The Driving Lesson

 

My father was not a patient man. To him, patience was a four-letter word. Our family is full of stores about Dad refusing to wait in line. I can’t even imagine what he would’ve been like at the Magic Kingdom. He played a lot of golf - quickly. His route to work changed daily because he had timed every traffic light and knew how long they held, so he could make a fast  turn or two and avoid waiting those extra twenty seconds.  Part of our annual vacation trip to Panama City was how fast he could drive from our house to the hotel. It was critically important to “make good time”.  So why a man with no patience and a quick temper decided to give me my first driving lesson is one of the great unsolved mysteries of the 20th century. 

Psychologists say that memories formed under the influence of trauma   are those that are those that we never forget. I’m sure that’s why I remember this day clearly.  It wasn’t a Hallmark moment. 

Dad and I were coming back from the playing golf, which was a common occurrence for us. More times than I can count we stuffed both of our bags in the back of his beloved Volkswagen, hopped in the front seats, and headed to the “links”.  It was a basic VW - equipped with a manual 4 speed, a dashboard with just a speedometer and a fuel gauge, and a heater that got so hot you could cook a pot roast on the floorboard.  

I had seen dad expertly use the clutch to maneuver through the gears when we went anywhere. But as I was about to learn, that didn’t prepare me for actually doing it. 

One summer day on a return trip from the golf course, we pulled over on a little county road that eventually intersected with a two lane highway. 

I thought we had a flat tire until Dad put the car in neutral, pulled up the emergency brake and said, “Get out and come over here.”

“Here?  Where is here?”

“The driver’s side. You’re gonna drive the car.” 

“But I don’t know how.”

“You gotta learn sometime.” 

I felt gush of adrenaline.  I’ve seen those nature movies when the adult eagle tosses the baby out of the nest to fly or die. Now I was the human equivalent. 

I slid in the driver’s seat and looked around. I’ve been behind the wheel before, but this time it seemed so…serious. Dad cut off the engine and showed me how to operate the clutch and gearshift. I went thru the sequence a couple of times, then started the car. Never had a little engine sounded so loud. 

I pushed on the gas pedal and released the clutch. Rrrrrrrrrrr!   The car lurched. Then silence. 

“You have to ease out on the clutch and ease down on the gas.”, he explained. 

Rrrrrrrrrrr!  Lurch. Silence. This happened three or four more times, and predictably,  Dad began losing patience. Finally he said, “Joe, give the damn car some gas and let out the clutch!”  Message received. I pushed half way down on the accelerator and released the clutch quickly. The bug jumped forward, spinning it’s little tires and spewing gravel. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was my first scratch off. 

There was no time to enjoy it, because now the car was moving forward.  Within seconds, the engine was telling me to go to second gear, but it was a language I did not understand. Dad interpreted, saying loudly, “Now shift  to second!” 

I made a rough shift with a grind of the gears, and caught a glimpse of dad grinding his teeth. A couple more times and I was in fourth gear.  My focus on the transmission left me unfocused on steering, and I was swerving like a drunk. Soon a stop sign was in sight, and Dad helped me out with some kind, gentle words of encouragement like, “Slow down this damn car!”  I glanced at his right foot and and saw him pushing an imaginary brake pedal.  I let off the gas, touched the brakes, and had almost come to a halt when the motor chugged and died. He had forgot to mention  the part about pushing in the clutch when the car stopped. 

Mercifully for both of us, my first experience behind the wheel was over. 

It should come as no surprise that my subsequent driving lessons were given by Mom, who had the good sense to take me to a deserted parking lot. I made rapid improvement, and within a few weeks was eager to show off my improved clutch skills to Dad.  

We hopped in the VW, and things were going great - that is, until I got stopped at a traffic light on a steep incline.  If you’ve never driven a manual transmission, ask someone who has.  Believe me, they can relate.