AATISH MISHRA
Aatish turns back the clock and revisits the days he learned to drive and ride
IWASN’T LIKE THOSE OTHER KIDS. MY father didn’t put me in the driver’s seat as a kid and let me drive. Neither did I ever try to sneak out — I was a good kid, okay? My first driving class happened after I turned 18 and after I passed the silly online learner’s license test that made me identify obscure road signs that I had never seen before. Or since.
I remember it clearly. I woke up at 6am sharp to find dad already ready, waiting for me. He drove me down to this deserted road close to home in our Wagon R (the Laura was still out of bounds) and got out. I was excited now. I approached the drivers’ side of the car, got in and put on my seatbelt. I put my hands on the steering wheel and sized up the car. I was going to be driving — finally! After spending all my free time poring over car magazines for years, this was it. This was when I finally get to legitimise being a car enthusiast. I had been given a heads up by my friends who were already driving — getting a hang of the clutch would be hard they said. Pshh. I dismissed them. I was a petrolhead, it would come naturally to me.
That it didn’t is another story. Dad had other plans for me. “Get out,” he said. What? We had just gotten here. I hadn’t even turned the key in the ignition yet!
“Get out and show me how you change a tyre.”
Yep, I wasn’t allowed to drive until I showed him I could change a tyre without help. So to the boot I went, all 50kg of scrawny 18-year-old me. I heaved and heaved and got the tyre out, jacked the car up with terrible technique, got the tyre off the car, nearly died trying to fit the spare on to the hub, and got the lug nuts back on. Only to hear my Dad say, good, now put the spare back in the boot. That was pretty much it for my first driving lesson. We returned the next morning and the next, and of course, I couldn’t get a hang of the clutch — idiot that I was. I finally did, but then my coordination and judgement was all over the place. He finally just decided that it would be best to enrol me in a driving school. He said it was to ease out the paperwork. I knew better though.
What happened with motorcycles, you ask? Well, that’s an even funnier story. I am one of the rare few who got my 2W license after my 4W license. An oddity.
I repeated the same silly online test for my learner’s license for two-wheelers, and rocked up to the actual riding test on Dad’s Royal Enfield Bullet Electra six months later. Silly thing to do, because they made me attempt a figure of eight. It was hard enough anyway with how bad a rider I was, but then the fact that I had this behemoth under me didn’t make it any easier. I dabbed twice. They failed me. They may have also pointed and laughed at how stupid I was for bringing a flippin’ Bullet along. Come back in two weeks, they said. Sheesh.
I returned the next time on a Splendor, and passed the test. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Did a number with my confidence as well, sending it to the moon. But what goes up, must come down. I picked up my license the following day — firmly stamped with the MCWG mark — and decided to take the most challenging climb (I live on a reasonably sized hill) home to celebrate. I was on the Bullet again, if you were wondering. Long story short — I stalled on the steepest part of the hill and dropped the bike on its side. This road is so narrow and steep that no one bothers using it and I waited a good 15 minutes for someone to come along and help me pick up the bike. Humbled, I went back home and mentioned nothing of it to father. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the little scratch on the leg guard. He didn’t. Or he did and didn’t say anything.
If you’re reading this now, Dad, consider this an apology. Just… don’t look at the leg guard. ⌧
I had been given a heads up by my friends — getting a hang of the clutch would be hard, they said