How I Learned to Drive a Stick Shift (As Promised)
It was December of 1993 and my family and I were going to spend Christmas in Pennsylvania with my aunt and her family. The plan was that I would travel home from college with a friend, spend an evening with my parents, and then drive them off to the airport. A week later, I would hop on another plane and join them.
That was the plan. Things rarely go according to plan.
My original ride home fell through and I had to scramble to find a new one at the last minute. Which I did, only I would get home a day later than planned. Somehow, my mother misunderstood the situation to mean that I didn’t want to see them (I was 18, of course I didn’t!) and was purposely delaying my return home (my ride cancelled…not my fault!). In retaliation for my abhorrent behavior, she locked The Club on the steering wheel of her car and hid the key before taking the shuttle to the airport. So there I was, 18, home alone for a week, and car-less.
Or was I?
See, my mother didn’t bother to put the Club on my dad’s brand spanking new Pontiac Firebird because I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. But I had a dilemma. My mother had scheduled a dentist appointment for me during that parent-free week home and now I didn’t have a way to get there. I had no other recourse than to learn to drive a stick shift. It was my duty to my personal hygiene that forced me into the driver’s seat of that sleek vehicle!
And sleek it was!
Sweet, isn’t it!
Almost as sweet as the jolt of adrenaline I got as I turned the key in the ignition that very first time and heard the roar of all eight cylinders churning to life.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.
Okay, I’m back now.
I was not completely unfamiliar with the workings of a manual transmission. My father had described how it worked to me at one time and my best friend’s father (Hi, Lisa’s dad!) had tried to teach her how to drive a stick while I sat in the back seat. So I knew in theory how to do it. Press in the clutch and put the gear shift in first gear. Gently press on the gas until the rpms are in the 2,000-2,500 range and ease off the clutch. When the tachometer reached the same range, press in the clutch again, shift to second, and slowly release while applying the gas. Lather, rinse, repeat as needed.
Armed with this knowledge, I slowly lurched out of the garage. Was I nervous? Was I afraid of what the neighbors might say? No and no. One might describe me as having been "arrogant" as a teenager. I prefer the term "confident". Either way, I didn’t think twice about taking the car out that very first day for a spin. After all, I had to practice. The dentist’s office was pretty far from the house and I didn’t want to get in an accident or anything. I ended up at a friend’s house and the next thing you know, me and two of my friends were lurching away from stoplights all over town! Around midnight At the end of the day, I parked the car in the garage and slept the sleep of the triumphant.
The next day was more "practice". And the day after. Day four, however, was spent with a friend who shall remain nameless (Hi, Lisa!) calling school chums, buying plastic cups, and putting all breakables in my house safely up in the attic. Oh yeah. And hopping in the Firebird to pick up an older friend and drive to the store to pick up a keg. That’s right. I stole my dad’s car to go buy beer when I was clearly underage. I told you. Confident. And let me tell you, that ended up being one hoppin’ party! There were only two small incidents. Someone got too drunk to figure out how to unlock the bathroom door and I had to pick the lock. And someone else decided to sober themselves up by jumping in a cold shower but couldn’t figure out which way to turn the faucet to get cold water and ended up with some burns from standing in a shower of scalding hot water. (Hi, Car Guy!)
But I digress. Suffice it to say that by the end of the week, I was really good at driving a stick shift. That very last day held only two more challenges. Get myself to and from the dentist in one piece (which, it being a dentist appointment, was a sketchy prospect at best), and to return the car to its original condition so as not to set off any alarms with my parental units.
First thing in the morning my mom called to apologize for overreacting and making me miss my appointment by not letting me drive her car and did I want her to reschedule it for me? I assured her that I had found a friend to drive me there (after all, I am my own best friend) and so rescheduling wouldn’t be necessary, but that I appreciated her apology. Confidence. Not arrogance. I then hopped in the Firebird and went to my check up. After receiving a big thumbs up and a free tooth brush from the dentist, I made a quick stop at the gas station to fill the tank. I then had to drive around for a bit until the gas was at about the same level that it had been at the beginning of the week. Then came the final test. My dad always parked his car in the garage backward and in a way that kind of tucked it off to the side to leave room for his extra long doors to open. I must have backed up and pulled out at least twenty times before getting it right, but ultimately I was successful. The next day I left for Pennsylvania and my big adventure came to an end.
What makes this whole experience a wonderfully satisfying one to remember for me? One simple fact. I never, ever, evereverever, got caught. Also that I survived, but mostly that I never got caught. How do I know for sure? I’ll tell you. About two years ago, the subject of that week came up in a phone conversation with my mother. She talked about how bad she felt about jumping to conclusions and I assured her that, "Of course I wanted to see you guys before you left! Don’t be silly! My friends all had cars so it wasn’t like I was stranded or anything. No hard feelings, I pinky swear." (Hi, Mom!)
Confidence. Not Arrogance.
If you don’t go over to Humor-Blogs.com and give me a smiley for this post, I will go to your house, steal your car, and joy-ride around in it for a week!
