There are moments in life that we would all rather forget. For me, the more time (and distance) that I can accumulate between these moments and myself, the better.
In past columns I have written about my first foray into giving my kids their first-ever shower, which went over like shots at the doctor’s office.
Then there was the time on the farm when I masterfully buried the biggest tractor we own in a slough near a busy intersection. Here, even nature itself seemed to rise up and mock me, with cheering blackbirds sitting on cattails.
As I look back at my life, I actually shudder at the sheer volume of proverbial humdingers in my past. As a matter of fact, the farther back I look, the more numerous they become, which quickly causes me to think about something else.
One of my fairly serious problems during my teen years and early twenties was my over-inflated opinion of my driving skills. I wasn’t constantly driving like a reckless fool, but I did hold the opinion that I could pull out these amazing driving skills, at will, should the need arise.
Blaming Others and Making Excuses
As many of you know, I grew up on the farm in Russell, MN. As a result, I have pretty much driven every type, size and combination of powered vehicle known to mankind. I’ve had to manage from 2 to 18 wheels, with between 5 and 600 horsepower, on hard, mushy and slippery surfaces. I’ve had to get in and out of tight spaces, sometimes in reverse with two or three implements in tow. I learned about static, kinetic and fluid friction (and their coefficients) in the real world, long before I learned about them in physics classes in high school and college. The farm was the ultimate playground for a real-world education.
As I interacted with people who did not have these experiences, I quickly realized I had some skills that they did not. I also found it entertaining to watch these folks do minor activities like parallel parking, or freeing a vehicle from a harrowing 4 inches of snow over an ice patch (better bring in the national guard).
One of my personal favorites to this day is the person who drives a stick shift, but has no idea about its proper use. Specifically, they over-rev the engine and achieve all of their acceleration on the slip of the clutch, instead of fully engaging the clutch sooner and accelerating on the rpm’s. Those 38,000-mile clutch replacements are a barrel of laughs for mechanics, while the driver sits in the waiting room reading people magazine, feeling victimized or simply clueless entirely.
Needless to say, my driving ego was steadily growing within the severe limitations of a teen-age brain (this is not a good combination). And it kept growing into my early twenties while I witnessed a couple years of collegiate drivers, driving and parking around the campus.
I was gradually raising the bar of what I believed I was capable of doing with a vehicle. This is where male drivers (skilled or not) basically sow the seeds of higher car insurance rates. A female driver who is extremely cautious and safe, even one with little more than gum-chewing skills, is one of the most desirable car insurance customers in the world. Not pushing one’s skills is the key. The skills themselves are comparatively unimportant. But the male edition of my teen brain apparently had this switched around.
I had purchased a snappy little Chevy (with a little help from my ever college-funding parents). Over time my growing head, combined with all those Knight Rider and Dukes of Hazzard episodes had finally coalesced to give me the nerve to attempt “controlled” risks in public places.
One of the maneuvers I admired on TV commercials was when the driver’s would speed the featured car into the viewing frame using a side-ways skid, resulting in a showy position for the camera. Never mind that the TV commercial s had dozens of takes and controlled environments. The puff of dust would roll away and the husky voiced actor would appeal to our desire for a sporty image.
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| Apparently I already felt rather sporty and needed to try my hand at these maneuvers, executing them a number of times in different parking lots on snow and gravel. I seemed to be having a great deal of success, placing the car exactly where I had intended. Another favorite of mine was the rear-skidding 180.
Behold, Ye Citizens and Make Way
One day, at the pinnacle of my puffy condition, I was pulling into a Super America gas station in Grand Forks, ND. A nice, fresh, 6-inch layer of heavy wet snow had just blanketed the city. I rolled past the pumps and along the store, but I was heading in the wrong direction to park along the curb. I figured the solution was simple. It was time to pull out the driving hero playbook, look up the “180”, factor in the coefficient of sliding friction for rubber and snow-covered pavement, acquire the optimal speed and BE that TV commercial.
So, when the time was right, I cranked the wheel to the left while locking the emergency brakes to seize the rear wheels. The back of the car began its smooth “controlled” slide around with the front wheels holding their position nicely, putting me on track for a sweet, parallel parking slide-in. Everything was going great until the earth shaking impact of my aluminum rim against the curb was heard by anybody within a two-block radius.
It was at this point that I realized how big those storefront windows were. I looked up and was relieved to see that only one employee was inside the store to take in the grandeur of my driving skills. But then, I started to see three or four ducked heads slowly rising up to peer over the counters and store displays. They wanted to have a look at the explosion outside. Of course, there was no explosion. I just sound like one sometimes.
My ego and I drove away from the scene to the theme of taps, to find a different store and use a different arrival technique.
That was the end of my spiraling opinion of my own driving skills. I still have a problem with thinking that my driving skills are more than they really are, but it’s on a much lower scale these days. Today, I drive an AARP certified Buick and sometimes “roll the dice” with the four and eight o’clock hand positions on the steering wheel. But only on weekends, and only when I’ve had my nap.
In memory of my teen brain (male edition), I would like to cite the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz:
I could while away the hours
Conferrin' with the flowers
Consultin' with the rain . . .
And my head, I'd be scratchin'
While my thoughts were busy hatchin'
If I only had a brain
That’s my report from the “Big City”.
Brian in the Big City
Employee #0090698
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