The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

John Herou isn’t your typical electric-car ideologue. The founder of e-ride Industries possesses a bright strain of idealism to be sure, but fundamentally he’s a practical man, an inventor and classic car buff, more entrepreneur than tree hugger. The cars he builds, called neighborhood electric vehicles because by law they can go only twenty-five miles per hour and drive on streets with commensurate speed limits, are distinctly Minnesotan. While more common designs tend toward the futuristic, usually resembling a bubble or a jellybean, e-ride’s EXV2 and EXV4 look like small SUVs. They feature rugged tires, optional chrome hubs, plenty of cargo room, abundant panels of shiny aluminum diamond plate, and, of all things, a high payload capacity.

In fact, if you care to know, Herou’s primary vehicle is a gas-powered Ford F-250 truck. “My dad was a chiropractor in Milaca,” said the sixty-three-year-old Princeton native, wearing khaki pants and a tucked-in shirt. He is somewhat tight-lipped and bashful. “And I was in the electrical industry here for about thirty-five years. I thought it would be fun to build an old replica of a 1932 Ford Roadster for the kids. That’s how it all started.”

A passerby turned into Herou's home driveway one day and offered to buy the electric Roadster. Right then, he saw that there was a market for his invention. His first electric cars were golf carts designed to look like classics from the 1930s. They were elegant and upscale, with chrome headlights, baby moon hubcaps, and solid oak drink holders and sweater baskets. He sold them to wealthy people all over the globe, including one to the king of Morocco and four to the Abu Dhabi Golf Club. The slogan was, "For the fun-loving perfectionist who loves a good ride." The description could just as aptly apply to Herou.

His cars, which come in vivid primary colors, are sturdy, meticulously designed, and also entirely reflective of Herou’s particular tastes. We hopped into a white two-seater EXV2 outside the e-ride offices in Princeton. The car was comfortable, with the pared-down feel of a Jeep Wrangler. Its nine eight-volt deep-cycle batteries, which are stashed in a compartment between the seats, are enough to keep the car moving for fifty-five miles between charges; they also power various accoutrements, such as a horn, windshield wipers, and an optional stereo and heater.

Herou could hardly wait for me to turn the key. When I did, there was a mere click and a disconcerting silence, as though I’d switched on a toaster. He assured me that the car was indeed running. Then, I made his day by fumbling for the nonexistent gear shifter. “You were reaching for the stick shift,” he said, obviously delighted. With one finger, he flipped a toggle switch on the dash from forward to reverse. Now, I just hit the ga… I mean accelerator? I asked, robbing Herou of an opportunity for further delight. The car moved easily, the only sound being the whine of turning wheels.

Proponents of electric vehicles like to point out that some of the first cars in America were battery powered and that in the late 1800s, these cars held many of the land-speed and distance records. Through various actions by the oil and auto industries—some call them conspiracies—electric cars were phased out. Then, after a successful experiment in California in the 1990s, recounted in the documentary Who Killed the Electric Car?, they were phased out again. It’s been difficult to build a sustained and cohesive electric-car movement, explained Lee Hart, an engineer and member of the Minnesota Electric Auto Association, a group formed just last year. “If you are interested in electric cars you are an iconoclast,” he said. “We’re like farmers. We’ll trade technical information on how to do things. But when it comes to political action, it goes nowhere. We don’t lobby. We don’t have lawyers.”

Hart, who can talk for the better part of an hour about battery technology, is on his fourth electric car, a 1980 Renault he converted himself by the curb in front of his house. The car, which is powered by a dozen “plain old lead acid batteries,” was “intended as a short-range vehicle, a get-me-to-work car. I only needed a range of thirty miles or so.” Yet this self-proclaimed evangelist, like other electric-car pioneers toiling away out there, has big plans. He intends to build a vehicle that may go three hundred miles on a single charge. It’s a version of a model designed in the late 1990s called the Sunrise. If all goes well, he will sell the car as a kit—thus avoiding various federal regulations—that the average person could assemble with bolts and a wrench.

Hardcore enthusiasts sometimes refer to neighborhood electric vehicles or NEVs, a category of automobile created in 1998 by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, as “glorified golf carts.” But they don’t necessarily mean that disparagingly. “John is doing great work,” Hart said. The problem, if you ask him, rests with the various state legislatures, which have limited the cars to twenty-five miles per hour. “They’ve restricted them to where they can’t be used.”

More than forty states allow NEVs on public roadways. Minnesota passed its law just last year, thanks to a bill sponsored by Senator Paul Koering. Of e-ride, he said, “They asked me to come over and tour the factory and I was so impressed. They look like little Hummers. I want one!” According to Koering, the legislation generated very little opposition. In fact, at some point the state may offer a tax credit toward the purchase of an electric vehicle (supplementing federal credits). “I’ve gotta tell you, with the new members of the legislature,” he said, “the tone that I’m hearing, people are on the environmental bandwagon. I feel like the pendulum has swung. People are getting more excited about this every day, and rightfully so. None of us are happy with the war in Iraq and we want to see less dependence on foreign oil so we can say to the Middle East, Take your oil and gas and shove it.”

