Driver's (Mis)education
Lately, every morning around 7:15 as I’m leaving the gym I seem to pass a carload of teens driving reeeeally slowly – you know the ones. (Here’s a hint: They’re the only 16 year olds who are out of bed before noon during the summer.) They drive at about 10 MPH, and they have got big orange magnetic signs attached to their car doors and trunk that read STUDENT DRIVER. Ah, yes. Youth behind the wheel. Run for your lives.
Question: Why can they make all kids under 21 drive around with these magnetic warnings on their car all the time? Just a thought.
Anywho, some people I know think it’s funny to get up right behind the student drivers and ride their bumper and honk their horn at them. Assholes. But I like to give the poor kids a break. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? Scared as hell to drive 5 miles per hour around the block, not sure if what we’re doing is right or not. We’ve all got to start somewhere, and when you’re 16 and are anxious/excited/scared shitless about the possibilities of driving for the first time, the last thing you need is some mouthbreather riding your ass.
I remember drivers ed. – I took it on Saturday mornings at Franklin High in Seattle’s Rainier Valley district. (It was in a neighborhood where you were more likely to be shot/mugged/beat up/all of the above than not, but I never had any trouble. Survival Rule #1: Mind Your Own Damn Business.) I’d already had “limited” driving experience by that point, including an auto accident (a long, depressing story for another day), but I was still pretty nervous about getting behind the wheel.
Of course, the instructors do little to bestow confidence. What’s the first thing they tell you? “Out of this class of 30 students, statistics prove that 5 of you will die in auto accidents, and another 5 of you will be permanently injured.” This of course is followed up by a round of “Face of Death” style auto accident films. Yeah, it’s no wonder that there are so many petrified drivers out there.
Anyway, I passed my class with flying colors, including my first terrifying experience driving I-5 through downtown Seattle. I waited until the end of July to get my license, and after passing my written test with only two answers wrong (both questions were about motorcycles; I’d never been on one, so who the hell cared), it was time for the driving portion of the exam.
The driving test, like most states, involved having a state DOT inspector ride along with you around the block a few times. You’d park, turn, switch lanes, etc., and they’d test you for accuracy, how well you use the mirrors, if you stop for any hitchhikers, and so on.
One quick fact: It was one of those rare Seattle days that was over 90 degrees, and since my Mom’s old 1972 Impala didn’t have air conditioning, all of the windows were down. Keep this in mind for later in the tale, will you? It’ll be relevant; trust me.
So anyway, I backed into my assigned parking spot and waited for the inspector to come out of the DOT to meet me. He finally shows up – he was about 90 pounds, about 90 years old, dressed like a park ranger, crotchety as hell, and packing a large clipboard underneath his arm. “Let’s go”, he grumbles as he climbs into the passenger seat.
Well, being the nervous kid that I was, I asked him if he wouldn’t mind putting on his seat belt, pretty please. (They weren’t mandatory back then, but it was still a good idea, right?) He looked over his glasses at me and snarled, “Just drive, boy.”
So I drove. And what was the first thing I did as I pulled out of the parking lot onto Benson Avenue in Renton? I jumped the curb. Great. I was off to a banner start.
Yet somehow the rest of the test seemed to go okay. I made my proper lane changes, I used my turn signals at the appropriate times, I tried to look both ways, and hey – I didn’t run over any nuns or orphans, so it was all good. I even managed to parallel park within 12 inches of the curb. Yep, despite the fact I jumped the curb early on, I felt that things were going to be okay.
And then it happened.
We were driving back to the DOT, and we passed a small strip mall that just happened to have their parking strip sprinklers going. And those very same sprinklers just happened to be set a little too high. And that powerful spray of water just happened to extend all the way out to the street. And I just happened to drive past this over-extended sprinkler just as the water was spraying in our direction.
Do you remember me telling you that the car windows were down would be relevant? It was a bull’s-eye -– score, direct hit. 100 points to Tommy!
The sprinkler went right through the open car window and hit the crotchety old coot smack in the face. I tried to maintain my composure and keep my eyes on the road while water poured down this old man’s face and onto his official Washington State clipboard. Believe me, it wasn’t easy.
Fortunately, we were only about two blocks away from the DOT, and I somehow managed to get the car back into the parking lot (without jumping the curb this time), park it, and then look him in the eye. And no - through the power of God and all points in between - I didn’t laugh.
He pulled out an old beat up handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his glasses off. His hair (what was left of it) was wet and standing up, and his ranger shirt was soaked through; it looked like he’d just ran a marathon. His paperwork on the clipboard was dripping water onto the 70’s blue vinyl seats of the Impala. But he still didn’t say anything.
Finally, he spoke. And in a very quiet voice, one that almost could be described as “defeated”, he told me I’d passed my driving test.
YES!
In spite of my jumping the curb and not turning my head enough when I was switching lanes and looking in the mirror (apparently he wanted to see dramatic head movements), and the fact that he’d just been royally hosed down, I still managed to pass my driving exam.
Long story short, I went home that hot July afternoon with my shiny new driver’s license (actually, a piece of paper – the real one would be mailed to be in 2 – 4 weeks), and the rest is driving history. I’ve been a licensed driver in two states for the last 24 years, and have put well over 300,000 miles on several vehicles.
