I couldn’t wait to drive a car. As soon as I was old enough, I got my permit and pestered my dad to teach me to drive. Dad was thorough, especially about “blind spots”. To make sure I got the message, he walked around the car and stopped in several places so that I had to look over my shoulders to see him. I never forgot that lesson, and I don’t “sit” in someone else’s blind spot.
Dad taught me how to pump gas, check the oil, add water to the radiator, and change a tire, though at the time there was no such thing as “self-service”. A service station was a service station. An attendant filled your tank, checked your oil and water, washed your front and back windows, even your mirrors. When I passed the driver’s test and had license in hand, Dad let me drive the family car. Of course, he didn’t know that I filled the car with friends and drag raced on Bernal Avenue in Pleasanton. Thankfully, I never crashed and hurt anyone. I love driving fast, but I’ve only driven 100 mph a few times in my life — in the Nevada desert, in a yellow Cadillac convertible on the Hollywood Freeway, and on California’s I-5 where at 85 mph people pass you like you’re a tortoise.
In my early days of driving (16), I ran out of gas once and had to walk a couple of miles home. Dad put enough in a can to get me into town to fill up and drove me back to the car. Before departing, he warned me the next time I ran out of gas, I’d be carrying a five-gallon can back from the gas station to wherever I’d left the car. Ever since then, I check the gas gauge and fill up when I’m just below half a tank.
It was a matter of pride that I’d never gotten a speeding ticket. Rick and I headed to Oregon one summer and he said I should slow down. As I was boasting about my perfect driving record, a CHP came roaring up behind me, lights flashing. Red-face, I apologized (not to Rick smirking in the passenger seat) to the officer who kindly let me off with a warning.
Alas, I did get a ticket while driving a rental car. It was a new model, night was fast approaching, and I didn’t know how to turn on the headlights. I had another two hours of driving to get to my destination, so I gave in to my Lead-foot Lucy persona and raced to beat sundown, ignoring the truckers flashing their lights in warning. A CHP pulled me over. I signed the ticket and explained my situation. It took the two of us half an hour to figure out how to turn on the lights.
By the grace of God (and probably several weary, over-worked guardian angels), I’ve only been in one accident. Not my fault. I was driving under the speed limit in a construction zone. There were no flaggers and a truck came from between two earth movers and T-boned our car. It took several men to pry open both front doors and pull our eldest son (then in a car seat) and me – (seven months pregnant with our daughter) out of the car. Thankfully, no one was injured. Our classic Cougar, however, was totaled.
Lessons learned: Learn where your blind spots are. Not just in a car.
Fill your tank. Not just with gas, but common sense and wisdom.
Don’t boast about anything, ever.
Read the manual before you get in the car, the Bible for life instructions.
Live well and fully and remember — life is a construction zone.