I learned to drive in 1972 when I was twenty years of age. My friends all started earlier but I had a little mental block against it which I had to overcome. I suspect my father inadvertently contributed to it. He loved to drive friends and family members around. For a long time, he discouraged my mother from learning to drive because he so enjoyed chauffeuring her about. Going to the airport? My father would insist you not waste money on a taxi and instead let him take you. He was the original Super Shuttle.
Then when I was around ten, he read a newspaper item about a child who had died…I don't know the exact story but it was something like this: A kid had been injured and he might have been saved if his mother had had a car and been able to drive her son to the hospital — but she couldn't drive and she didn't have a car. Whatever the details, the report prompted my father to change his mind about my mother driving. She got a license and a car but she didn't like driving and did it rarely — usually just to the market and back, doing well under the speed limit both ways. She drove me to doctor appointments occasionally but never had to rush me to an emergency room.
So my father drove me everywhere and discouraged me from driving. Further discouragement came from a Driver's Education teacher I had in high school. His name, so help me, was Mr. Break…and I was disappointed when I learned he spelled it that way. He'd introduce himself to classes by saying, "My name is Break, as in 'your neck!'" And then he'd scare the hell out of us with his lessons. I remember some "safety film" that was full of mangled bodies and blood, showing what would happen if you drove your car into a brick wall at 60 MPH.
I guess it worked. I've never driven my car into a brick wall at 60 MPH or even much slower. But it and Mr. Break also put me off the whole idea of getting behind the wheel. When I had to do it in class with him, he made it sound like if I accidentally turned the radio on at the wrong moment, the car would explode and everyone in the vehicle would die a fiery death.
I only recall one positive/constructive lesson I learned from him. We were driving around the neighborhood, a few blocks from school — me at the wheel, him in the passenger seat, three other students squished in the back awaiting their turns. A red sports car zoomed past us, doing well over the posted limit and swerving — briefly but dangerously — into the opposite lane. Mr. Break said, "Remember that car."
As we drove along, he explained, "In a residential area — practically anywhere except wide open roads with no stop signs or signals — driving like that usually doesn't get you there any faster. Watch. We're driving along at a safe speed and the odds are we'll catch up to that guy."
I drove us about another ten blocks until I had to stop for a light…and sure enough, right next to us was the red sports car.
For a long time after when a car zoomed past the one I was in, whether I was driving or not, I'd play that little game. I'd remember the car and see if safe-and-steady driving allowed me to catch up. It didn't all the time but it happened often enough to make the point. Alas, that was the only lesson of value I got from Mr. Break. He made driving sound difficult and deadly and I'm still not sure he wasn't secretly being paid by the Santa Monica Bus Lines to keep me as their customer.
So when I started dating at age 17, the girl had to drive. They all said they didn't mind and one lady I went out with for a while — her name was Lynne — even preferred it. She'd been on dates where she felt like a prisoner, she told me. The guy drove, took her to some faraway locale and wasn't about to take her home until he was good and ready, hint hint. It wouldn't bother me as much today but back then, making the lady drive felt wrong to me…finally so wrong that I overcame whatever it was that was holding me back. I took private lessons, got my license and while I never grew to actually enjoy the sheer act of driving the way some folks do, I quickly came to regret waiting as long as I did. I still don't really like it but I like what it does for me.
My father took the occasion of my drivers license to buy himself a new (used) car and to give me his old one. It was a 1965 Buick Skylark with the engine of a Buick Wildcat, which gave it plenty of pep. Prior to that, I got around town via my father and, when he wasn't available, public bus lines. I knew all the relevant routes and the schedules by heart and could often get from Place A to Place B in a breeze. Then again, there were the occasional slow breezes and times when it was hard to avoid crazy people. Tomorrow in this spot, I'll tell you about the one memorable, happy thing that ever happened to me on a bus.