RITES OF PASSAGE . . .

Ah, to be fifteen years old again. That was when my best friends Doug and KSC taught me to drive stick.

Throughout that manic junior year in high school, when I thought I was a senior like Doug and KSC (and slumped accordingly), I alternated between a brand-new Audi Quattro that ran as smooth as butter and a beat-up old Volkswagen Jetta that didn't. Viciously tearing up the gears on both vehicles, I tore through the vacant parking lots and empty nighttime streets of our town, egged on by adolescent cheers and crude jokes about how I loved to "shift their sticks." Ha, ha.

Then I never had occasion to drive stick again. Fast forward twelve years to this evening.

My car was low on gas tonight, so I asked to bum a ride to post-softball-game dinner from someone. C offered . . . but only if I drove his car. Okay, first of all, no one has actually ever volunteered their 2-year-old silver BMW convertible to me before. Secondly, did I KNOW how to drive it?! (Answer: NO.) And finally, the hour was early. A mere 7:15pm. There were other cars on the road. Not an empty parking lot in sight in which I could cause the gears to screech vehemently and stall in huge violent shudders. But C has a way of using brute strength to boot one out of the passenger seat and sit in it himself so that one will not get anywhere unless one drives oneself. The ugly deed had to be done.

Route 119 never had it so good. Luckily, it was only Banana and her bro behind me half of the way, so I could breezily flip them a little bird here and there when they honked obnoxiously at my sloooooooow starts (drat red lights). I only stalled three times and bit only one fingernail down to the cuticle. By the beneficent grace of the good Lord, there was a series of three empty parking spaces in front of the restaurant -- I slid easily into the first one, with no reversing or three-point parking maneuvers required. C says I cheated; I say I had a good eye.

I anticipate that my next lesson will come soon enough. I think I should stick with vacant asphalt before moving onto bigger and better (and faster) roads, if only to preserve the structural integrity of the BMW. In the meantime, I must hone my multi-tasking skills: ease up on the clutch, press aggressively on the gas, watch the RPM until it hits 2, let go, let go, LET GO! Oh, how long will it be until my legs stop shaking from the over-exertion?!

On a side note: if I had an obnoxious waaaaay older brother who tormented me endlessly, but still bought me ice cream and acquired for me Blue Pig stickers, and had a really cool wife that I liked and admired, it would probably be C. But then, I would probably also have a really big cranium, so perhaps there would be disadvantages to that relativity . . .