by sarah (Fri Feb 26, 2010)
Having made the commitment to learn to
drive, I successfully obtained my provisional licence, and then the first real challenge
was to decide how to learn. The
trouble was that everyone was very keen to step in with their advice.
My mother, helpful old dear that she is,
suggested that I begin by practising on the couch. No, not with some fancy Wii
game, simply by sitting on the couch imagining the clutch, brake, and accelerator
pedals, and waving my arm around to conjure up gears and clutch control. I did
not take her advice.
My aunt also stepped in, ‘You don't need to
bother with gears dear, no one drives a manual these days.' My husband was
quick to correct her, that, given we own a manual car, I should probably aim to
learn to drive it.
My sister (who can't drive either and is
older than me... is it genetic?) advised that I take a week long crash course.
Somehow, the name put me off.
My niece was keen to recommend her
instructor, dubbing him ‘brilliant.' Finally - some helpful input, I thought,
and asked her, ‘Did you pass first time with him then?' But no, alas she passed
on her ninth attempt, and that didn't sound so brilliant to me.
Looking through the listings of driving
schools online was equally unenlightening: ‘El-gone,' ‘Impact,' ‘All-Pass'...
even the divine intervention implied by ‘Faith Driving' did not tempt me - nor
fill me with confidence.
My husband put out a request for
recommendations on an online bulletin board, and suggested that while we waited
for responses he take me out for my first taste of driving. (For future
reference, if a loved one wants to teach you to drive: just say no.)
To begin with, he drove to an empty parking
lot, then we swapped seats, and I took over at the wheel. He was pretty patient
up until I stalled for the fifth time, having not yet actually managed to move
the car. I had checked my mirrors, I was signalling, the car was in first gear...
but once again the car lurched forwards and stopped, the gears audibly
crunching. ‘I can't!' I wailed, ‘I can't do this!' My husband looked at me. ‘This
isn't going to work. You need a professional,' he replied. With that he got out
of the car, and walked around chivalrously to open my door. ‘Get out,' he
ordered ‘Get ten lessons, pass your theory test, and then I'll try to help you
again.'
Back home, and feeling subdued, I was
cheered up by reading the wide range of responses that we had received on the
bulletin board. I settled for a driving instructor called Mark, who lived
locally and had apparently helped several people of around my age to pass their
test. I was also advised that, because I have a bad back, I should have
frequent one hour lessons instead of the usual two hours, so as not to
aggravate the problem, thus putting me off driving even further. Valuable
advice indeed - this process was already painful enough.
When Mark showed up for the first time, I
was reassured by his kindly face and, high-school-geography-teacher dress code
and looks. He calmly assessed and confirmed that I truly did not know how to
drive, and then began the first steps of revealing all those secrets which have
been kept from me for 31 years. But instead of hanging on his every word, I
couldn't help imagining all of the useful things that I would be able to do as
a real driver! To my embarrassment, the ability to jump in the car on rainy
days and thus avoid my hair frizzing up was prevalent.
By the end of our first hour, Mark had
successfully guided me in starting up the car, and supported me in driving
through some mild traffic round our local streets. We drove in a loop, and I
indicated, turned corners and paused at traffic lights and developed some
semblance of clutch control. I was euphoric after that first lesson - it really
felt like I might be beginning to see the light: another couple of lessons and my
driving licence would finally be a realistic goal.
But now having had six lessons, the
goalpost seems to be sliding further away. Mark has, much to my chagrin,
declared me, ‘both over-confident and over-cautious' which is apparently a
lethal combination. The over-confidence means that I sail along the streets,
controlling the clutch and manoeuvring the gears, abiding by the speed limits,
and slowing for amber, stopping for red without a care in the world. But the
over-caution means that I suddenly slam on the brakes for: pedestrians, pigeons,
cats, people who might want to cross the road, cars that might want to change
lane... you get the picture. Any passengers of mine, I am told, will feel like
they are being tortured on an elaborate fairground ride - the minute they relax
into their seats, they are thrown forward in punishment.
So I guess I still have a long way to go. But
you know what? I'm definitely on the road.
