I’d had my learner’s permit for a couple of months and been insured all of seven days when I crashed into a car. It was a bright afternoon and I was travelling at about 20km/h on a road I knew well. There were no mitigating factors. The other car was parked, just to really add insult to idiocy. And naturally it wasn’t some scratched heap of junk, but a shiny black BMW.
I was seven months pregnant at this point, which might seem a poor time to start learning to drive. But there’s nothing like impending parenthood to make you panic about all the grown-up things you’ve yet to achieve. I’d been putting off learning for a good 15 years. I’d always lived in cities and I was an ardent cyclist. “Two wheels good, four wheels bad” was my philosophy. But then came the bulky baby paraphernalia and the parents of older children who talked about the constant taxi service they had to provide.
When I got out of the car after hitting the shiny BMW – baby bump nicely projected, lest it garner me any extra sympathy – the neighbour of the car’s owner was in his garden. He gave me a knowing smile. He restrained himself from saying “Nice try”. Instead, he informed me that the woman whose vehicle I’d hit was even more pregnant than me. The whole thing was sorted out amicably, but this long-deferred start was now also a very bad one.
I could skip forward to the happy ending – which is that last week I passed my driving test. But it would be remiss not to mention that the baby that was cooking in my tummy when I started is now approaching his sixth birthday, and this month’s test was not my first rodeo. It was my fourth attempt. Two tries feels respectable; three is also understandable; but any more than that and we’re entering shame territory. Welcome to another part of life where people feel compelled to lie about their number.
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I stopped and started the learning process multiple times. Two C-sections and resulting newborns put pause for a while. Then the pandemic. A test scheduled for 2020 was cancelled and the 5km restrictions put paid to my motoring for a year.
These barriers were real but they were also excuses. I hated driving. It did not come naturally. When you are a child, you hear that there are different kinds of intelligence, but all the focus is on one. As an adult, you are constantly exposed to situations that prove this truism. Contrary to what this column might suggest, I am not a big thick. But I found driving hard. I never wanted to do it. I would force myself to complete long drives – motoring cross-country with my mother and her nerves of steel – and arrive at my destination with a stiff back, covered in sweat.
Eventually, it got easier. I never enjoyed it but, after a while, I was a decent driver. My mother said it. My instructor concurred. Even my partner – who early on, it was agreed, should not teach me – stopped gripping the passenger door handle quite so tightly. I could feel the improvement too. But the test was a whole other matter.
I have never experienced nerves like it. I’d drive all over Ireland with my kids in tow. I’d sail through a mock test with my instructor. Then I’d arrive at Finglas test centre and start questioning what side of the road we drive on.
The first experience was bad; my legs were so shaky I thought they’d go from under me before I made it to the car. The second was worse, and the third was a full-on out of body experience.
During the period I was learning, a lot of friends were too. It was remarkable how many smart, motivated women my age had put driving on the long finger
I kept thinking about the friend of a friend who took 11 goes to pass, or the man on the radio who sat it 14 times. I was going to outdo them all. I would become the stuff of folklore.
During the period I was learning, a lot of friends were too. It was remarkable how many smart, motivated women my age had put driving on the long finger. I’m from Dublin, but some of them had grown up in the Middle of Nowhere, which shows impressive obstinacy. So many of our catch-ups were, and still are, about driving. Those in the trenches tend to fixate on how cars are basically weapons and should be outlawed. Meanwhile, those who’ve made it through cheer us on, repeating that it’s annoying and hard, but worth it.
I like to believe we’ll be better drivers for this. We don’t have the cockiness of youth. We’ll be more cautious.
I think I finally passed for a few reasons. One was that I truly believed I deserved to. I was still a quivering leaf at the test centre, but under it all I knew I could drive. So here I am, out the other side, mainly ecstatic to be done with lessons and practice and test prep. If you’re still in the trenches, keep going. Trust me when I say that if I can do it, so can you.
