I have a somewhat diverse, maybe even unusual, experience with cars. When I was a child in Sacramento, probably no more than six years old, my father would let me sit on his lap and steer our white mini-van down a regularly unoccupied stretch of road. Little did I know my father’s hands were always at the ready to re-assume control of the vehicle should we veer off course. However, to my parent’s dismay, the power and control I felt at the wheel of that van, combined with my ambitious nature, would later prove to be incorrigible.
When we moved to Wyoming, there was a different attitude towards driving. Driving begins at fourteen for most kids in Wyoming. Due to the vast stretches of farm land and long commutes to schools, most kids get their farmer’s permit, which allows them to drive, legally, at fourteen. I was convinced that I was in desperate need of my farmer’s permit, even though we lived in town and our house was nothing like a farm. My parents didn’t share my outlook.
I had one friend, in particular, who lived on a large expanse of land. I would regularly visit him and we would drive his beat-up old automatic transmission, orange Jeep Cherokee, with absolutely no suspension, around the sagebrush flats at the base of the bentonite hills. Since there were no roads and no police, we often demanded more of the Jeep than it was designed to give. We would barrel through large sagebrush, build jumps, do donuts, climb steep hills, and engage in regularly irresponsible and dangerous activities. The Jeep was probably only on four wheels when it was at rest.
Confident of my driving skills, and perhaps to spite my parent’s disapproval of a farmer’s permit, one night, while my parents were away, I decided I would take our mini-van for a spin. I was certain I could drive around for a while before they got home. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the mechanics of a manual transmission. I figured out how to back the van out of the garage and into the street, but I couldn’t figure out how to drive the car forward. Hardly fazed, I proceeded to drive the van, in reverse, around my neighborhood for some time. I was at the bottom of a large hill, when I realized that I would need to park the van back in the garage, which would require a forward direction. Realizing I was running out of time before my parent’s return, I parked the van at the bottom of the hill, ran to my house, picked up my phone and called my older friend who definitely knew how to drive a stick. He laughed hysterically at my predicament, but agreed to come help me. We got the van back in the garage and resumed our normal routine, so as not to exhibit our guilt upon my parents return. I’m not sure if my parents ever found out about that endeavor. In retrospect, I’m not sure how I figured out one direction but not the other.
It was about two years later that I passed my exam and received my learner’s permit, which allowed me to drive, legally, in the company of an adult. My dad drove our little, red, two-door, gutless, manual transmission, Geo Metro out to a dirt road outlining the base of the foothills near my house. This was my first, legal, driving experience, although by this time, I’d had plenty of driving experience and had figured out how to drive in both directions with a manual transmission. We began with a few starts and stops to get the feel of the clutch. We then proceeded to barrel down the dirt road. For some reason, I felt the need to hold a perfect speed. With my eyes focused on the speedometer, we nearly veered off the road a few times before my dad asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to hold the speed. He laughed at the idea and told me that staying on the road was more important than the speed at which we drove off the road. Eventually, I won the approval to occasionally drive the family cars, only with the presence of an adult, of course.
In Wyoming, being able to drive is invaluable. When I moved to the metropolis, my driving seemed to contribute to the already congested roads and I began to prefer my bike and my feet, which I found to be much more reliable, safe and cost-effective transportation. I still enjoy attempting to drive; I just don’t like competing with other people’s attempts.
When we moved to Wyoming, there was a different attitude towards driving. Driving begins at fourteen for most kids in Wyoming. Due to the vast stretches of farm land and long commutes to schools, most kids get their farmer’s permit, which allows them to drive, legally, at fourteen. I was convinced that I was in desperate need of my farmer’s permit, even though we lived in town and our house was nothing like a farm. My parents didn’t share my outlook.
I had one friend, in particular, who lived on a large expanse of land. I would regularly visit him and we would drive his beat-up old automatic transmission, orange Jeep Cherokee, with absolutely no suspension, around the sagebrush flats at the base of the bentonite hills. Since there were no roads and no police, we often demanded more of the Jeep than it was designed to give. We would barrel through large sagebrush, build jumps, do donuts, climb steep hills, and engage in regularly irresponsible and dangerous activities. The Jeep was probably only on four wheels when it was at rest.
Confident of my driving skills, and perhaps to spite my parent’s disapproval of a farmer’s permit, one night, while my parents were away, I decided I would take our mini-van for a spin. I was certain I could drive around for a while before they got home. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the mechanics of a manual transmission. I figured out how to back the van out of the garage and into the street, but I couldn’t figure out how to drive the car forward. Hardly fazed, I proceeded to drive the van, in reverse, around my neighborhood for some time. I was at the bottom of a large hill, when I realized that I would need to park the van back in the garage, which would require a forward direction. Realizing I was running out of time before my parent’s return, I parked the van at the bottom of the hill, ran to my house, picked up my phone and called my older friend who definitely knew how to drive a stick. He laughed hysterically at my predicament, but agreed to come help me. We got the van back in the garage and resumed our normal routine, so as not to exhibit our guilt upon my parents return. I’m not sure if my parents ever found out about that endeavor. In retrospect, I’m not sure how I figured out one direction but not the other.
It was about two years later that I passed my exam and received my learner’s permit, which allowed me to drive, legally, in the company of an adult. My dad drove our little, red, two-door, gutless, manual transmission, Geo Metro out to a dirt road outlining the base of the foothills near my house. This was my first, legal, driving experience, although by this time, I’d had plenty of driving experience and had figured out how to drive in both directions with a manual transmission. We began with a few starts and stops to get the feel of the clutch. We then proceeded to barrel down the dirt road. For some reason, I felt the need to hold a perfect speed. With my eyes focused on the speedometer, we nearly veered off the road a few times before my dad asked me what I was doing. I told him I was trying to hold the speed. He laughed at the idea and told me that staying on the road was more important than the speed at which we drove off the road. Eventually, I won the approval to occasionally drive the family cars, only with the presence of an adult, of course.
In Wyoming, being able to drive is invaluable. When I moved to the metropolis, my driving seemed to contribute to the already congested roads and I began to prefer my bike and my feet, which I found to be much more reliable, safe and cost-effective transportation. I still enjoy attempting to drive; I just don’t like competing with other people’s attempts.
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