Indeed, it was after the World Trade Center attacks and the attendant stock-market disaster that Herou’s golf-cart business dried up. “Nobody from overseas was buying anything at that time,” he explained. And so in 2003, with gas prices on the rise, he turned his efforts to electric cars. It was a logical progression. “About eighty-five percent of what we sold had never seen a golf course, anyway,” Herou said, referring to their use in retirement and other planned communities. “Plus, people wanted larger vehicles that would go farther and carry more.”

Asked whether environmental concerns, such as global warming, were also a factor in his decision, Herou answered, “Oh yeah. You bet.” He added somewhat conspiratorially, “I truly believe in global warming.”

Herou and his close-knit staff of thirteen, including a general manager and chief financial officer who are both in their twenties, have sold hundreds of cars (the goal this year is just over five hundred). Some have gone to individuals living in warm states like California, Florida, and Texas—none have gone to private parties in Minnesota. E-ride’s most robust markets are commercial and governmental. The company has sold to municipalities, universities, and branches of the military, along with parks services and the Department of Energy. Recently e-ride received an inquiry from the McMurdo science research station in Antarctica, which is under the gun to reduce emissions. “The DNR here in Minnesota purchased one and they use it up at Itasca,” Herou explained. “During the day they use it for maintenance and in the evening they distribute wood with it to the different camp sites. And then at night they use it for security because it doesn’t bother anybody. It doesn’t make any noise.”

Motoring through a neighboring housing development in the EXV2, Herou noticed that we were being tailed by a Princeton police officer. “I don’t have a license on this one,” he mumbled nervously. “I hope they don’t pull us over.” The female officer cut us off at a crossroads, sat for a moment, and then smiled and waved.

E-ride’s cars cost between fifteen and twenty thousand dollars, depending on the model and options. But that’s offset by the fact that they cost just over a penny per mile to drive. Plus, there is no need for oil changes, antifreeze, or spark plugs. The batteries charge in approximately eight hours from a common household outlet. “See now, this is perfect for the average person who doesn’t go but twenty miles a day,” Herou said, directing me to make a right, “or for use as a second vehicle, delivering kids, going to the dentist, buying groceries, going out for coffee with the neighbors, or whatever.”

We parked in front of the metal warehouse where e-ride’s cars are manufactured. Herou got out with the intent of flipping up the hood. “Well, here, I’ll show you the motor,” he said, unhooking a couple of cleverly designed rubber fasteners. With a smile, he waited for a reaction. “There is no motor!”

He pointed toward a box between the front wheels that was about the size of a laptop computer. “That is just the twelve-volt DC components, like the fuses and the relays for the signal lights and break lights and that; the heater and that.” Then the mirth of the inventor overflowed in a cascade of details. “This is a seventy-two-volt-to-twelve-volt converter. It takes seventy-two volts in off of our main system and converts it down to twelve volts down to the accessories.” He reached for a key. “This is the master disconnect switch. You turn that key off and take it with you and nobody can drive it. This is the battery filling system here,” he said, indicating a hose sticking out from under the hood. “When that light on the dash turns red and starts blinking at you, you put a two-and-a-half-gallon distilled water tank on top of here and plug it in. It waters all the batteries at the same time.”

E-ride is working with a company in Boulder, Colorado, to develop a battery that could extend the range of its cars to 150 miles per charge, a significant improvement, which reminded Herou: “One other very important part of this whole organization is that all of our parts, or the majority, I’d say ninety-nine and nine-tenths, are U.S.-made. We don’t buy any foreign parts.” Sounding a tad bit radical, he added, “I mean we’ve got to wake up here. Kmart is not the answer.”

The inside of the manufacturing plant was exceptionally quiet, except for occasional spates of drilling and clanging and a low-volume broadcast of The Supremes’ “Come See About Me.” There was a cement floor, many shelves containing wiring and car parts, and several fleets of gumball-colored e-ride vehicles. A couple of yellow numbers were headed for LAX airport. “They use them for security and general maintenance,” Herou said. “They’ve bought fifteen of them from us now.” A few employees tinkered and assembled, yet unlike in a standard garage, there was no oil or grease. There was no smell. It was as if they were building robots. And in a way they were.

When asked whether he yearned to build full-speed electric cars, Herou said no. “We are a niche.” It would take a major overhaul of the operation—including design and manufacturing changes—to make that transition. “To get past that twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit, we would have to pass a crash test and add airbags,” he said. “It’s considerable. We’ve been told anywhere from five to seven million dollars’ worth of costs.”

Still, it must be frustrating to hold an answer to the country’s energy problems and be relegated to a niche market. “It’s an educational process,” Herou said. “People are spoiled. I mean, they want big, comfortable vehicles that go fast. They want distance so they don’t have to stop and put gas in or whatever. I was to a seminar where this professor, he was from the University of Minnesota, stated that the way our country has designed the roadway systems and the homes … If you look at crowded cities like in England, Scotland, Italy, Mexico, they’ve got narrow streets with lots of homes or lots or apartments or whatever side by side. And here, we’ve got a ring road around every city. Off of that ring road there are these big interstates, roadways that go out into the country. So we like to live in the country and we drive in, take this ring road into the city to work. And that’s the reason for the big cars. Up here, we’ve got people from Onamia, which is about another forty miles north of us, driving into Minneapolis every day. That’s nuts, isn’t it?”

At that, Herou had no choice but to fess up. Asked whether he considered himself an environmentalist, he paused and answered, “I would think so, yeah. You bet.”