Sweet freedom

The Strenuous Life

My youngest received a bright red Audi for Christmas. It shone in the sunlight, the four wheels scratching the pavement as she pressed the accelerator. She turned up the radio, honked the horn, and took off. I cringed.

Fortunately, she’s only 5 years old and the Audi is a battery-powered toy that she can sit in. It’s so slow even I can outrun it. I stood in a parking lot watching her navigate turns and adjust for obstacles. I watched her crave speed and aim for the downhill slopes. Man, she loved that freedom. I cringed again.

I daydreamed while watching her wheels spin in a little rut. My mind traveled to the sound of jangling keys and that first whiff of freedom that hopping in the driver’s seat brings. How often have I stood at the beginning of an open road, staring down those yellow lines into the horizon? How often have I taken that deep breath of exhilaration before the adventure of driving is replaced by the monotony of just getting somewhere?

The wisdom of lawmakers reserves this special moment for a specific class of people: high school sophomores. Sophomores. That uniquely crafted year that couples the distance to graduation with a new source of independence. Brilliant. No longer the new kids in school and still shy of finalizing adult-like plans for the hereafter, sophomores receive this realization that access to the big world lies in a driver’s license. Simple. Or not.

If you’re reading this, you’re probably not a sophomore in high school. Really, you’re probably over 40. But it’s easy to remember that anxiety the driving test brings. Remember the written part? The questions that asked minutiae like the maximum number of inches from a curb you can legally park? Or when to use parking lights on a roadway at night? We studied the little booklets, asked questions of 17-yearolds and other seasoned drivers, and we studied some more. Then, the test.

If we were lucky enough to pass it the first time, we had the great joy of possessing a learner’s permit. Which meant we had the great joy of driving with our parents. If only they’d stop yelling when we got too close to the shoulder of the road. If only they wouldn’t grip the armrest so tightly. If only they wouldn’t stomp their feet into the floorboard as if there’s an invisible brake down there.

Then, the driving test itself. The state police like to get the most intimidating troopers to do this part. These troopers go to special drill sergeant-type training where they learn to speak in staccato bursts and glare through narrowed eyes. They weaponize clipboards, their clicking pens echoing like fireworks. The really well-trained ones look at the inside of your parents’ car with disdain, as if it’s a rolling landfill. They try to trick you. They make you use features in the car that no 16-year-old ever touches: the emergency brake, the rear windshield wiper, the defrost. What? What’s wrong with wiping the windshield with your shirtsleeve?

I knew a guy who tried to out-intimidate the state trooper. His confidence was absolute as he sipped coffee and talked about sports as the trooper wrote on the clipboard. Leaving the parking lot for the drive, he eased to a stop sign on a one-way street. Not too fast. Complete stop. He smiled to himself. He looked right and left. Then, he asked, “Which way would you like me to go?”

The trooper kept writing. The boy smiled. All part of the game. “Sir, when you’re finished writing, inform me as to which direction you’d like me to take,” he said, smiling at his adult, grammatically correct diction.

The trooper looked up with those drill sergeant eyes. “Back to the parking lot. You’re at a one-way street. You should know which direction to take.” Ouch.

I knew another guy who executed a flawless driving test until he hit another car while parking back at the testing site. Still another switched lanes without signaling and argued that the car behind him knew what he was doing.

Some parents try to game the system by investing in driver’s education. What a great plan. Driver’s ed teaches kids the finer points of piloting a 4,000-pound vehicle, and, as a bonus, it’ll lower the astronomical rates insurance companies charge for teenage drivers.

So kids load up with zero-pulse, Zen-like adults. The adults stay that way until the car starts moving. One instructor told me a story about having a carload of kids with a girl driving. Cruising across the I-430 bridge, everything was perfect. Perfect right up until the point the girl nervously announced she has a bridge phobia and started shaking violently. No place to run, no place to hide. He just grabbed the armrest and begged her to keep going. A river is no place to stop.

Another time, there was a boy who insisted on entering the driver’s seat left leg first. Another planted the driver’s ed car in woods off a parking lot.

In the end, the freedom of the road is a privilege bestowed on a group of kids in the middle of transition. Hormones raging, tethered loosely to responsibility, the miles of future still blurry, we trust them with keys. Even if they don’t have access to a car, the freedom of a license is strangely fulfilling. Maybe it’s not the actual freedom, but the access to freedom that tantalizes us.

Watching my daughter cut slow-motion donuts in the parking lot brought me back to the moment. She just … well, she just enjoyed it so much. The American DNA uniquely craves independence; it specifically craves freedom in every sense. At least I have a few more years to worry.