You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Young drivers.
My son is 15. He has his permit. He is learning to drive.
He is a good driver, a cautious driver, almost too cautious. Can you ever be too cautious?
We are driving slow, we are driving with methodical purpose.
“I am an excellent driver” I a little voice in my head sings.
My son is driving my vehicle. It’s a boxy SUV, surrounded by metal, with a big V-8. It is big and it fills up the lane.
There are cars are on both sides of us, passing us, racing up rapidly behind us.
“Is left up?” my son asks unsure of which way the turn signal works.
I laugh. “Left is down,” I say, checking my radically altered side view mirrors.
“Oh yeah,” he says checking his mirrors readily.
Turn up JAWS music here.
DA. DA.
Imagine a predator, below you.
DA. DA.
Your legs are dangling in the abyss.
DA. DA.
Below you, the sea is dark, an aquatic carnivore is lurking.
DA. DA.
I feel like that swimmer girl at the start of the film.
DA. DA.
I feel like we are treading water, like we are floating meat, like someone with a nasty disposition and a bumper full of prehistoric teeth is going to bite our thigh, grab our quarter panel and pull us under.
DA. DA.
My son is behind the wheel. He is driving, slowly, nibbling asphalt, meandering through the miles.
I am in the passenger seat. I am helpless. I try to act like my 15-year-old driving my car is no big deal.
I glance down and see the wheels perilously close to the curb.
“It’s OK to be more in the center of the road,” I say calmly, not trying to alarm him.
Am I nervous. No. Well, maybe. Ok, yes, I am.
I’m with a young driver with as much time behind the wheel as belly button lint.
I trust the recalcitrant squirrel who runs across my roof with lead paws every morning more behind the wheel.
I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve been through this before. This is my 3rd 15-year-old driver.
My oldest son has never had so much as a parking ticket. My middle daughter has totaled two cars, one her fault, one not.
And now child 3 is entering that right of passage moment.
Driving is freedom. Driving is responsibility. Driving is fun.
I am older now, perhaps my senses duller. Maybe I’m calmer, maybe I’m just more at peace with this young driving moment having done it before.
Do I have concerns? Well, he is 15-years-old, a driving neophyte. I realize that any moment we could be four wheeling into a Johnny Cash ring of fire.
I put that thought in my rear view as I watch cars coming up behind us quickly. The drivers are older, aggressive. They seem to consider the speed limit a suggestion. They ride our bumper wondering why we are only going 45 in a 45.
I want to flip them the bird, at least show them a sign that says “Young Driver on Board.”
My 15-year-old doesn’t even notice. He is too busy keeping the car out of the soccer field to our left and the Mini Mart to the right.
I remember being a young driver and taking driver’s ed. The course was offered through our high school. By day our driving teacher taught math. After school he taught driver’s ed. I forget his name. We just called him Colonel. He supposedly had a long and illustrious military career. Colonel sat in the passenger seat while three 15-year-old kids took turns driving this little square box with wheels.
I remember being nervous. Why not? Suzy was behind the wheel. She was a ditz. She could barely get to class without tipping her own stack of books in the hallway. Now she’s behind the wheel of a small death mobile?
I was a kid. I shouldn’t have been nervous. I know that the colonel wasn’t. He never blinked or showed an elevated heart rate. We were 15. He was ancient, a prehistoric dinosaur of life. He fought in some war. He probably killed a hundred Germans with a letter opener during the occupation. Driving with 15-year-old kids on a highway without strafing runs or land mines? For the Colonel? A piece of cake!
I think about the Colonel and his equanimity as my son takes half a day to merge into the right lane.
I check my mirror and I see more emptiness than Interstate 80 running through Nebraska .
I know that he will eventually merge into this lane. I don’t worry. We’ll get there.
The Colonel wouldn’t worry. I am not worried.
DA. DA.
Somewhere behind us, another motorized shark races by.
I check the shoulder precariously close to my front wheel.
DA. DA.
Life’s Crazy™