Humankind has always desired to propel itself forward in every sense of the word: towards liberty, betterment, creative freedom. We have always sought to escape the drudgery of everyday life, whether that entailed saddling an Appaloosa horse and heading up to the mountain peaks or climbing aboard a jet-propelled plane and taking to the skies, a place once reserved for gods. In recent times, this freedom has come to be encapsulated by cars – their exteriors of gleaming chrome and the soft purring of their engines have come to infiltrate every aspect of our lives.
As a student, I was greatly looking forward to learning to drive. I had already contacted the best driving instructor sunderland had to offer to help me achieve my goal and I was very eager to start as soon as possible. My reasoning was threefold: leaving behind the cramped commute on public transport, escaping from the yoke of my oppressors – avoiding the heaved sighs of my parents every time I asked them to drop me to the train station – and witnessing the soft gasps of envy from my friends as I emerged from the cool interior of my very own car, twirling my keys and casually offering to drop people home. As a student, driving represented the pinnacle of freedom. It didn’t even matter about the brand of the car; it’d probably just be a second-hand Ford. As long as it worked fine, it would be perfect, though knowing my luck I’d probably be cursed with a lemon. Fortunately, a Ford lemon law buyback dispute was the least of my problems…I had to tackle learning to drive first.
As a student, I was greatly looking forward to learning to drive
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When the day of my first lesson arrived, I was further buoyed by the attitude of my instructor. Reclining in the passenger seat, he folded his arms and said he wasn’t going to touch his set of pedals. I would learn from my mistakes and grow into my ability because the youth of today “is, like, so misunderstood, man”.
Emboldened by his daring, maverick, devil-may-care attitude, I floored the accelerator and off we went, the thrumming vehicle leaping forward almost instantly. I was supreme, transcendent, cresting a wave of confidence, spinning the wheel expertly in my hand, changing gears smoothly. In fact, I no longer needed to look at the gearstick – that was for novices. I was in tune with my own equilibrium, at one with the growling engine. I could almost feel the oil flowing in my veins.
This approach lasted until I came to a roundabout, accidentally rammed into fourth gear and careened forward as my instructor shouted in an increasingly high-pitched voice to brake as I stared unseeingly ahead, faced against a rictus of horror.
I cannot say I was surprised when I was assigned a different instructor for my second lesson, having been told rather mysteriously that Derek was incapacitated.
Ken, however, was a stark contrast. Heavily muscled, he gave off a keen air of having been in the military, with constantly roving eyes and a tangible alertness. Little did I know he was about to make me drive through the playground of death that is the Curragh – a vast expanse in Co Kildare – laced with narrow, treacherous roads and populated by a flotilla of sheep who roam as they please.
I cannot say I was surprised when I was assigned a different instructor for my second lesson
I was locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse with the sheep and the brake, a steely test of nerves and reflexes as they ducked, dove and weaved around the car. Ken had appeared to develop a nervous tic, grimacing violently every time I had a particularly close shave, compounding my stress.
At the end of the lesson, he explained in a slightly choked voice that he didn’t think it was a good idea to bring me out in the car again. I threw myself on his mercy, begging him to give me a second chance. He reluctantly agreed but warned me that I had to put in a serious amount of practice.
Over the next two weeks, I practiced like a demon. My hands twitched as I changed gears in my sleep. My neck cramped from the constant checking of imaginary mirrors. My calf muscles ached as I slowly inched down on the brake while sitting in lectures.
On the fateful day, I was as ready as I could be. As I drove through Naas town, I could see the change wrought in Ken. He was a believer. I had shocked him with my improvement.
I could see my imagined future with shining eyes, as I had one hand stretched out to the green light. Until he asked me to parallel park. All of my dreams dissipated around me as I hauled at the gearstick, cars swarming around me like locusts, the relentless beeping an ode to my failure as the car groaned and stalled.
And so I remain a woefully incompetent student driver, prohibited from using either of my parents’ cars on pain of death, ousted like a pariah from Naas Driving Academy, a blot on the history of the Road Safety Authority. Yet I remain hopeful. Michael Schumacher was once a child, Niki Lauda became a champion despite his parents’ disapproval, Ayrton Senna was close to quitting in the early stages of his career. So I plan to go back to the drawing board, dig out the old copy of Mario Kart and come back again for more.
