Learning to drive again

The first thing I had to do with my Vauxhall Insignia at Manchester Airport was to pilot it down seven or eight levels of a car park (the Enterprise operation at Manchester airport being on the ROOF of the parking garage). On no sleep. It was almost fun, like a training exercise to get me familiar with my car: descending down twisty little ramps. But I have to say that from the word go, my front left bumper was terra incognita. I really had to sympathize with Mark's hitting a parked car in Nova Scotia with a rented camper. My neural structure for driving, honed over 35 years of driving on the right, has no pathways for projecting my car-body-self out in space forward and left. I wasn't sure where that corner of the car was in space. Somehow I didn't hit the walls of the car park, but it didn't feel like *I* had been in control.

When we pulled out of the airport, the stay-left thing was surprisingly easy. You know those things at Science Museums where you copy a shape with a pencil while being able to see your hand only in a mirror? Or you look through glasses that turn your visual image upside down? It feels impossibly clumsy, yet you know that if you did it every day your neurons would adapt. It would eventually feel normal, and you could perform again. That's how this felt.

We left the airport and headed along back roads towards Macclesfield, Aprille leading. It was a good beginner version of the real thing: I just followed her. Roundabouts were fine. Kate sat in the passenger seat (on the left!) and verbalized what I should be doing.

However--I don't know about you--but for me there's a specific feeling of discomfort with tasks that are neural training. You know: you can only take it for so long, and that would be under ideal conditions. In our car, things began to fall apart fast, and ideal conditions were, just really, gone. The roads were narrow, with no shoulder. Oncoming traffic was fast. If I had to pass a parked car or a pedestrian in my lane it was a nightmare of not knowing if I would hit or not. Sometimes my wheels would nick the curb unexpectedly, or flowers sticking out from hedges would rat-a-tat-tat along the side of the car. Will, who had been airsick all morning, began to throw up in the back seat. Any collision looked like death. It was no longer fun!

The width of the road lanes here is like a cruel joke.

In the moments before the fatal accident that never happened, there were these road signs I kept seeing out of the corner of my eye that said "Slow Down Now!" I don't know what they were really for, but they were very comforting. It was the message I wanted to hear. It was the message I wanted everyone to hear.

A short section through Macclesfield where the roads were slightly wider was a relief. We saw the rail station. There was a traffic light. Life seemed almost normal. (Note to self: remember to ask what it means when both the red and orange traffic lights are on.) But now we got into the Peak Park, and the roads didn't even make a pretense of being two lanes.

Near the hamlet of Flash (highest post office in England!) my desire to continue was overwhelmed by my need to stop and get out of the simulator. I pulled over in a gravelly lay-by near a farm house. Aprille came back. We got out. Kate persuaded me to eat a bit, because it was already 2:00 and I hadn't eastern since breakfast. The wind was lovely, The ladscape was lovely. The sun was shining. I relaxed a bit. I saw a chaffinch and a jackdaw, birds I had never seen before.

We finished the drive. As we drive along I actually heard sheep bleating, like an errant sound bite from a Thomas The Tank Engine episode.

I am little nervous to get back in the car. I think I will be double-checking my kids' seat belts before we drive. I hate our big ugly town car. I think I can learn this, but it will take days. Walking is looking really good.