As a kid I had such an annoying obsession with go-karts that I'm pretty sure my father ultimately got so tired of my incessant pining that he just gave up. Often finding themselves at wit's end with my finagling imagination, my parents had a way of getting awfully resourceful/creative/bonkers. So when I was eight he swiped the throw pillows from the couch, stacked them in the drivers seat, rammed the seat up as far as it would go, grabbed his beverage of choice and told me to climb in. I did not hesitate. We lived on a dirt road in the country in a neighborhood that consisted almost entirely of my extended family. Our address was Rt. 3, Box 357--not such-and-such house number at such-and-such street, but the 357th box on an otherwise long, winding route. At some point all us kids had either operated or steered a tractor or had taken turns jostling in the laps of our grandfathers while pretending we were driving their beloved pickups. The county repeatedly rebuffed our requests for asphalt; the ice cream man ignored us; bus drivers refused to drive down Red River Road because they viewed it as nothing more than a dead end; and the closest policeman was almost always off-duty.
High upon my vroomin' throne I confirmed that my foot did in fact reach both pedals of the rusty copper Chrysler Cordoba.
After admiring the niftiness of power windows, seats and side mirrors I settled in for my first lesson--backing the car out of the driveway and not into the 3-foot ditch. My father, semi-reclined in the passenger's seat, exhaled plumes of smoke like the Caterpillar and explained that if I could accomplish this task I would be able to drive anything anywhere anytime. I just wanted to go to the Handee Mart for a Slim Jim, some Doritos and a Dr. Pepper so into reverse we went.
I operated the gas and brake pedals in a way that's probably best described as a series of lurches and hiccups, but my steering was impeccable. I couldn't fix my hair in front of a mirror without transfixing my motor skills, but using the side mirrors came naturally. I made it as far as a quarter of a mile to the yield sign (my usual endpoint when riding my bike) before I won my first round of chicken and ran my great-uncle Wesley off the road.
I spent the next four years amusing my father (and raising family folks' eyebrows) driving in reverse to the yield sign and everywhere in between, making three-point turns and offering to pick things up at the store. Wandering along country roads I mastered the art of the lean and the one-finger wave at passersby, smoothed out my curve-hanging technique and learned very quickly not to panic when passing or being followed by the poe-leece. I could drive around Dacusville in my sleep, knew which roads to avoid in and through Easley and took special pride in chauffering my granny the length of a football field down HWY 123 in Clemson.
(Even though the "skywalk" bridge was in her yard, she never crossed it to go to Goldenview Baptist even though it was just across the street. She didn't learn to drive until she was in her mid-50s and worked so hard to buy herself a brand new car that no distance was too minor or too great.)
My sister, having preceded me as one of Pete's pedal-pushing bandits, first taught me to drive stick when I was fourteen and I've been rockin' a clutch ever since. We are lead-footed people, and while I'm no stranger to speeding tickets, I have to say I've fared far better than expected, especially in comparison to my parents and sibling.
I am an assertive driver. I think metal and fiberglass wreak too much havoc to rely simply on defensive tactics. One must drive with purpose, which is the same way one should walk and dribble a basketball. I do not live by the beach or any other place where there are strips primed for cruising. I live in a world of bypasses, side streets, thruways (their spelling, not mine) and expressways and I believe the titles speak for themselves. You may think I'm one of those people always rushing to be somewhere, but I can assure you I'm never in a hurry to get to work or to a store or even home (unless I-95 to I-85 is involved and then yes, I'm in a very big hurry).
I'm not rushing because I have anywhere to be in particular; I just really enjoy handling a vehicle when it's operating in its prime. There's a reason a car has more than two gears and I am intent on exploring said reason. Roadways, rules and driving principles have been designed to assist folk like myself in their quests, and as has been the case since first grade, I continuously seem to encounter too many people who can't read, comprehend or follow any sort of directions. I'm here to talk about a few of those things (in no order of importance because they are all important) and, of course, tell you all about why the misinterpretations terribly vex me.
- People who complete their daily grooming processes in the vehicle and thereby fail to exhibit the most basic ability to accelerate and steer in a sensible, forwardly progressing manner deserve to be accosted and made over by the same vigilantes who reconstructed Jack-Nicholson-as-the-Joker's face. The fact that you think it's worse to spend the additional minutes necessary in your bathroom to finish grooming yourself than it is to subject the rest of us to your vehicular ineptitude means I'm perfectly willing to give you the distinct impression that I'm running you off the road. It also means that I'm willing to toss in a free hairstyle by Edward Scissorhands himself.
