On dads and driving

I use to be afraid to drive.

Not like: “Oh golly gosh that’s a wee bit daunting” type of afraid.

More the: “Jesus Christ I think I'm going to die” all the while shaking like a strung out junkie and wanting to vomit type of afraid.

It was quite the barrier and many reasons had been discussed as to why it existed.

My Mum had never driven, nor had her Mum; I had a naturally reclusive personality; and I had never been taught how to drive when I was young so always saw motor vehicles as foreign objects; some sort of unfathomable ‘other’.

But the most accurate reason as to why I strongly disliked driving was that I was afraid to piss other people off. 

Now in my household, as can be assumed from the above, my father did all the driving. During my formative years we lived in Napier, an average sized city in the province of Hawkes Bay, New Zealand. But for an average sized city it had a disproportionate amount of idiot drivers. You knew as soon as you got within the provincial borders that you were back in the area because indicators became optional as did even bothering to check if someone was there before pulling out onto a road.

And amongst this I was driven.

Now my father is, for the most part, a calm and patient man. Even once in the confines of a vehicle he keeps his cool and handles his four wheeled steed with ease (he used to be a ministerial driver for New Zealand politicians at one point in his career) but this did not mean that he remained silent behind his closed windows. In fact some of his most eloquent insults came forth while in traffic:

“How about you shift that dilapidated pile of shit off the road before I run right up your arse!”

“That’s right, you pull out there you bloody great ignoramus; it’s not like ANYONE ELSE IS USING THE ROAD!”

Or my personal favourite: “Are you going to turn that bloody corner or do you want a written God Damn invitation!”

Such was our amusing car trips. And this was all well and good...until I came to drive myself.

Living (in my early twenties) with a guy who was a complete prick didn't help overcome the phobia at all (I won’t elaborate as I am currently in a good mood and want it to stay that way) but I did manage to get a restricted licence. Then I met a calm sorta guy and he patiently let me drive his manual Nissan Navara with the clutch almost gone...this was a nervous experience at best.

And then we moved to Australia (where I couldn't drive), then Canada (where I also couldn't drive) then back to New Zealand (where, by then, I had totally lost any driving mojo) then back to Canada (where I couldn't drive) then back to New Zealand where it was also a no go due my phobia kicking back in with a vengeance.

When my marriage to said calm sorta guy ended, I felt a rising sense of panic. How could this have happened? Was I really that unlovable? Maybe if I drive he'll come back?

As it turns out, he wasn't the loss for me that I thought he was, but my grief at the time achieved miracles: I drove. He kept our Ford Falcon wagon and bought me a Mitzubishi Galant Viento, and I drove that thing all round town, in my own time, via my own routes. I chose to think of my car as an extension of me, like a protective coat, and this changed how I saw other drivers. You say what you like, I'm doing my best and you can all just deal with it.

I also made changes to my diet around this time that I also believe helped me control my anxiety. The gluten-free, dairy-free  diet (also known as the Asperger’s diet) has done wonderful things for not only my body but my over sensitive brain.....but that is a topic for a whole ‘nother blog.

Thus by the time I met the Kevman (I was sporting a 5 series BMW by then), I was very proficient at zapping around Feilding and Palmerston North (New Zealand).

Which was all but useless in preparing me for the highways and byways of Perth’s massive and constantly changing infrastructure.

“Oh good, someone else who can pick Kev up and drop him off at the airport and save us doing it” was one of the first things I heard from a few relatives upon my landing here.

Say what...

You know I'm from a pissant little Kiwi town that doesn't even have a set of traffic lights don't you?

But I did it. The trip to the airport at that time involved one major road, two highways (articulated trucks an un-optional extra), road works and what felt like 73 speed limit changes.

It took me three goes to get it right but I got there (Yes I have a NavMan....no I don’t use it....I cannot drive with things rabbiting in my ear...music: yes; news, ads, rambling DJs and questionable NavPeople....no)

I felt right proud of myself. And each month I've been trying somewhere new: The Spudshed, The Reptile Centre, a different shopping centre, things like that.

So right now, my parents are visiting and I am currently dazzling my father with my vehicular brilliance. I'm haring around the Perth bitumen like Danica Patrick, changing lanes like a champion and generally having a right old time.

I feel my Pappy’s pride as he is seated next to me.....and also his amusement as the following fell out of my mouth yesterday: “So are you gonna shift yo ass into the other God damned lane or do you need a written bloody invitation!”

Aaaaand Lil Blondie is getting driving lessons from age 10

Now off to Freo!! Should be interesting ;-)

See you next week!