss Autoplane was an automobile with detachable wings and a propeller. It never really flew effectively, but the idea persisted. Waldo Waterman’s 1937 Arrowbile was more successful at flying, though it wasn’t commercially viable. Many more actual realizations of the supposed dream of flying cars appeared in the ensuing decades. The most famous might be the Taylor Aerocar, which was certified by the federal government in 1956 but was never mass-produced.
Around that time, future-oriented science-factual magazines such as Popular Mechanics frequently rehearsed the vision of the personal aircraft. By then, cars were ordinary and mainstream in America, having displaced collective transportation such as trains and streetcars. The automobile had become a more abstract kind of vehicle, one that embraced and extended personal autonomy through the power to move, without effort, anywhere else—and to do it alone.
But one thing still cramped the automobile’s capacity to deliver that freedom in full: roads. Cars needed them. The open road, of which America had a seemingly endless frontier, somehow was never enough. The best way around those roads was through the air above them; as Emmett Brown told Marty McFly inside one of fiction’s most memorable flying cars, “Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.”
The stifling oppression of the ground, traversed at any speed, was also an old vexation. In 1923, Hugo Gernsback—sometimes called the father of science fiction thanks to his founding Amazing Stories, an early magazine devoted to the genre—imagined a gyroscopic Helicar that would release travelers from the tyranny of New York City’s newly car-congested streets. A few years later, in 1927, Fritz Lang’s film Metropolis colonized the city’s airspace with small flying vehicles. By 1962, the children’s cartoon The Jetsons had fused those precursors with mid-century Popular Mechanics populism, making the flying car a ubiquitous commuter vehicle.
Over the decades, many attempts to engineer, manufacture, and market a flying car have been undertaken, though none has succeeded. In 1973, Henry Smolinski created the AVE Mizar by attaching Cessna wings to a Ford Pinto; it killed Smolinski during a failed test flight. From the 1960s until the company went dormant in the mid-2010s, Paul Moller made numerous attempts to develop the Skycar, a personal airplane that took off and landed vertically. Around that time, Terrafugia began promising a flying car called the Transition, which remained only a few years away for years—until the company shut down in 2021. “We enter production in 2028,” Musk said of the Tesla Roadster in this week’s Texas demo, before adding, “Actually.”
By all appearances, the Roadster is not a flying car of the same sort as its real and fictional precursors. The vehicle’s air-fan system seems first and principally designed to give the car’s wheels better traction on the ground, which is part of why it can go so fast—it went from zero to 60 miles per hour in less than a second during the unveiling. (Rocket thrusters attached to the back of the thing also help.) The car does not fly so much as it performs aerial acrobatics such as barrel rolls and standing jumps.
Those deeds were impressive as heck. The car certainly appeared to fly, if only for a moment, in the manner of a daredevil. Whether or not it can or is intended to fly in the manner of a traveler or commuter is not yet clear. Watching the Roadster do its thing—unpiloted, to make sure the demonstration didn’t “kill anyone,” as Musk put it—I imagined wealthy gearheads wreaking havoc via ill-fated jumps and spins on suburban blocks instead of salarymen conveying themselves to work and back.
[From the November 2026 issue: Choose your overlord]
Subdued by decades of failed automobile-airplane hybrids, and perhaps exhausted by Musk’s dubious intentions, some coverage of the Tesla demo has observed, rightly, that substantial regulatory hurdles await any vehicle that leaves the road and enters airspace. But bureaucratic red tape isn’t the main reason the flying-car dream hasn’t come to pass.
Rather, it’s because the dream works better as fantasy than reality. When urban modernism began to feel cramped, the skies rising above it offered the possibility of new freedom. After the continent was settled, the roads that traversed it became new prisons from which airspace might allow escape. Once the individual freedom of the automobile became universal, and the roads clogged with thousands of varmints in the rat race, the blue sky above looked like liberty. George Jetson is a cog in the proverbial machine who rises above insignificance by flying to work unfazed, where he revels in the meaninglessness of his job pressing a button to make actual machine cogs. Even Thiel’s mention of the flying car was symbolic, a paradigmatic example of the kind of dream worth dreaming, not an actual one worth waking up to.
Despite the Tesla Roadster’s truly spectacular capabilities, at least as a one-off demo, it fulfills the century-old flying-car ambition on a technicality—as a vehicle for a trick driver rather than a motorist aviator. Perhaps the dream this car truly realizes is not yours or mine, but Elon Musk’s: to claim to have delivered what a century of his forebears could not.