Learning To Drive

On The Open Road

I think my passion for driving stems from my pent up years when driving was just out of my reach.  When I turned sixteen, my parents owned a standard transmission automobile, and despite my father’s occasional weekend efforts in the Intel parking lot, the car knew I had no business driving with two feet.  After I turned eighteen they finally purchased an automatic, and then proceeded to drive our entire family to the Midwest for our exile in the snow.  Using one foot made the process easier; the snow, however, took me out.  This happened just after they purchased a brand new car for my older sibling; my regards to any fellow second-born siblings.

On the drive from southern California to Illinois, I had my first chance behind the wheel on the open highway from Tucumcari, New Mexico.  For the first time in family history, neither of my parental units sat behind the wheel.  Dad took the navigator’s bucket seat, and for the benefits of legroom, Mom took the center position in the back seat.  From her perch in what I more commonly refer to as the, “Oh Shit Seat,” she gaped straight out the window at the semi-trailers and experienced drivers with whom I shared the two east-bound lanes of Interstate 40.  And as one of my favorite movie lines quotes, “I do not believe she drew breath,” from the time she climbed in the back seat until I brought the vehicle to a stop in Amarillo, Texas.

Self Teaching

I do believe every driver should be able to drive a stick shift, myself included.  Once I mastered the
automatic (“mastered” being a relative term), I decide the best way to learn to drive a standard transmission involves a simple two-step process: buy a standard transmission car and sell my automatic.  I call this approach, “Forced Stick-Shift Driving 101.”  I do not recommend it.  I make the smart choice and purchase my brand new car in the middle of the Michigan summer so that I do not have to learn to drive with two feet and navigate that evil, white substance that Mother Nature throws down upon me.

Much like my experience across the Texas Panhandle, I climb behind the wheel and hit the road to teach myself my latest skill.  I begin with a short excursion to Lake Superior (see “The 5^th Lake” from March 2012) and continue adding on the miles until I see all five.  Just to be absolutely certain of my ability with the stick shift, I drive a little farther past Niagara Falls.  And on to Gettysburg.  Then I swing through the District of Columbia, and on to Norfolk Naval Station.  I opt for the Outer Banks and use my new skill to drive onto the Okracoke Ferry.  By the time I reach the Florida shoreline I think I may have the two-foot maneuver under control.  Just to be sure, I drive back to Michigan by way of Springfield, Illinois.  Maybe my passion for driving is less about driving, and more about learning.

Life Is A Highway

Metaphor

I love a good metaphor almost as much as I love a good analogy.  Being the fan that I am, baseball as a metaphor for life ranks as my favorite, and I would wager that has everything to do with my passion for the sport and how baseball has intertwined with my life.  But Tom Cochrane put metaphor to music in 1991 and captured in three minutes my outlook on road trips through the decade.  In fact, I even dubbed it Son #1’s theme song since as a child he so often accompanied me on my traveling adventures across the highways of America.  He tackled thirteen states before his first birthday and left the country before his second birthday.  By his fifth birthday, he visited two continents, eight countries, and twenty states.

Certainly his recollection of many of these early locations remains spotty at best, but that’s why he has me.  I tell him about the Colorado Rockies, the Mona Lisa, Gettysburg, and the Cape Hatteras lighthouse.  Nevertheless, bits and pieces of his childhood clatter around in his head including chasing pigeons in Vatican Square (and a number of other European cities) and riding the subway in DC.  For him, his life truly has been a highway as my number one traveling companion.  Sorry Son #2, but it’s true.

Assignment

At some point in elementary school, drawing a timeline about themselves becomes a common assignment for kids, and they include important chronological landmarks in their young lives, and the larger world community. Son #1, while creative in many aspects, despises projects involving crayons, scissors, illustrations, glue, and poster board (don’t even get him started on glitter).  Only after he decides to duplicate his theme song in his project does he actually begin working on it. Germany unified the week he was born, the Soviet Union collapsed the night after he visited Mount Rushmore (see “Rapid City, Rapid Change" from November 2011), he lived at Ramstein Air Base when the downed helicopter pilot was rescued from

Somalia, and he watched the space shuttle lift off on its mission to rendezvous with the MIR space station a month before starting kindergarten.

But does his life really compare to a highway with its off ramps, concrete slabs, and bridges that may ice before road?  Does he watch for falling rocks, exit at the next rest stop, and observe the miles tick by quickly some days and exhaustingly slow on others?  Do pushy drivers pass on the right, cut him off and ride his bumper, while some cars also allow him to merge from the on ramp and politely flash their lights to warn of an objective in the roadway?  Life is full of figurative falling rocks, even when we aren’t warned.  Some stretches of life seem mountainous or even moderately bumpy, and sometimes life has long, straight stretches that can bore us, or just as easily bring us tranquility.  Son #1, like all of us, will always encounter people trying to get ahead, while others will kindly let him merge into their lives.  Yes, life is definitely a highway, so metaphorically speaking, be good drivers.