Learning to Drive a Straight Drive March 17, 2007

As I’m working my way up out of my recent funk, I find myself at a bit of stagnant point, wondering what to write about.  I was just watching some late, late night TV (really early morning) and a talk show interview sparked a memory in me.  It also brought one of those really crazy, “did that really happen” kind of smiles to my face?  I stay so busy here in the present, that I rarely have time to reminisce about when I was younger.  I’m too busy looking into my kiddos faces and remembering that they were infants just a couple of days ago, or so it seems.  I know from both comments and friends and fam thatI do have a nice population of young 20 somethings that actual read my blog.  So, my fun young friends, this one’s for you. 

My first car was a 1973 Oldsmobile Omega.  Long, brown, and fast.  It had a V-8 engine.  I hated it, but it was wheels.  My Dad, smart man that he is, promptly informed me that I could drive it, or the big yellow school bus would continue to come visit.  I was a junior in high school and I chose the Brown Bomb, as it came to be known.  It was fast — very, very fast when needed and it held a lot of people.  That car went to college with me in 1988.  My hubby, whom I met in those first few weeks of school, was quick to keep reminding me that many, many freshman didn’t have cars.  In fact, Steve himself wasn’t allowed to bring his car until three years  into the college career.  I did have a car and even though I hated it, I was among the privileged of my friends and found myself with a car full of buddies often. 

Oddly enough, as I’m writing, I can’t even remember exactly what happened to the Brown Bomb.  I had one minor fender-bender in high-school, but that was it.  It certainly wasn’t an accident that took it down.  Just for the record, I’m going to call it old age.  I think it just kind of gave out?  That detail is blurry, but the fact is that in 1990, the Brown Bomb was retired and I got a cute little Mazda GLC.  It was older, too and definitely not a luxury car, but it ran and it got good gas mileage.  The trick, however, was it was a “straight drive” as we girl down here in the South refer to them.  Manual transmission might be a more correct term.  Bottom line:  I had to learn how to use a clutch and change gears and I needed to learn quickly. 

I was without a vehicle for about 2 weeks, bumming a ride for the 2 hours back to my hometown to practice and learn to drive my “new” car on the weekends.  I was a Resident Assistant in my dorm, and several of the freshman girls on my floor then had straight drives.  They would take me to practice in the parking garages at night.  I was improving quickly, but the hills were still causing me problems.  Probably one more weekend back at home would do it. 

I suppose I stayed on campus to study for a test or something one weekend, because I do remember that is was a Sunday afternoon.  My former roommate (we only parted for my RA job) and best friend through all those difficult years and still a dear friend today, Tracy, got a phone call and needed my assistance.  She was dating a hometown guy, who was also a good friend and in our “brat pack” of co-eds that hung around together.  He was just down the street at house off of “the Strip” as we call the area with the fast-food joints, bars, and other businesses that indicate you are in Collegeville,USA.  What he needed was her to bring his car to him.  No biggie. 

Ah, the plot thickens.  Seems that my buddy, Trace had indicated to Tim for quite sometime now that she could, in fact, drive a straight-drive.  He believed her, so there was never a need to prove it.  She was lying through her teeth and this was not the day she wanted to come clean!  She gets the grand idea that since I almost know how to drive one, that I can just drive it down there with her real quick like, he’ll never know, his friend will bring us home, no harm done.  Okay, it sounded good when we first ran through it and we were in the parking garage retrieving his vehicle before I had a chance to put any clarity on the situation. 

When I killed it 3 times coming out of the garage, you would think a red flag would have sort of been triggered in my brain.  No such luck.  We kept on jumping along in his much-nicer-than-my-own car.  I drank some in college, but I never did drugs and I’m just really wondering where my brain cells went this particular spring afternoon in 1990 because they clearly weren’t in my brain, or at least not functioning. 

The Strip is an uphill climb from where we accessed it and is full of traffic lights.  Definitely didn’t think this one through.  I killed it 4 more times at the light turning onto the Strip.  And then, I knew I was in trouble, but we were stuck.  We were on the busiest road on campus and driving uphill, waiting for the bottom to fall out of this ridiculous plan.  I tried to think quickly and decided to park the car, walk to Tim, and make Tracy tell the truth.  This was, after all, initially her big lie.  I was just an accessory to the crime.  I picked the first business I saw, which was a movie and music store, and planned to turn in and park.  Those brain cells still weren’t all quite lined up as they should be, as I picked a business on the left-side of the road, requiring me to turn, on the hill, acrossthe traffic.  That would have been brilliant if there had been no cars coming and it would not have required stopping on the side of the hill.  Brilliant it was not and many, many cars were coming.  I stopped and Trace and I both wished, hoped, and prayed out loud that when the traffic parted, I could get this car across the street. 

