I’m told that I’m too old to start learning how to drive. I am something of a veteran learner, having gone through four and a half trainers. The “half” is for the weak-hearted, lily livered coward who made a run for it when he realized that I was, ahem, “unteachable”. The rest of the brave hearts stuck their grounds, but advised me not to get rid of the learners’ “L” in a hurry. So, this is the tale of my stigmata (read: “L” sign).
The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)
My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.
So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.
Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.
The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)
My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.
So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.
Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.
