New wheels send us on a trip down memory lane
We’ve moved on from a trusty little runabout to a hulking ute
This week, Mrs P has been having driving lessons. Not to learn to drive you understand, just to familiarise herself with the intricacies of the new car we’ve just bought.
Long story short, earlier this year we bought a ginormous caravan with the long-term aim of travelling about a bit and seeing the country. Naturally, we needed something suitable to pull it.
That’s where things got a bit tricky.
I figured I’d go get a mid-sized ute similar to the one I drive for my day job. I was literally on my way to get one when I thought I’d quickly stop in and ask my mechanic what he thought of the particular model I had in mind.
I won’t bore you with all the details but basically he said don’t. And so did the next guy I asked, and the mechanic after that.
Since then it has been a case of treading very carefully – paralysis by analysis, the rest of the family calls it – until I was satisfied we had the right vehicle in our sights. Anyway.
A little over a week ago we found the car and bought it. As part of the deal, Mrs P had to bid farewell to her trusty little runabout of many years.
I’m sure you know what I mean. You might have one yourself. She runs on the smell of an oily rag. Never gives you any trouble. The seats are moulded to your particular rear curves and you might even call her “Betsy” or something equally as nice.
She’s part of the family and has been forever. You’ll never get rid of her.
Unless of course your husband convinces you a big, heavy industrial man’s man ute with a canopy and more roar than the king of the jungle is the way to go if you want to follow your dreams. Ahem.
So now, Mrs P has to get a bit more comfortable behind the wheel of the new behemoth and I’ve been taking every opportunity to throw her the keys and get her to have a go.
So far, so good. She’s even been out on her own to the shops and given me a full report of the experience on her return.
Apparently, every other driver in the world is going too fast, too slow or not looking where they are going. A large proportion of them are driving right on the centre line and the remainder are queuing up behind her so close to the rear bumper she can see them “waving” at her.
Luckily, none of this has anything to do with Mrs P. She is the best driver in the world. I’m sure she has a certificate attesting to that fact. It will be in a drawer somewhere.
All of this has led me to reminisce about driving experiences in days gone by. Back when a driver’s licence was a little book and little, old 15-year-old me had to go down to the borough council office to get a sticker to put in it every so often.
I may be incorrect on this, but I seem to recall once I had my licence I was deemed qualified to teach others how to drive and of course, living in the small country town I lived in on the West Coast, I did.
Lots of wide, open, quiet streets with few people and the occasional dog during the day and possums at night. The nearest traffic light was 300km away in Christchurch. I think the first time the boys and I went over for a trip we got out and took a picture of it.
I distinctly recall my dad teaching me to drive on a 100km route that featured sealed and unsealed roads, a couple of sheer cliffs metres from my wing mirrors, road/rail bridges where if you weren’t positioned right you could get your tyres stuck on the rails and even a couple of long, one-way bridges where if you judged it wrong and met someone in the middle you got a lot of reversing practice.
You got a lot of training on that route, I can tell you.
Most of my mates qualified in a similar fashion and then taught brothers and sisters etc. Even girlfriends.
I recall one of my gang breaking up with his girlfriend over her driving lessons.
Her mum and dad had bought her a nice, sensible car and he’d taken her for a little test run. Their relationship must have been somewhat fragile at the time because 20 minutes in she screamed abuse at him and told him it was over.
The lesson and their relationship that is.
So, fast forward a few weeks or so. She’s moved on and has a new boyfriend and my mate is, shall we say, down in the dumps and requiring some Friday night hydration with the lads.
Come Saturday morning we are out for a run along the beach trying to sweat out the excesses of the previous night, when we come to an open car park area.
The place is empty apart from two cars. One is my mate’s exgirlfriend’s, and she’s slowly driving around with what looks like her new boyfriend in the passenger seat giving her some pointers. Closer inspection reveals the other car is, in fact, his. It’s parked a respectable distance away as various manoeuvres are rehearsed.
As we jog past we watch as she puts the car into reverse and slowly goes backwards. Then she picks up speed, seems to veer left and ploughs stern first into the boyfriend’s parked car.
Hungover and feeling like death warmed up we may have been, but at least my mate finished that run with a smile on his face.
Back in the present day, Mrs P is continuing to familiarise herself with the new beast.
She’s done some open road stuff and tackled the supermarket carpark – which these days is difficult to drive a pushbike through, let alone park – and next week she’s planning to go see the Boomerang Child and put the child safety seats in so she can take the littlies on a bit of an adventure.
Now that I think about it, she’s actually hogging the new car a bit. I think I’ve only driven it twice since we’ve had it.
Oh well, at least she’s getting familiar with it and that’s been the aim from the start. I can live with that.
Just as long as she doesn’t start calling it Betsy.