Driving Lessons

Really, I only started to drive when I moved to the island. Okay. Maybe I generally don't have a car while I live here. But when I have a car (that runs), I have a fun car. My intro to driving on IAH was in what is loosely considered to be "my" car- a red VW Golf from the early 1980s. It features an plein-air hatchback, and brakes that will go so far as to slow the car down until friction and gravity finally stop it. My lessons on how to drive a standard transmission car were minimal, and I only got a few chances to stall it in front of an audience before it stopped working. And when it refused to start, it did not do it in the privacy of my driveway, it refused in the store's parking lot. That was my first experience getting someone to tow me on the island. It would not be my last.

With the Golf down, Alison and I switched over to Marshall's Jeep Willy- I drove it a few times, but hardly became proficient, and the whole double-clutch thing just eluded me all together. Alison's truck (Stella, 1980-2009, RIP) stood us in good enough stead for the winter. Come spring, I had bribed Ed White with sweets, and he got around to fixing the VW so she'd run. And then the learning began.

First there was the whole smooth transition between clutch and accelerator. Then there was downshifting. The latter did not come clear to me until one night of... lowered inhibitions... when I drove a friend home, and he ended up giving me a good lesson on how to drive my finicky-transmissioned Golf. From there, it was smooth sailing, and I only stalled on occasions when the car felt I needed some humbling. And it got a flat to teach me about sending tires off-island for patching. Then this summer the same tire went flat again to teach me how to purloin parts from other junkers, and how to change the tire my own damned self.

This is where Marshall, the owner of my house has come in handy. Because the car itself did not teach me how to use a jack, and the whole procedure of tire changing. Marshall did that. And to be fair and give credit where credit is due, a neighbor stopped his car in the middle of the road to supervise/lend his encouragement. So far the tire-changing feat of June '09 has been one of the great highlights of the '09 summer, though I suspect much of its status is due to the fact it was probably the only sunny day in the entire month of June. So I fixed the tire.

Feel the empowerment.

Not that the car would start. At that time.

Marshall hooked the battery up to a charger, and the car was not at all impressed. Another person (the Tall, for those readers who remember as far back as the autumn) stopped to check out the progress, or ultimately, lack thereof.

We claimed victory for the tire, admitted defeat regarding the engine, then headed back to the house for dinner.

I took a chance after volleyball that evening, hopped in, and she actually turned over: I was able to limp her from the school into my driveway. There she could be broken-down with dignity.

By this time, Marshall had his Model A running. Not really needing a second vehicle, there was no rush to fix the VW (money flowing, as it is, to the former mainland Jeep which I'm getting fixed up to be barged out as my island car). Marshall could drive where he chose, I could walk. All good. I was hoping he'd get the Willy running (so I could drive again), but the necessary Jeep parts had gone on the burn pile, an oversight on the part of Father William.

Now, I've mentioned that Marshall is a teacher, yes? This means that really, we could only go out in the Model A so many times before he was insisting I learn to drive it. After a while, and some questions, I had gotten vaguely used to the choke, which also controls the "mix" and the idea of a throttle on the right of the steering column, the spark to the left, and the fact that there's a starter that you push with your foot.

What one was to do with any or all of those was still frightening, but after Marshall cleaned the spark plugs, one's intuitive grasp of exactly how to fine-tune each of these in relation to the others became less important. And so I learned to drive.

As we packed up the truck last Wednesday, he reminded me that everything on the truck could be replaced, and that I was not to worry. Further more, he expected stories when he got back. Well, he got to have a story before he left.

Most people on the East coast are aware that basically the entire month of June was just miserable: when it wasn't raining, it was fogging up in preparation to rain. To keep everything in the truck bed dry, Marshall loosely threw a tarp over the pile. The tarp was a fine idea, the decision not to secure it was somewhat less fine. When we got to the landing, I was feeling comparatively good about starting the truck and driving, but was nervous about the inaugural trip backing down the dock.

It turned out I was nervous for good reason. At first it was just difficult to see over his stuff, and between trying to maneuver myself so I could see where I was going (the rearview is not adjustable and not set for someone of my stature- the single side mirror is cracked and hangs loose) and attempting to control a truck with no power steering, I was having a tough time of it.

Then the tarp flew up over the rear windshield, leaving me completely blind.

So I managed to get the truck to stop.

And really my timing was impeccable. The rear fender was just brushing a kiss on the wooden rail.

There was, blessedly and for once, not a large audience of adults- thank god Marshall was taking his own boat and not the mailboat. Once we had deposited his belongings on the float, and I had viciously stowed away the offending tarp, we said our goodbyes- when he once again reminded me of how anything and everything on the truck was replaceable- and I started up the truck without a hitch, and drove home, reversing flawlessly up the drive.

Obviously I did share the story with the greater island, and as always people were pretty kind, and just told me it wouldn't be the first time a person lost a truck off the dock. Apparently some years ago, Al Gordon left Billy Barter's truck in gear up in the parking lot, and it slowly found its way down the dock and off the side. It flipped in the air, and landed tires down. Billy was watching the whole process from his boat and was reduced to hysterical guffawing. According to reports, Al was just hysterical.