Alec Feurer
Burning Rubber
We were skidding across the narrow road back and forth, and the smell of burning rubber diffused though the truck. Having two older brothers has allowed me the fascinating and somewhat hair-raising “opportunity” to witness this landmark event firsthand, when riding shotgun, as my brothers learned to drive. After observing numerous bloopers and plentiful close calls, I am confident that my experience while learning how to drive will be quite different.
In the very beginning, riding shotgun required the mandatory use of a NASCAR racer’s HANS device, five-point harness, helmet, and fire suit. My mom always taught us “Safety First!” I took no chances. The back bumper of my mom’s prized Jeep was emblazoned with a neon sticker that advertised that the driver was a “novice.” My mom, the instructor, was white knuckled as she hung on for dear life. It was thoroughly intriguing watching her try to step on the brake from the passenger side of the truck. She barked commands as she alternately held her breath or practiced deep-breathing exercises. I bit my tongue in a concerted effort not to laugh, scream, or engage in random sarcastic play-by-play. Sometimes, though, I couldn’t contain myself, and I made bizarre sound effects. Close calls were numerous. My remarks were frowned upon greatly.
My brothers both entered into this journey asserting that they were competent, as if thirty hours of drivers’ education classes had taught them everything they would need to know. Thirty hours, half of which were spent dozing off in the dark, of videos explaining the do’s and dont’s of handling the road droned on and on for the ten-day duration of the course. Apparently, their favorite part of the class was the fifteen-minute break, when they walked to the nearby 7-11 and discussed the dream car that they would be buying, or not. I was not convinced that mandatory attendance of drivers’ education had equipped them to handle the road. I reassured my mom that I would be the valedictorian of my Drivers’ Ed class.
Short drives though our quiet neighborhood were the standard outing for the first few days. I realized we were in trouble when pulling out of the driveway in reverse meant four wheeling across the front yard. One’s own neighborhood was really an obstacle course for novice drivers. The mailboxes of our unsuspecting neighbors became easy targets. Handling two-way traffic was stomach-turning and potentially deadly, even on our tranquil neighborhood streets. Upon returning from these short outings, parking in the garage was beyond the skills of these student drivers. Mom returned to the wheel, thankfully, to end each session.
Venturing beyond the relative safety of our neighborhood would prove to be even more stressful and exasperating. Again, overcompensating to avoid oncoming traffic put us perilously close to telephone poles, street signs, and sidewalks. Apparently, watching the speedometer was mutually exclusive with watching the road. The tunnel, which instructor mom said was a mandatory experience, was traumatic for both drivers and passengers. The compulsory drive over the Key Bridge tested both composure and courage. Merging onto the beltway at a high rate of speed was daunting for all concerned, including other drivers. Blind spots… what are blind spots? Clearly mastery would take much more practice.
Hence, the driver and the passengers made it through these harrowing adventures unscathed. Emotionally, though, we were wasted. My undertakings of this experience will be approached with much more maturity and wisdom.
Still don’t know what to do behind the wheel.
Definitely know what not to do.
thor
7
LOYOLA
BLAKEFIELD
LITARTMAG
2014