the walls. In fact, it performed flawlessly until 6 hours and 30 minutes into the race, when it just scraped a canyon wall in the narrowest section of the route. Sandstorm drove over the finish line 7 hours and 4 minutes after it left the start chute—a variation of only about 1 percent from what the engineers had asked of the robot. It had done exactly what it was assigned to do in remarkable fashion, placing second, by time. And in third, limping into the finish, was H1ghlander, with an elapsed time of 7 hours and 14 minutes, or 55 minutes longer than the time the Red Team had set for it. All told, five robots finished the course.
Thrun was elated, of course. Later that day he and his team gathered onstage to receive a check for $2 million. But what was just as gratifying was the way the victory felt like a validation of the whole robotics field. More than a decade later, public attitudes toward roboticists have markedly changed. Back in 2005, robotics was associated in the public imagination with projects like Thrun’s 1998 Minerva museum tour guide—as novelties, curiosities that had little effect on anyone’s day-to-day lives. A self-driving car was different. Sure, the second DARPA Grand Challenge was a controlled scenario separate from the actual world because nothing else on the course was allowed to move. But it nevertheless represented a step toward actual robot cars, which everyone realized would, if they ever became a reality, transform lives. Standing up before reporters frantically scribbling down their words, photographers and videographers capturing their images and a crowd of people cheering their accomplishment, Thrun and his teammates relished the attention as validation that the world might finally recognize the potential of their chosen field.
Thrun was magnanimous in his victory. “It’s really been us as a field that were able to develop these five vehicles that finished the race,” Thrun said. “It’s really been a victory for all of us.”
Few on Red Team felt that way. It stung that they had devoted months to test Sandstorm and H1ghlander on some of the toughest roads on the planet—and then discovered on race day that the course was easier even than the well-graded roads that had marked the first Grand Challenge. It stung, too, that based on its performance in the qualifying events, a fully functioning H1ghlander would have taken the race. And it stung that, had Red Team’s leadership allowed Sandstorm to perform to its abilities, rather than playing it safe and limiting its speed, the older Red Team robot also might have beaten Stanley. Thrun acknowledged both facts. “It was a complete act of randomness that Stanley actually won,” he said later. “It was really a failure of Carnegie Mellon’s engine that made us win, no more and no less than that.”
“It was very much a winner-take-all event,” Urmson recalls, more than a decade later. “It sucked. There was no prize for second. This had been three years of people’s lives at this point. It was brutal. I remember seeing Red afterward, and that was the most distraught I’d ever seen him.”
“It’s right up there with the worst shortcomings of one’s life,” Red says, assuming full responsibility for what he still regards as a defeat. “I let a team down. I let a lot of people down. And in a lot of ways, in a bigger way, I let down a community and a world that didn’t see the best of the technology and the movement and the vision of what things could be.”
“It was a strange feeling,” Urmson says. “It was a day that five vehicles did something believed to be impossible. Our team had pulled together and achieved the impossible. We’d done the impossible—and yet we’d lost.”
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