Vehicular Misadventures

 {Prompt: Who taught you how to drive? How did it go?}

Who taught me how to drive?  I know how I should answer this question. I think I know the answer.  Obviously, it had to be my mom.  Right?  I mean, my father died when I was 12.  My Mom was the only parent.  It must have been her.

But I’m not so sure.  I have a strong memory of my mom buying a Honda Accord, some time after my father died in ‘77. She must have bought the car with the manual transmission to save on money, which must have been tight.  Only problem… It didn’t seem like she had ever driven a car with a manual transmission before. (Although she claims that she had.)  

Somehow, she drove it off the lot.  Or rather, I would say, she got it off the lot, and back to our home. But it wasn’t pretty.  

I was somewhere in that car, securely buckled, and good thing too, because there was a very unpredictable contest between forward momentum, and sudden deceleration, rivaling any herky-jerky experience I’ve ever had.

And this was not the kind of gravitational swing that you sign up for at a roller coaster ride or a midway ride at the State Fair. This was a bucking bronco of a ride, accompanied by the sound of grinding gears. And the distress you can only imagine — a single mother being forced to learn on the fly, way outside of her comfort zone.  

But, to her credit, she got us home the same day. She learned to drive the manual shift of a new car. And I guess I learned by proxy how to drive a manual shift, as I watched (and probably mocked) her efforts.

Mike, me, and Mom - circa 1979.

In reality, I think I learned mostly how to drive a car — the important skills — in an after school course provided with a certified instructor.   Me and two other teens got into a car with dual sets of controls — one set that we controlled and one set for the instructor. We learned to keep our eyes up the road, following the turn of the road 50 yards ahead (instead of 10 yards ahead, as a bike rider would), keeping a hypervigilant eye out for potential hazards (pedestrians, animals, road workers, suicidal possums, etc.), and learning to switch lanes on the Beltline, while driving below the speed limit (unlike the rest of the speeding traffic). That instructor deserves kudos for his calm demeanor and his patience and advice.

Any additional learning was either done on the fly or from observation of my brother.  Somehow I was allowed to join him in his MG Midget between 1978 and 1980 (before he left for Louisburg College, and I left for the School of Science and Math).

Honda Accord & Plymouth Barracuda, top of the drive ~ 1979.

It must have been a great convenience (for my mother) to have us out of the house; or why else would we have been let go and left to our own devices?  But to be fair, my brother had a much better feel for the clutch than my mother ever did.  He also loved to downshift and rev up the engine coming out of corners. He probably had a dream of being a race car driver.

Still… I don’t recall any tragic or near-death experience while riding shotgun with my brother — nothing worse than running out of gas, once or twice.  (But keep in mind, we only had a gasoline gauge with a dial between E and F, with no red warning zone.)  

He preached, with great conviction, the value of the tachometer, and the sublime nature of finding the right RPMs.  He tried to teach me about torque and horsepower, too but that was a bridge too far.

Best of all, he taught me the indisputable importance of the parking brake.  One day — a really nice early summer or late spring day, when it’s a pleasure to be outside, even in North Carolina — I think we pulled his car to the top of the drive to do a little work, or maybe to wash and clean it.

Mike got out to go to the back of the car, but he must have forgotten to set the parking brake (maybe he was distracted by his pest of a little brother), and it wasn’t but a few seconds before the car started rolling, sort of a slow motion roll at first — the kind of roll that makes you wonder, “Is my car rolling, or is the ground moving?”

But, yes, the car was rolling; and its speed was in direct proportion to the level of concern (dare I say, panic) in my brother’s eyes.  

Well he tried valiantly to slow it’s retreat down our gravel drive.  He planted himself behind the left rear tire, and pushed with all his might, the way you push when you’re trying to get your car out of a rut.  

But even that itty bitty car was too heavy, and I don’t think I had the same life-or-death mentality — the commitment to put myself at the rear of the car.  Maybe I did help in the end, but I think it was too late.  

Well, the car ended up coasting right back into a cable that was attached to a telephone pole, anchoring it in the ground.  I think the bumper was crinkled, and maybe there was some body damage, but no one was hurt.

If I seem obsessed with the parking brake today, it’s because of that experience - learning by mistake.

A 1970 MG Midget, in a much nicer driveway than ours.

I had some accidents of my own.  Don’t think that I was immune.  

At about 6 in the morning, at the end of a morning newspaper route, in the early ’80s, I backed Mr. Pate’s Buick Skylark straight across two lanes of Whitaker Mill and into the side of a morning commuter’s BMW, without so much as a second glance into the rearview mirror.

During medical residency, as I was backing up, I turned straight into a parking garage column, only about 3 inches away from my fender.  Ironically, that time, I was probably turned and looking through the rear window, to back up safely.

There was a bad stretch of time, about 10 years ago, when I had two or three accidents in succession, one when the car ahead of me in the left turn lane slowed unexpectedly to make a U-turn. As I tried to slow down, my bumper dipped below theirs and it crumpled the hood.  

Since then — since the marital rebuff I suffered from the receipt of an escalating car insurance bill, my driving record has been somewhat improved. I’ve been the victim of vehicular misadventure more often than I’ve been the cause.

Perhaps, I’ve finally been adequately taught.

Maybe I know what I’m doing.

Or maybe I’m just lucky.  (fingers crossed)

My brother Mike and I, posing in front of a family car. Mike looks like he would be perfectly comfortable behind the wheel.