Brad Stone - Gearheads: The Turbulent Rise of Robotic Sports

I decided to write a book about robotic sportsand the intensely devoted hobbyists and engineers who participate in themafter watching an amazing championship match at a Battlebots competition on San Franciscos Treasure Island, on Memorial Day, 2001.

I was sitting with 1,500 other spectators in four sets of bleachers that surrounded a transparent 48 by 48-square-foot box. The enclosure was made of a supposedly unbreakable plastic called Lexan. The mechanical athletes were parked inside, waiting.

Son of Whyachi, the rookie, sat in the red square. The 315-pound, remote-controlled robot moved via 16 tiny rectangular feet made of the polymer Delrin, eight on each side, which rotated in an elliptical pattern and shuffled the bot along at three feet per second. Three metal rods extended over the top of the robot and sloped down over the frame, connected to each other by aluminum braces, with steel meat tenderizers at each end. At the start of each match, the apparatus would spin up like a helicopter rotor, whipping currents of air across the floor.

Biohazard, the reigning champ, occupied the blue square on the other side of the arena. The 210-pound heavyweight robot was a marvel of geometric simplicity. Spring-loaded titanium skirts ringed a rectangular frame and extended down to the floor, preventing anything from slipping underneath and gaining leverage. At opportune moments, a stealthy lifting arm would emerge from the base to flip enemies onto their backs or pin them to the wall. It flew across the arena on six wheels at a brisk 15 miles per hour.

Biohazard had speed and dexterity; Son of Whyachi had brute power. Spectators in the stands seemed to know exactly how the match would play out. The champ, they said, would try to reach the rookie and disable it before those destructive helicopter rotors could spin at full speed.

The builders of both mechanical gladiators stood outside the one-inch-thick plastic, nervously shifting their weight from one foot to another, waiting for the match to begin. In their hands, they held radio-controllers, which they would use to send commands to their surrogate athletes over the FM frequency band.

I slid to the edge of my seat along with all the other spectators. Scores of other robot builders were streaming into the hangar from the pits next door, where they had left their toolkits, spare parts, and defeated robots, spread out on row after row of wooden tables.

A tuxedoed ring announcer occupied a lone spotlight at the center of the Battlebox. Ladies and Gentlemen, this matchup is for the Battlebots heavyweight competition. Introducing the principals: In the blue square, if you want to take his crown, youll have to pry it from his cold dead lifting arm. And that aint going to happen. Your defending heavyweight champion Biohazard!

The crowd let out an approving howl. I overheard someone say that in seven years on the robotic combat circuit, Biohazards maker, Carlo Bertocchini, had won 28 matches and lost only three times. The 38-year-old mechanical engineer from Belmont, California, developed plastic injection molds for a Silicon Valley company, but now that robotic combat was a televised sportthis bout would be broadcast on Comedy CentralBertocchini was close to quitting his job to build robots full time.

In the red square to my right:This robot wanted me to read a letter to his mama.If I dont come home with the giant nut, melt me down and give my spare parts to needy robots. Lets hear it for Son of Whyachi!

Broad cheering from the crowd masked a scattering of boos. The guy sitting next to me said that Terry Ewert, captain of Team Whyachi, owned and operated a factory in Dorchester,Wisconsin, that made meat-processing equipment. This was his first robot competition, and he had run his bot-building effort through his company, putting more than $130,000 in parts and man-hours into his creations. That kind of money will ruin a family sport, the guy in the stands said. Ewert and his team were outfitted in red-and-black NASCAR racing uniforms, which stood in stark juxtaposition to the jeans and custom-made robot T-shirts worn by most of the West Coast competitors.

With the combatants introduced, the announcer hustled out of the arena. The Christmas tree, an electronic display borrowed from drag racing, counted down from red to green lights. A buzzer sounded.

Biohazard lurched forward, but Son of Whyachi hardly moved; apparently its walking assembly had taken a beating over the course of five days and six fights. The helicopter rotor, however,worked just fine. By the time Biohazard reached the center of the floor, the rotor was already a deadly, invisible blur. The two robots collided in a shower of sparks. A square panel of titanium armor disappeared from Biohazards skirt, landing on the other side of the arena. The robots were flung away from each other by the rotational energy of Son of Whyachis weapon.

Bertocchini moved Biohazard back into position to take another shot. His best hope was to disable the powerful helicopter blades and then push Son of Whyachi around the arena. The robots collided again. Another small square of armor disappeared from Biohazards protective skirt, but one of the bracing rods on Terry Ewerts bot also came loose and began to flail around like a piece of clothing sticking out the window of a speeding car. Without the brace, Son of Whyachis balance was thrown off and the great intimidating helicopter weapon slowed down, then stopped spinning altogether. Bertocchini had an opportunity and we all rose to our feet.

The champ pushed the rookie over to the corner of the arena, underneath one of the four metal hammers known as pulverizers. These were operated by a Battlebots technician named Pete Lambertson, who sat outside the ring and activated the hazardsthe pulverizers, as well as the 16 metal kill saws that emerged from the floorat opportune moments, and this was an opportune moment. Lambertson brought the hammer down. It pounded Son of Whyachis disabled weapon, and the crowd erupted into wild carnivorous cheering, like bloodthirsty Romans at the coliseum. The hammer came down again, then a third time, and a fourth time.

I could see Terry Ewert wincing on the far side of the Battlebox. He was trying to move Son of Whyachi outside the perilous zone, but the walker shuffled ineffectually in place, and Bertocchinis Biohazard blocked all avenues of escape. Lambertson brought the hammer down again, and again. Ewert tried to restart the weapon, but without traction, the base of the robot began spinning instead. We were all cheering and pointing. The bleacher seats shook. The hammer kept banging away. Terry Ewerts face was a vision of pain and disappointment: His $75,000 robot was taking a tremendous beating. Carlo Bertocchini looked serenely confident. A few more hits from the pulverizer and Bertocchini would keep his title and his reputation as the most dominant competitor in the history of the robotic combat circuit.