Driving Ambition

I was told that when I was a tyke and we were visiting my grandparents' farm, I got in someone's car and drove it into the side of the barn. I am staunchly denying the truth of this fable until I see it in print in my mother's diary. I'm not saying I wouldn't have taken advantage of an available vehicle, but I defend my abilities to avoid such an obvious target, even at a tender age. I have always enjoyed driving.


I was one of those fortunate brats who was given a brand new car as soon as I got my driver's license. I had been eyeballing a neighbor's red Fiat, which was for sale, and my father wisely told me to offer him $50 less than he was asking. My dad knew that this man was such an asshole that he wouldn't take one penny less than his asking price, and I didn't know that my dad was already roaming the car dealerships for my first car. I was thrilled to learn that I would soon be driving a 1975 Datsun B-210 Hatchback.


These cars were wildly popular at the time, and we were put on a waiting list. The wait, of course, seemed interminable. I had to submit two color choices, and neither were guaranteed. My first choice was Sherwood green; the second choice was Cocoa brown. I got brown, and I was happy later that I did. The interior was cream-colored vinyl, and the car had an FM radio! At the time, an FM radio was the ultimate teen luxury, in or out of a car.


I had learned to drive in the years between The (alleged) Barn Incident and the Datsun B-210. I started out behind the wheel at a young age, when I was six or seven. No, I didn't actually drive, but my dad agreed to keep a car for one of his men when he was deployed overseas temporarily, and we had a new 1966 Oldsmobile Toronado at our house at my disposal. Unmarried sailors are notorious for spending their money on flashy cars, and this one was a beauty. From my point of view, this car was a wonderful playhouse, because you didn't need a key to operate the electrical gadgets. My friends and I would spend hours raising and lowering the windows, moving the seats back and forth like amusement park rides, and popping the hide-away headlights up and down. So much for the car's battery.


Later, I somehow figured out that if I simultaneously pressed the brake, flipped on a turn signal, and turned on the emergency flashers, I could turn on the radio in my dad's 1968 Dodge pick-up truck. I learned how to drive in this truck. It was the plainest vehicle ever produced; it didn't even have an ashtray, and the radio was an add-on feature. My dad's best friend William Worsley, a smoker, gave my dad two magnetic ashtrays for the dashboard. Yes, the dashboard was a broad expanse of metal; safety was not an available option.


The truck featured power-nothing. It had three-on-the-column, and a clutch that you had to push it in about a yard before it engaged. On cold days you needed to finesse the manual choke. The steering wheel was huge, and you had to wrest it about like a madman to get the truck to alter three degrees on the compass. I loved that truck, and I would drive it all over our big yard. We had a lot of trees, so I learned to avoid obstacles and reverse when required.


After my parents were confident that I could maneuver fairly well, and knew the difference between the brake and the accelerator, I was allowed to back the Buick up and down the driveway. Back and forth, back and forth, a bit boring, but I avoided the brick posts that flanked the driveway entrance, and I didn't ram the house (I don't want to hear another word about that barn. The story is not confirmed.)


Time for the next step. One of my parents, usually my mother, would take me on practice runs through our neighborhood after I graduated from Driveway 101. These forays were always in the dark of night. We lived in a quiet neighborhood, so I rarely encountered a fellow driver, and I learned how to turn corners without taking out shrubbery or street signs. These lessons went well, and I was a good suburban nocturnal driver at age twelve.


One evening, however, was memorable. I was driving along, minding my own business with my mother at my side, when a car appeared behind us. These were secret missions, and my mother certainly didn't want to get caught in the passenger seat with a pre-teen behind the wheel. My mother remained calm, and told me to turn at the next intersection. I did.


So did the car behind me.


"It's okay. Turn left up here onto Lakeview," Mom advised. The car behind us thought that was a good idea, too, and followed us.


"Turn left up here," said my mom, with a trace of irritation in her voice. Left we went, with the car headlights still behind us.


"Good grief. Turn right." The car followed.


"The jackass! Just turn into one of these driveways!" said my mother through clenched teeth.


I picked a driveway, and the jackass turned in right behind us. What were the chances I would choose the jackass's driveway for our escape hatch?