Most children are in a hurry to drive a car. You see them from a young age running to sit behind the wheel when dad's car is stationary, wandering the gear lever and the horn, pretending to march as if playing Need for Speed. I was not like most kids. I never wanted to drive. But in life we do not always do what we want. And maybe sometimes it works out for us.
As a teenager I had friends who were given the car by their dad sometimes in the fields to "run" it for a while, friends who were looking forward to turning 18 to get their diploma, friends who knew how to list the parts of a car more easily than recited the alphabet. On the other hand, I could not separate the windshield from the trunk until I was 15 years old. Everyone with their own tastes.
The first summer after I turned 18, my father sent me to learn to drive. It was not a prompt, it was not advice. It was a command. I guess I could rebel, shout, explain to him my view that cars are just another way man has invented to commit suicide (unfortunately a few years later the same view was formed by some jihadists). But I knew it did not make sense, because for my father the car is not just a tool, but something without which a modern man can not live. I also knew that there was no reason: would I have to pay for the lessons out of my own pocket?
On the third
And so I started classes at a driving school near my house. I remember the first time I went to a hands-on class and found the instructor sitting in the co-driver's seat - until then I thought he would drive and I would just look at him as a co-driver. But no: the driver's seat was there waiting for me to sink it.
The lessons did not go as badly as I was afraid, that is, I did not kill anyone, nor did I destroy the car, a Toyota Yaris cypress. Surely the instructor helped with this with his own pedals, who seemed even more anxious than me when he had to press them to escape the fatality.
When it came time for the exam, and after I passed the marks with ease (I read more to pass the marks than in the Panhellenic ones), I thought I was ready. Not to drive normally, but at least for the ten minutes that the exam lasts to manage not to be myself. That is, not to make potatoes. And of course, I did. Less than a minute after I got in the car, I stopped as I owed to Stop, having a truck on my left. In front of me was a busy two-lane road and I had to cross it. It was not easy. At one point I saw the truck moving forward, in order for it to cross the road as well. And I say, after the truck is moving, I will go too, what am I, did I pee in the well? And that's how I was cut the first time. I violated Stop, he says. Χμφ.
The second time I was pissed and I would not make the same mistake. Examiners seemed much more resilient than before. Let's say I was not cut off when my engine went out twice in the parking lot. Not even when in one turn I almost get some buckets. But even these good people could not do many things when in the back corner I stopped far enough from the sidewalk to pass a MAT squad in full gear. I cut for the second time.
Well, the third time God himself would come down and say to the examiners "do not dare and give a diploma to this useless person, he will reap people", he would not succeed. The time crew had arrived (and not only).
Fear of the car
I deeply hoped that everything would end there. I would just add a driver's license to my resume, like that first Zertifikat degree in German I got in High School and now I only remember Bundesliga and auf wiedersehen in German (and putzen which means' I clean, but for another reason) . But no: my father had decided to invest his leftovers in my future as a driver. And he went and got me a car.
I will not lie: when I saw the silver Opel waiting for me under the house, something did not slip inside me like that day years ago when my first bicycle was waiting for me. I knew I had to face my fear.
And I think that's a reasonable fear. Even if you are the perfect driver, even if you follow the KOK to the letter and have eyes and a back, you never know when the camphor driver will be found who will break the Stop or the red light and send you to the other world - and unfortunately, there are many such out there. You have the illusion that you are in control of the situation, that if you are right, then nothing can go wrong. But this is not the case, and the countless dead and mutilated traffic victims testify to this every year.
Driving is not a video game that earns points when you press grandmas and if you lose control nothing happens, a magic crane takes you back to where you were unscathed. It is a huge responsibility. And the reason I was always afraid of her was that I did not feel able to take on such a responsibility. Maybe I will never feel ready enough. But it is a risk that you ultimately accept, because the car is indeed a valuable tool that once you put it in your life, it is difficult to take it out - like a cigarette, let's say, but more useful. After all, if we all thought like that, paralyzed in the face of fear of responsibility, there would be no airline pilots, no ship captains, no bus and train drivers. Fear goes nowhere
It is a habit
So, slowly, I started to get the air of the car. It took me a long time to believe that yes, I can drive without being declared a public danger. Every kilometer I did without causing an accident was a point of confidence. Gradually I got a more normal driving attitude (instead of this funny squat that new drivers usually have), I stopped grasping the steering wheel as if holding on with my fingernails and teeth to avoid falling off a cliff, I improved my parking so I don't have to over ten minutes to park in a spacecraft space.
As I gained confidence, I went further and further. At first I went for walks in my neighborhood, then a little further, and the next summer I got to go on vacation by car, which I never imagined would happen.
Where it all went wrong was when I had my first (and last) car accident. It was a rainy afternoon and I was returning from the camp for the last time, having obtained my discharge from the army - in which, by the way, I was a driver, so I "baked" even more by driving the so-called "Canadians". The other soldiers, following the traditional custom, had torn my khaki and I was left to drive with the rags they had left me. Just before I got home, on a downhill straight the brakes did not catch. I pressed them, I pressed them again, but nothing. The tires did not obey. And I fell on the front car.
Fortunately, the man showed understanding (imagine his expression when he saw me get out of the car with my khaki rags in the rain). After all, no terrible damage was done - only the "berry" of my car was slightly crushed. But it took me a while to get over it and for months I lived in fear that at some point the brakes, tires or some other part of the car would turn it back into disobedience. Fortunately, they have not rebelled since.
This year I completed 14 years with my car. I have changed the lights for him (literally). I took the oil out of him (literally). I took his eyes off (metaphorically). I have taken my eyes out of it (metaphorically). I have taken it with me on vacation, on travel, at work, everywhere. I am not one of those crazy people who talk in their car, who give him nicknames and take care of him like he is their baby. She is not my baby. It is a tool. A valuable tool that I inadvertently learned to use, and now it is difficult for me to imagine my life without it. And here's why and where we need to listen to parents. Sometimes they are right…