Learning to Drive

The local writer's group I attend each month met last Thursday night. We were supposed to bring a 250 word story about driving, in a voice that could not be traced back to us. That was more difficult than I imagined, but in the end, I don't think anybody guessed that I wrote this about how I learned to drive (which includes mostly facts and an embellishment or two -- well, nearly all of the lingo is an embellishment since most of it didn't even exist when I was 15, and it wouldn't have been possible for somebody to "hit me up" while I was driving back then). 

Photo: Alamosbasement

I was 15 when Grandpa offered to teach me how to drive. 

Driving any vehicle was the grip – even if it was a beat up old pickup truck. When it was time for us to bounce, he drove to an old dirt road by the house, stopped the truck and handed me the keys.

I was crunked. My first step toward freedom.

We got out of the truck to switch sides. All I saw was mile after mile of corn fields. I stepped into the driver’s seat, started the truck and slid the shifter into “drive,” nearly missing a gear.

“My bad, Grandpa,” I said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “Now, just focus on the road. You’ve read the manual. Stay on the right side and keep both hands on the wheel. And obey the speed limit!”

“This is tight!”

Gravel crunched under the wheels as I hit the gas pedal.

“How does it feel?” he said after a couple of minutes.

I smiled at him.

“Eyes on the road.”

I drove for a couple of miles before handling a left turn without any problems. I wished one of my friends would hit me up, but I knew Grandpa wouldn’t approve. Still, this was crescent fresh – an experience I would never forget. But I’d have to keep it on the down low around my friends.

Nobody likes a tool.

“Okay, that’s enough for your first time out,” Grandpa said. “Pull over and I’ll take it from here.”