If at first you don’t succeed…
Failure stings, writes Harriet Minter – who took six attempts to pass her driving test – but her determination to be free still gets her motor running
Can you remember the first time you failed? I can – it was an English test. I was eight years old and I got 48 per cent, which even then I knew was not a pass. I resented that score so much I made every effort to never fail at anything again, and I managed – until I started learning to drive.
If I drove you now, you’d think I’d passed first time. When I’m behind the wheel of my car, I am in a place of total pleasure. A good drive feels like dancing to me – there’s a fluidity and ease to it that is hard to find in other parts of life.
I grew up in a tiny village in the countryside. If you wanted to leave, you had to rely on a bus that came once a day and went as far as the neighbouring village. Learning to drive represented freedom. I would be able to take off at a moment’s notice and no one could stop me – a feeling I suspect is within all teenagers but feels particularly relevant to anyone who grew up in the middle of nowhere.
Time to hit the open road
As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I did not pass my test the first time, nor second, nor third. In total, it took me six attempts and two years. I was so shocked when I finally passed that I didn’t even drive myself home. I let my mother take the wheel of our beaten-up Mini Metro and, for the millionth time, I sat in the passenger seat.
But, when I went out for my first solo drive, I relished the exuberance of freedom and aloneness, and that feeling has never faded. Even now, as an adult who makes her own decisions about where and when she wants to go, I still feel intense excitement about setting off on a road trip by myself. Partly, it’s the thrill of an adventure, but it’s also because I am reminded of those two years when I tried, and failed, to pass my test.
Like a dog with a bone
I remember how much I wanted it, the hundreds of hill starts and the dozens of times I listened to my dad patiently explain how to reverse around a corner. I think back to the extra waitressing shifts I worked to afford more lessons and yet another test. And I remember the five times I picked myself up from extreme disappointment – the way I supported my fear of not being good enough until it had calmed down enough to give it another go. In those two years, I learned how to want something badly enough that I’d keep going until I got it. And, every time I start my car, I feel as if I’m turning the key in the ignition of my own perseverance.