For many adolescents, one of the hallmarks of turning sixteen is getting a driver’s license. A driver’s license symbolizes freedom. It offers opportunity. It means more responsibility. Plus, so much more. But not for me. Unlike some of my friends who raced to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) the second they turned sixteen, I was in no such rush.
One of the biggest reasons I was hesitant to get my driver’s license was that driving a car was dangerous. You could get hurt. You could cause harm. And that didn’t even take into account the wide array of “what if’s” that all the other drivers on the road might do. As a cautious, generally risk-averse person, I didn’t want the power that came with operating a motor vehicle.
But, eventually, despite my hesitation, I got my driver’s license. I reluctantly accepted the good and not-so-good things that came with having a license because, frankly, that’s life. And life, as we know, doesn’t come with any guarantees. Which brings me to this life lesson: when it comes to driving, the burden of acting responsibly falls upon you—whether it’s to your passengers, other drivers on the road, and even yourself. Once you accept that responsibility, do yourself and others a favor by proceeding with caution. This is something I failed to do in one (thankfully) tiny circumstance when I was younger.
Allow me to share my story…
Step on it
Although I didn’t knock down the door to the DMV on August thirtieth, nineteen-blurbledy-blob (leaving out the year of my sixteenth birthday), I visited the DMV a few months later. If I had to guess, I’d put money on my older sister being the impetus for my getting a driver’s license.
“I’m tired of driving you around whenever I borrow Mom and Dad’s car. Go get your own license,” she likely said. My sister, who is three-and-a-half years older than me, was required to drop me off somewhere whenever she got permission to use one of my parent’s cars. While I’m sure she loved being my taxi driver early on, having the extra “fare” was cutting into my sister’s freedom once I turned sixteen.
So, I took my sister’s pointed guidance to heart. I diligently studied for the driver’s ed exam and passed with flying colors. Then it was on to a six-week driver’s ed class. The promise of discount car insurance surely motivated my parents to pick a class which happened to be held at John Jay High School, the rival to my school, Roy C. Ketcham. (Go Indians!)
My driver’s ed class was a rag-tag bunch of teens. The instructor was an older gentleman with thick glasses. Although he is surely long gone by now (may he rest in peace), I will call the instructor Mr. Henderson. I distinctly recall Mr. Henderson having little to no sense of humor. Looking back, I now understand why Mr. Henderson was so stern. Driving a vehicle is no joke. And the kids in my driver’s ed class were a decidedly jocular bunch. Like most teenagers, we laughed at the outdated videos Mr. Henderson showed us about safety. We tittered at his attempts to share driving tips with us. We giggled when someone so much as dropped a pencil.
Mr. Henderson lost his temper with us more times than I could count.
But by the time we got into a real car, Mr. Henderson had succeeded in making all of us fear him and his short fuse. I’m pretty sure that was his grand plan—to instill fear in us as drivers, though we were too young to separate the man from the motive.
Always vroom for improvement
Soon enough, it was our turn to practice “real” driving with Mr. Henderson in the driver’s ed car. He explained that he’d sit in the front seat with one driver. Three other students would sit in the back seat, waiting for their turn. Our driver’s ed car was a monster station wagon from the 1970s. The station wagon’s unique feature was a special brake pedal that Mr. Henderson could use whenever he felt the driver was going too fast. He used the pedal often.
We quickly learned that we needed to slow down around corners and turns. Mr. Henderson’s braking meant everyone in the backseat violently lurched forward. At the risk of being heckled by the three backseat drivers, we all dramatically improved before the six weeks ended.
On top of driver’s ed, my patient mother took me out for practice on the weekends in the Sheafe Road Elementary School parking lot. Given my love for order and rules, it should come as no surprise that I excelled at parking between the lines.
One aspect of driving that I never mastered was parallel parking. My mom used two garbage cans placed a generous car width apart in front of our house. I bumped and nudged those poor plastic bins within an inch of their lives.
