Now that my daughter is fourteen, and on the threshold of becoming a driver, I’ve become hyperaware of my bad driving habits because, unless I change soon, it is very likely she’ll inherit them. (NB: she has a few bad habits of her own which fall under the category of what my mother warned against when I went on dates – distracting the driver – by doing such things as maniacally switching radio stations and sticking her foot in my face while saying, “Look at this!”) But it is not only for her benefit that I’m striving to change. I crave serenity and driving seems to bring out the worst in me. Lately, I've been wondering why I'm such a bad driver and I think it has something to do with the fact that as a teenager I learned to drive under very stressful circumstances.

VERY STRESSFUL CIRCUMSTANCES

When I was fifteen, my father left my mother. My mother, faced with the prospect of no job skills, a mortgage, a disabled pre-teen, and a hippie drop-out ex-husband who would be unlikely to pay alimony or child support, had a nervous breakdown and ended up in the state mental institution (after she was kicked out of Vanderbilt Hospital when dad quit his job as professor of biochemistry at Vanderbilt University and his insurance ran out) for what ended up being an extended period of time. This coincided with the advent of my sixteenth birthday so dad was in a rush for me to get my driver’s license so he wouldn’t have to take my sister and me to visit my mother since he probably felt just the teensiest bit of guilt although he denied any culpability, in fact, denied that my mother was ill which led to a lot of confusion since I couldn’t understand why she would fake such a thing.

IN A RUSH

Dad was not the most patient, nor the most qualified person to teach driving. His friends called him The Paris Driver because of his fondness for high speeds, and he drove with a Spongebob devil-may-care oblivion to obstacles and other drivers while I drove with a Mrs. Puff extremely cautious concern for getting the gear shifted correctly and not backing into anything. He allowed me to drive his former car which he’d already banged up so badly a few more scrapes wouldn’t matter which was a comforting thought as I made solo forays around our block in anticipation of my upcoming driving test. Unfortunately, once I passed that test I morphed into The Paris Driver.

THE PARIS DRIVER

Back in the days of two-lane highways, Dad would think nothing of passing five cars at a clip while my mother’s face contorted like a person riding the first car on the Cyclone as it made its penultimate descent. She once told him how nerve-wracking it was to drive with him and he told her to take a tranquilizer to which she replied that perhaps he was the one in need of the tranquilizer. Dad also kept up a running commentary describing the stupidity and ineptitude of the other drivers he encountered, and was especially intolerant of women drivers whom he felt should be compelled to post warning flags on their vehicles so that other drivers could give them the wide berth they deserved.

TAKE A TRANQUILIZER

The one accident Dad had that was not his fault was the result of an under-aged, non-insured, drunk kid who ran a red light and broadsided my parents as they were returning one evening from a party. Mother came to on the floor of the passenger side and saw Dad’s door open and him gone so her first thought was that of course he had gone out to inspect the damage with no concern for her well-being. She grumpily got out and saw that in reality he had been thrown from the driver’s seat across the road and under a parked car which sliced open his scalp. She maintains that he was never the same after that accident and attributes their divorce to it.

THROWN

Mother finally got out of the hospital but she wouldn’t let me drive her car because she feared I’d wreck it so I managed to get around without one. After a while, I couldn’t take being Substitute Dad, so I fled to NYC and did not drive for twenty-five years, until eight years ago when we moved to the country where driving is de rigeur. I am fifty-four in human years but in driving years I’m twenty-five so I attribute most of my impatience and criticism to my inexperience on the road and my experience with my dad.