Part 2 in the not-so-but-somewhat-personally-epic-ish tale of me learning to drive manual transmission. Or: How I learned to stop worrying and love driving stick. If you haven’t read Part 1 – go here.
Uh-oh. My turn to drive this thing. I hoped to God that sweet, sweet Tequila Sunrise (the truck) would take it easy on me for my first go at her. But hoping rarely produces results, so I opted for panic.
Sidebar: You should know that when I was still young enough for corporal punishment, my Mom or Dad would send me to my room 3-10 minutes before I actually received the spanking to reflect on what I’d done. For a time, I spent those moments pacing and feverishly brainstorming methods that would either eliminate or subdue the pain of impending justice. FYI for kids of the now and kids of the future: baby powder, toothpaste, pillows in your pants and aspirin…total wastes of time.
Then one day, my Grandma Louise gave me a small cement statue of Mary, Joseph and a little pre-pubescent Jesus at around age 9. And at the time, I was still young enough to “get that butt tore up,” but old enough to pay a little bit of attention in church. Instead of wasting my time figuring out ways to dull my butt cheeks, I took a higher route. I would stand in front of my dresser, drape my hand over Jr. Jesus’ head and cry and plead with him to tell my Mom or Dad to lay off of my ass. I think it even worked a few times, too.
Now it was time to drive, and I didn’t have a cement Jesus, Mary or Joseph to help me out this time. I tried to laugh and keep my cool with Helen because it was no doubt just as nerve-wracking for her, but that walk from the passenger to driver’s side of the truck was a long one.
Aaaand here I am behind the wheel. My pants were still somewhat dry…but armpits and palms? Not a chance.
I cranked ‘er up and took it slow. Pressing the gas pedal and turning the wheel? Not so bad. Using the turn signal? OK. Turning off the turn signal? Not my best work. Learning to gradually-release-the-clutch-when- releasing-the-brakes-and-moving-your-foot-to-the-accelerator? Well, I did some major sucking there.
I think Helen was white-knuckling it almost the whole way (and rightly so)…but she maintained her generous sense of humor and was very patient with me. I shook us, stalled us a few times and had a hard time making turns. I also made the gears grind. Worst sound ever. OK, maybe just one of the worst sounds ever. Translated from transmission to English, I imagine that terrible groaning/shrieking noise MUST have been the truck’s way of saying,
“You have no business driving me, sucka. I will kill you in the face!”
Besides pissing off the already persnickety transmission a little more than I’d hoped, I improved over the course of a few runs around the neighborhood and Helen started to regain color in her face.
But regardless of improvement, we both needed a breather, so we stopped back at Helen’s so she could feed ol’ Tequila some well-deserved brake fluid. And man! That truck was thirsty!
Then it was time to fulfill the misson. Tequila Sunrise needed gas. And luckily for everyone between Helen’s house and the Kroger fuel station, Helen came along for the ride. I needed the moral support.
The drive was easy. Tequila Sunrise got her gasoline. Helen didn’t regret offering me this mission and I learned to drive a stick. See? I can say “drive a stick” now because I’m officially one of the ranks. I haven’t felt this cool since the first time I said a curse word in front of a grownup without the fear of repercussion.
Mission accomplished.
Hi fives for hurricane gas!
