It’s been 13,689 days since I passed my driver’s test. I remember how important it was to me to earn that freedom and the excitement of driving my parent’s station wagon into town on my own for the first time. This past week, we’ve been teaching one of our nieces how to drive, and it’s a good reminder of how much work it takes to learn a skill I take for granted.
We drive into an empty church parking lot on a sunny Sunday afternoon and park the car in the middle of the pavement. “Are you nervous?” I ask, after switching places with her and reminding her to adjust the mirrors and seat to fit.
“A little,” she says. “I’ve never been in the driver’s seat before.”
We both take a deep breath as she starts the engine. It takes a few minutes for her to get used to the feel of the brake, so the car jolts to a quick stop a few times. “Sorry,” she says, and I smile and tell her she’s doing great. We coast slowly around the parking lot before she gets up the courage to press the accelerator down. We make figure-eights around the light poles and try backing in and out of parking spaces. She cranks the wheel as far as it goes to make a big circle and learn about the turning radius of the car. I notice a pile of orange cones stacked up on the side of the lot and set up a quick course for her to drive through. We weave around the cones as I encourage her to crank the wheel a little harder or give it more gas.
After a few rounds, I get out and stand to the side as she practices driving and turning, a big smile on her face after she successfully makes it around without toppling any cones. Soon, she’s had enough for the first lesson, so we swap seats and drive home, proud to have achieved this milestone. Mike takes her out to practice the next day, sharing his experience and getting her confidence up to drive busier roads and go a little faster.
It’s harder than I thought it would be to teach someone to drive. I take for granted all the tiny pieces that go into it, like the way my foot knows to hop between the gas and brake and apply the right amount of pressure I need for both. I assume my eyes will see what’s going on around me and my brain will know when it’s safe to change lanes or tell my foot to slow it down a little. It’s hard to put into words these deeply ingrained skills that feel more like instinct now.
As we drive home, I am suddenly aware of the bad habits I’ve developed through almost 40 years of driving. “You forgot to signal,” she says as I slide into a left turn lane. “Oops, don’t do this,” I say as I catch myself rolling too far into the crosswalk at a red light for a right turn.
I know she’ll get the hang of it with enough practice. Most of us do. (My paternal grandmother is the only person I know who tried driving a car, failed both times, and never tried again.)
I wonder where she’ll find herself driving in the years ahead, the roads she will travel both literally and figuratively as she makes her way into adulthood. I think of all the adventures I’ve had, the people and places I’ve visited just because I was able to drive there. And I think of how hard it is when that day comes when it’s not safe to drive anymore, and the wisdom and grace it takes to give up that freedom for the safety of others.