I didn’t run right out and get my driver’s license on my 16th birthday, like so many of my high school pals did. In my rural hometown, a car was more necessity than luxury. Town was three miles away, school even further.
But my overprotective mom was reluctant to let me learn how to drive on her new manual-shift Saab. Instead, she chauffeured me wherever I wanted to go, and if I wanted to get somewhere when she wasn’t around, I walked or got a ride.
I finally got my license at 18, a few months before landing the coolest summer job of all time – as a Good Humor truck driver. Soon, I bought myself a $500 Simca, a tiny four-door French beauty whose battery was tied on with a shoelace. I had it for years before it literally fell apart.
Since then, I’ve driven hundreds of thousands of miles. Two cars I owned during my 40’s topped out at nearly 200,000 miles each. For the three years I lived there, I even zipped through the Italian countryside, up hills and through narrow, cobblestoned streets, in my second-hand, four-on-the-floor Mitsubishi. Coming to a stop on Tuscan hills in first gear took plenty of practice. Just ask my husband.
Thankfully, I’ve never had a crash and despite a speeding ticket or two over the years, my driving record is pristine.
I’m 66 now. My faculties are sharp and intact. But when I’m driving, I recognize that I have to be more conscious, more focused, and more alert than my younger self ever was. I exert a deliberate effort when I’m behind the wheel: I don’t pass as frequently, I don’t go as fast, and I don’t take chances like I may have done in the past. I am acutely aware of keeping myself, and my passengers, safe on the road. Continue reading