- The acceleration lane is thus named for a very particular reason. Hint: it is not to be confused with the slamming-on-of-the-brakes lane (which is not a lane, but in fact a parking space). I need you to be amped to accelerate. Get excited about it. Mount up. I am not advising you to get all Ray Lewis on the acceleration lane--although this would be most expeditious of you and greatly appreciated--but if you could stop punking out I won't be forced to lead the swerving charge of cars who'll overtake you and stiff-arm your punk tail into the shoulder.
- The median. It's not a Picasso painting. Ain't nothin' abstract about two solidly painted yellow lines harboring a safety box that 99% of the time is big enough to hug your car. Some of them even come with giant arrows that tell you, "This is where you come to turn. Come in, stay as long as you need. It's safe here." The second surest way for you to hear my C-note horn is to try to make a turn from a lane of moving traffic. That box is there so you don't impeded the flow. Sometimes I think that watching people drive is the surest sign that we have become too self-absorbed (other times I think it's, um, blogging). You ain't the only person trying to go somewhere, and you should operate your vehicle in a way that makes this apparent. Also, I'm overcome with visions of ramming the drivers who ease out and then park perpendicular to the median before trying to lunge into on-coming traffic. You can't go horizontal in a vertical box. It ain't right. It's a Frogger fail, and you probably suck at double-dutch, too.
- Which brings me to merging. It's got an ease to it. One should slide 'n glide, not crash and burn. It's a subtle, fluid motion--kinda like slurs on sheet music. Yeah, think slurs and not stop-and-go staccato.
- And with regards to stop and go, people ... ease off the brakes. I think brake technicians have to be the highest paid in the PA-NJ area. I'm surrounded by incessantly braking drivers; most nights it's a Christmas light show with thousands of brake lights twinkling all over to the caroling of screeching and skirting wheels. I regard chronic-brakers with the same overpowering disdain that I used to guard feeble dribblers on the basketball court. You know the people who while dribbling keep their free arm crooked in a way that clearly outlines what they believe is their personal space? Yeah, I view that as an invitation, your way of telegraphing that you don't know where you're going or what you need to do.
- Spacial reasoning is also a vastly underestimated, but manageable skill that most people actually possess, as is downshifting. Most cars today come with tiptronic transmissions--that nifty li'l sub-gear box with the +/- sign next to the D.
I for one would be supremely interested to know how many people actually use this feature. It's pretty damn brilliant. For one, using it has the potential to save you brake pad and rotor money. A couple of ticks towards the minus and your surprisingly smart engine adjusts itself and slows your vehicle down, thereby eliminating all need for you and your brake lights to suffer the vehicular equivalent to an epileptic seizure. It also gives you greater control in stop-and-go traffic, and it lets you clutch- and coordination-challenged folk live out a terrific fantasy. You, too, can become too fast and too furryious. I drive stick so I'm almost always livin' the fast-lane dream, but anytime I have the advantage of driving someone else's car (a favorite pasttime) I like to use that tiptronic to demonstrate how everyday people can get their Ricky Bobby slingshot on. Go 'head and try it next time you find yourself with a li'l extra zooming space. Play around with it. Stop punkin' out and let your engine scream and moan and clear its throat; it was born to run.
- Last thing: signals. Early on in my driving career I suffered from what I guess you could call Goldilocks syndrome when it came to signalling. It was done two football fields too early or four brake pads too late, but eventually I found out how to do it just right by approaching a turn with three to four car lengths in mind. Again, my current region doesn't share my views. Most people in PA signal like so: Approach intersection/point of turn. Come to a complete stop. Swerve wide in the opposite direction of said turn. Wince (and slyly smile) at the thought of being rear-ended. Observe person following throw up their hands and swivel their head 345 degrees and mouth "What the f%&*?!" in your rear-view mirror. Turn on signal. Count to seventy-five. Allow car to roll toward the turn as if battery just died. Give all followers the finger as you haul ass away. And I cannot tell you how many times I've become unhinged sitting at a red light behind someone who forgot to signal. (I say forgot because that's how they shrug when you start honking when they wait until the light turns green and then they turn on the signal. Jerks.) I also believe I nearly run approximately 37 people off the roads daily because I'm sorry, I just can't wait for you to count your turn like you're driving the effing second hand.
There's no easy way to wrap this post up other than to say, if you ever wonder who's zooming you, it's me.
Alright already. Let's all float on.