So when I see those poor nervous kids driving around Sioux City in their drivers ed cars, desperately clinging to the steering wheel in an approved 9 o-clock and 3-o-clock positions, I smile and try to remember what it was like to be the new guy on the road
And since I have a convertible now, I always make doubly sure to check for sprinklers.
Question: Why can they make all kids under 21 drive around with these magnetic warnings on their car all the time? Just a thought.
Anywho, some people I know think it’s funny to get up right behind the student drivers and ride their bumper and honk their horn at them. Assholes. But I like to give the poor kids a break. I mean, we’ve all been there, right? Scared as hell to drive 5 miles per hour around the block, not sure if what we’re doing is right or not. We’ve all got to start somewhere, and when you’re 16 and are anxious/excited/scared shitless about the possibilities of driving for the first time, the last thing you need is some mouthbreather riding your ass.
I remember drivers ed. – I took it on Saturday mornings at Franklin High in Seattle’s Rainier Valley district. (It was in a neighborhood where you were more likely to be shot/mugged/beat up/all of the above than not, but I never had any trouble. Survival Rule #1: Mind Your Own Damn Business.) I’d already had “limited” driving experience by that point, including an auto accident (a long, depressing story for another day), but I was still pretty nervous about getting behind the wheel.
Of course, the instructors do little to bestow confidence. What’s the first thing they tell you? “Out of this class of 30 students, statistics prove that 5 of you will die in auto accidents, and another 5 of you will be permanently injured.” This of course is followed up by a round of “Face of Death” style auto accident films. Yeah, it’s no wonder that there are so many petrified drivers out there.
Anyway, I passed my class with flying colors, including my first terrifying experience driving I-5 through downtown Seattle. I waited until the end of July to get my license, and after passing my written test with only two answers wrong (both questions were about motorcycles; I’d never been on one, so who the hell cared), it was time for the driving portion of the exam.
The driving test, like most states, involved having a state DOT inspector ride along with you around the block a few times. You’d park, turn, switch lanes, etc., and they’d test you for accuracy, how well you use the mirrors, if you stop for any hitchhikers, and so on.
One quick fact: It was one of those rare Seattle days that was over 90 degrees, and since my Mom’s old 1972 Impala didn’t have air conditioning, all of the windows were down. Keep this in mind for later in the tale, will you? It’ll be relevant; trust me.
So anyway, I backed into my assigned parking spot and waited for the inspector to come out of the DOT to meet me. He finally shows up – he was about 90 pounds, about 90 years old, dressed like a park ranger, crotchety as hell, and packing a large clipboard underneath his arm. “Let’s go”, he grumbles as he climbs into the passenger seat.
Well, being the nervous kid that I was, I asked him if he wouldn’t mind putting on his seat belt, pretty please. (They weren’t mandatory back then, but it was still a good idea, right?) He looked over his glasses at me and snarled, “Just drive, boy.”
So I drove. And what was the first thing I did as I pulled out of the parking lot onto Benson Avenue in Renton? I jumped the curb. Great. I was off to a banner start.
Yet somehow the rest of the test seemed to go okay. I made my proper lane changes, I used my turn signals at the appropriate times, I tried to look both ways, and hey – I didn’t run over any nuns or orphans, so it was all good. I even managed to parallel park within 12 inches of the curb. Yep, despite the fact I jumped the curb early on, I felt that things were going to be okay.
And then it happened.
We were driving back to the DOT, and we passed a small strip mall that just happened to have their parking strip sprinklers going. And those very same sprinklers just happened to be set a little too high. And that powerful spray of water just happened to extend all the way out to the street. And I just happened to drive past this over-extended sprinkler just as the water was spraying in our direction.
Do you remember me telling you that the car windows were down would be relevant? It was a bull’s-eye -– score, direct hit. 100 points to Tommy!
The sprinkler went right through the open car window and hit the crotchety old coot smack in the face. I tried to maintain my composure and keep my eyes on the road while water poured down this old man’s face and onto his official Washington State clipboard. Believe me, it wasn’t easy.
Fortunately, we were only about two blocks away from the DOT, and I somehow managed to get the car back into the parking lot (without jumping the curb this time), park it, and then look him in the eye. And no - through the power of God and all points in between - I didn’t laugh.
He pulled out an old beat up handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his glasses off. His hair (what was left of it) was wet and standing up, and his ranger shirt was soaked through; it looked like he’d just ran a marathon. His paperwork on the clipboard was dripping water onto the 70’s blue vinyl seats of the Impala. But he still didn’t say anything.
Finally, he spoke. And in a very quiet voice, one that almost could be described as “defeated”, he told me I’d passed my driving test.
YES!
In spite of my jumping the curb and not turning my head enough when I was switching lanes and looking in the mirror (apparently he wanted to see dramatic head movements), and the fact that he’d just been royally hosed down, I still managed to pass my driving exam.
Long story short, I went home that hot July afternoon with my shiny new driver’s license (actually, a piece of paper – the real one would be mailed to be in 2 – 4 weeks), and the rest is driving history. I’ve been a licensed driver in two states for the last 24 years, and have put well over 300,000 miles on several vehicles.
So when I see those poor nervous kids driving around Sioux City in their drivers ed cars, desperately clinging to the steering wheel in an approved 9 o-clock and 3-o-clock positions, I smile and try to remember what it was like to be the new guy on the road
And since I have a convertible now, I always make doubly sure to check for sprinklers.
posted by Tommy G at
11:38 AM
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