But, I practiced and practiced until it was finally time for my driving test. I prayed that I’d get a parallel parking spot with plenty of room.
Life in the fast lane
I signaled, stopped, and parallel parked as well as I ever probably would for the rest of my driving existence during my driving exam. I passed on my first try.
But as soon as I got my license, I was afraid to drive by myself. I felt that the bar for the driving test was too low. That I wasn’t really ready.
If only a car had training wheels or something that could ease new solo drivers into the world. Since that wasn’t an option, I chose to drive as little as possible. Unlike my friends, I was glad I didn’t have my own car; I could always pretend like my parents were using theirs. Plus, I had friends who loved driving and didn’t mind chauffeuring me around town.
But then, there was the one day my school-teacher mom had to go into work, and I was staying home. Perhaps it was my mom’s way of nudging me to drive more, but it was decided that I would pick my mother up at the end of the school day.
And that’s when things went downhill.
Give me a brake
It just so happened that my mom taught at Sheafe Road Elementary School, my former driving training ground, which also happened to be about two miles from our home. I shouldn’t have been so nervous. Yet, I was.
When it was time to pick my mother up, my heart started pounding. I grabbed the keys to our white Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme sedan and hurried to the garage.
Thankfully, I remembered to open the electric garage door first. My dad, on the other hand, once forgot to do that and drove into—as in, slightly through—the garage door. He has yet to live that driving mishap down.
I buckled my seatbelt, started the car, quickly checked my mirrors, and threw the car into reverse.
Since I didn’t have enough speed to get out of the garage, I tapped on the gas pedal. I guess I tapped a little too hard because the car rocketed backwards. With the sudden lurch, I didn’t have time to adjust the wheel to clear the garage door’s tight opening. Within a split second, the rearview mirror hit the wall and bent at an awkward angle.
“Oh shoot, oh shoot, oh shoot,” I exclaimed at the moment of impact. The rearview mirror was still attached, but dangling. What should I do? Other than panic, that is.
My big solo ride, and I get into a solo accident before I even leave the garage, all thanks to a rearview mirror run-in.
Shift happens
In a tizzy, I called my mother at school.
“I’m OK, but I had a bit of a rearview mirror run-in with the wall in the garage. I’m so sorry,” I said through tears. Had I not been so shaken up; I would’ve pointed out that at least my first accident occurred within our house and didn’t involve anyone or anything else. My rearview mirror run-ins’ only victims were my mom’s car and my pride.
After determining that a bit of masking tape (OK, nearly the whole roll) would make the car safe to drive, I got back into the Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. This time, I’d pick up my mother without incident.
As I waited for my mom in the school parking lot, I wished I had found comfort in my perfect, mirrorless parking job. But all I felt was guilt and shame from my rearview mirror run-in.
When my mother emerged from school, she hugged me, then inspected the dangling mirror. “Don’t worry, we can get this fixed,” was all she needed to say.
Feeling exhaust-ed
However many dollars later, after a few months, my rearview mirror run-in was…well…in the rearview mirror. But from this experience, I learned that the margin for error in driving was quite slim. In my case, I was about four inches shy of clearing the garage divider.
Ever since my traumatizing rearview mirror-run in, I have become a compulsive mirror checker—even though my current vehicle promises it will beep and blink for me if I’m ever too close to an obstacle. Having damaged one rearview mirror, I won’t take that chance again.
I’ll admit that I still don’t love driving. And I still have flashbacks to my rearview mirror run in. (Mostly whenever I’m backing out of a garage.) But the benefits of driving are far better than being stuck at home.
So to all you teenagers (or grown-ups) out there who are about to get your license: Take care when you are out on the roads—your life and other people’s lives are at stake. There’s no substitute for being an alert and attentive driver.
Oh, and one more thing, if you do park your car in a garage, remember this: don’t lose your mind, be sure to check behind.
Do you recall any childhood memories that had a strong impact on you later in life? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
