Driving Mr. McDermott (I. Beginnings)*

It only just dawned on me a couple weeks ago—whilst driving in the vicinity of Fort Lee, New Jersey—that I should write about this very experience on my failing blog. Each time I'm behind the wheel—regularly enough for a post every (other) week—I endure a post's worth of new places and lessons learned. And, just maybe, there's still something to be said on the coming-of-age saga know as "learning how to drive." Despite the fact it is a near-universal experience among adults in this country, my unique circumstances and writerly perspective could provide some entertaining and (dare I say?) enlightening material that may resuscitate this blog from its death bed. (Before I had this epiphany on the road, I considered writing a post about writing; this surely would have been the nail in the coffin of a certain Typing Monkey.)


But let's return (briefly) to where I veered off the path of normalcy (well, in the sense of a normal approach to driving.) Inexplicably, I did not get my learner's permit in Maryland when I was fifteen-and-a-half years old, and I never took a driver's ed course. I never expressed an interest in driving, or cars in general. And until last August, I never even operated a motor vehicle. (Okay, I may have driven a golf cart for a hole or two, but that's all.) Fortunately, I received a ride to and from high school from my father (a teacher there), as well as rides to my extracurricular activities (which often involved my father as a coach.)  I did not have a job that required me to commute, nor a social life the required more of me than to jump in my friend's minivan when it randomly appeared in my driveway. So, on the one hand, it was never terribly necessary that I learn how to drive. (That it also gave me an official form of identification--and a marketable skill—I did not consider until I suffered the consequences of these absences.) Would my parents have appreciated my ability to go pick up groceries, or my sister from some function? Surely, but they never applied an ounce of pressure for me to do so—or at least any that I choose to recall. And they are certainly not to blame for my error in judgment. For you see, on the other hand, I eschewed this rite of passage in to adulthood—endowing upon a teenager independence, responsibility, and an emblem of maturity—because of my fear. Not a fear of operating a speeding motor vehicle, or a fear of injuring myself or others in an accident, but rather a fear of failure, a fear of making errors, and a fear of embarrassing myself on the road. Had I overcome these during my formative years—when it's perfectly natural to be awkward and mistake-prone—then perhaps these fears and inhibitions would not have cropped up so frequently—and in such debilitating ways—in other areas of my life since.

But, let’s move on. In August, I had some free time and used it to study the New Jersey driving manual. The next weekend, Walter McDermott--a close friend of the Deckers of Jersey City, and enthusiastic proponent of me getting my driver's license--drove me down to the MVA in Bayonne (as joyless as any MVA anywhere) for the test. And just before closing, I passed. Soon we were in Bayonne Park along the Hackensack River and I drove a car for the first time. I spent the rest of the afternoon looping around the park at fifteen miles-per-hour. And that evening, I called my younger sister (who’s been driving for years).

Unfortunately, due to an illness Walter contracted while on vacation later that month, I wouldn’t get many more opportunities to drive. I had anticipated that after the three mandatory months of driving lessons I would take my road test. Well, early November came and went, and, without my guru, I was hardly in any condition to be behind the wheel. But earlier this year, Walter recovered and we could begin the lessons once again. And with all that time off, I was back at square one. So we took things slowly, this time beginning with the frigid roads and empty parking lots of Liberty State Park. At first Walter drove me across town to the park, but soon I had to navigate Jersey City’s potholed streets myself. I actually know Jersey City pretty well considering how often I go running and cycling here. But getting around in a car, I’ve come to realize, is just different. For instance, I quickly realized how oblivious I am while riding my bike of other traffic and my safety amongst it. Sure, I’ve avoided a major accident while on two-wheels, but I am not nearly as observant as I should be—as I need to be when driving.  And after mastering the basics and the 3-point turn, a few lessons later, I could drive us out into real traffic on Kennedy Boulevard—and down to Bayonne Park, where this whole journey began.

 *By the way, this will be a daily series of posts this week, so you should visit often to catch each exciting installment!