The time came.  Trace yelled “It’s clear — GO!” and I could not.  Try as I might, I kept jerking, missing the timing on clutch versus gas, making the car die, and rolling backwards.  We were lucky that no one was behind us the first several times.  I kept trying – my choices were pretty damn limited out in the middle of the road.  The more stressed I got, the worse my skills were.  Trace and I are screaming and panicking and now someone is behind us honking.  Great, a little more pressure and I’m sure we’ll be fine.  NOT! 

That last honk I heard was the one right before I felt Tim’s car reach a dead-stop thud as it hit the car behind us.  We looked at each other with a good college girl “Oh, Shit!”, put the emergency break on, and got out of the car.  It was a big, long, very dark car we had hit.  The windows were tinted completely opaque and the man getting out had some kind of uniform on.  We had hit a limousine!  Couldn’t have planned this if we had tried.  My chances of winning the lottery might be better than what happened. 

Now, before I reveal this next part, I must tell you that I am 100% not making this up.  I couldn’t if I tried.  My creative brain stamps little cards – it doesn’t make up ferocious lies and if it were going to, it would be about something more important than this.  In the limo, fresh from their concert the night before (or not so fresh as rock star world goes), was Motley Crue!  I know it’s crazy. Motley Crue!  I hit Motley Crue in a limo while semi learning to drive a straight drive in 1990 in my best friend’s boyfriend’s car because she didn’t want to tell him she couldn’t drive it.  Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? 

And what could save us now but the stupid, yet attractive, college girl routine?  Shorts were very short in the early 90’s, and generally cutoff jeans or Duckhead khakis.  I was wearing the jean variety and Tracy the khaki kind.  We were both very tanning bed tan (apparently, 4 kids later, I didn’t harm the ovaries too badly), thin, shapely, and with that big, bodacious, freshly leftover from the 80’s hair. 

I told the limo driver something was wrong with the car.  It had stalled on me, I insisted, and I couldn’t get it into gear.  Long story short, he took mercy on us.  Actually, it wasn’t even a long story.  He needed to get the Crue somewhere, the airport, I presume, and had little time for chit-chat.  His interest was to get my car out of the way, assess the damage on his, and move on.  Mr. Nice limo driver got into Tim’s car and moved it to the parking lot for us.  He said it was kind of tight going into gear, but he must have gotten it loosened up. Yes, definitely, he must have. 

I wasn’t even a Crue fan, so I don’t know their names.  Mr. Nice limo man told us they had wanted to know who hit them, and so one of them rolled the window down just enough to wave a little.  His hair was bigger than mine and Trace’s put together.  Mr. Nice couldn’t see any damage and what did he care? – he didn’t own the thing, Motley Crue wasn’t going to tell, and without visible damage, the owner would never know. 

Trace and I waved good-bye to the Crue and Mr. Nice as we walked across the street to Tim’s car.  We agreed it wouldn’t be good for Tim to know.  Trace made up some mumbo jumbo about just parking there and we walked the less than a block to the house to get him. 

I learned to drive a straight drive the weekend after and it is like riding a bike, once you learn, it sticks for good.  My first newish car I purchased myself and drove until Mar was 2 was a manual transmission and I loved it.  I found with more kids, however, I needed all my hands back and I’ve been a mini-van with automatic transmission driving Momma ever since.  I haven’t kept in touch with Tim and Tracy and I live in different cities and only trade Christmas cards and short visits every few years or so.  I still love her very much and count this as only one of the crazy memories we shared at a time in life when it is important to have good friend.  And, as far as I know, Tim still doesn’t know any of it:  that Tracy couldn’t and didn’t drive a straight drive, that I attempted to on his car, and that his car inadvertently backed into Motley Crue on the University of Tennessee at Knoxville’s Strip.

I didn’t think to ask for their autograph, but remember, the brain cells weren’t all quite right that day anyway.  And believe it or not, this is one of those bizarre, entertaining,  and “truth is stranger than fiction” tales from my past.