GM’s 1969 512 Electric Experimental was the Orange EV That Ate Detroit

Photo credit: GM
Fifty-six years ago, General Motors dared to do something truly different. They parked a tangerine bubble at a trade-show turntable and asked people to take a good hard look. At Transpo ’72, visitors walked right up to the 512 Electric Experimental, noses just inches from its sleek fiberglass skin, wondering whether this thing was a car, a cockpit, or just some kind of wacky dream on wheels. Standing at a mere 86 inches long, the little GM looked for all the world like a Smart Fort Worth that had been sat upon – but as you looked closer, you could see that every curve was deliberate, every inch carefully thought out.

Beneath its plastic skin, you’ve got the solid steel of a flat floorpan and a single roll hoop to keep everything in place – a bit like a helmet liner cradles your skull pretty snugly . Then there’s the canopy – which, yes, actually lifts right up like you’re opening the lid on a fighter jet – and a side-hinged front panel that swings out to reveal a rather welcoming face . The interior features two vinyl buckets side by side, so close together that you and your passenger are pretty much sharing the same bubble of air. Slide in, close the roof, and pretty soon the whole city is just a blur outside the wraparound glass. You can see just about every curb and mailbox out there – even the thickest A-pillar looks like nothing more than a teensy pencil.

The power – when it arrives – is rather unobtrusive, thanks to an 84-volt stack of Delco Remy lead-acid batteries slotted neatly between the axles . The DC motor itself – smaller than a picnic lunchbox – then sends the 512 gliding away in near silence, the 10-inch rims humming as the tires roll along on pretty ordinary-looking go-kart rubber. You can hit 30 miles an hour in about 12 seconds – which is just slow enough to be a school zone kind of speed, yet still quick enough to keep your blood flowing. Hold steady at 25 and you can get a pretty respectable 58 miles under your belt before the juice starts to run out – but all you have to do then is plug the cord into a standard 115-volt porch outlet and you’ll be ready to roll again by breakfast.


Numbers only give you half the story, though – what really matters is when you sit behind the wheel and the 512 starts to shrink the city around you. Parking spots turn into driveways and alleys become wide boulevards. Red lights give you a chance to just sit back and watch people walk around the car, tracing the seam on the canopy with their eyes as they try and figure out where the door is that isn’t really there. You’ll see kids waving and bus drivers nodding at you in approval – and the 512 never hurries, yet somehow it always seems to get there just a little bit faster than you expect


GM built the 512 to prove a point – that electric cars could be more than just quirky little oddities, that they could actually wear the city’s crown jewels with pride. Lead-acid cells may have weighed the little coupe down to a pretty featherlight 1,250 pounds – but that motor never once complained about the load. And back then, brand-new solid-state controllers helped smooth out every little surge in power – the charger was even tucked behind a flip-down panel so the cord never got all tangled up on you when you were out parking.




Only one 512 has survived the years, and it still looks crisp in GM’s Heritage Center. The paint and canopy are both as brilliant as the day it rolled off the production line. Just touching the fiberglass gives you a sense of the optimism that was built into that 72 model – the same company that used to thrash out Corvette racing is now attempting to launch a 2027 Bolt the size of a Honda Fit – this car will be able to sprint, stream music, and parallel park itself – but those bells and whistles won’t have the same unpretentious charm as the 512’s own simple message: “plug in, go for a spin, and own the place.”
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