Today, I complete one week since I joined driving school. That means seven days of sitting on the driver’s seat, handling the steering wheel, keeping one foot on clutch and the other juggling between the brake and the accelerator and striving to continue to breathe all at once. And I haven’t even started learning all about different gears.
In a bid to utilize my spare time before college begins and to fulfill one of the many things I need to accomplish before I die in accordance with my To-do list, I decided to enroll myself at a popular motor driving school that promises to turn me into an excellent, fearless driver in a span of 20 days. I highly doubt that, but for argument’s sake, let’s be positive. Day 1 was dedicated to handling the steering wheel, which seemed easier than it looked. Except that it wasn’t.
My driving teacher bombarded me with a couple of questions before he imparted wisdom to me. Have you ever tried driving a four-wheeler before? Do you know how to drive a two-wheeler? You do? *he gives a long pause*
Do you have a Driving License? You DO? *another long pause*
Which four-wheeler does your family own? Do you think you’d be able to drive it one day? Do you have the confidence?
Too many questions at the same time, I thought. Hard to answer them honestly when all I can think about is the curious wheel, whose handling I am controlling while the vehicle seems to be moving forward quite smoothly. Until I spot other vehicles on the road and hurriedly conclude that the road I’m driving on, like millions of others, isn’t my personal property. And that hits my confidence like someone just announced that we’ll be blocking all access to oxygen from now on. Go figure how to breath. (reminds me of how I felt when I learned swimming)
As if handling the wheel weren’t enough, my teacher egged me to push the accelerator. Diligently, I followed his advise, only to push the accelerator so hard that I was practically racing on a fairly bumpy and busy road, unaware that man also invented the humble brake to help save the life of people in such situations. After days of juggling between the brake, accelerator and the wheel, just when I thought I had begun to get a grip of it gradually, I was introduced to the dreaded button called “clutch.” Someday, when I feel I have mastered the art of driving well, I’ll write a book entitled The Politics of Clutch.
Today was a significant day at my driving class. I drove at over 60 kilometer per hour on one of the busiest roads of the city, while my driver kept giggling sadistically, secretly handling the brake. On another level, I have high respects for my driver, who bears my frequent outbursts of fear, cries and shouts, every single time I spot a vehicle bigger than the one I’m driving. I sincerely pray that at the end of my lessons, he’s as healthy, happy and relived as I hope to be. Amen!