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Driver's Education Brings On Road Rage

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By Jackie Papandrew / The Tampa Tribune

Published: January 18, 2008

I truly mean it when I say teaching a teenager to drive ranks right up there with potty training as one of parenting's finest experiences.

I learned to drive in rural Oklahoma - where there were probably more cows than cars - in a Volkswagen Beetle with manual transmission. My parents worked in tandem to instill in me the appropriate levels of fear and loathing necessary for success on the road.

My dad took his place in the passenger seat, and my mom sat in the back. Each time I tried to smoothly shift into gear, the little car would buck like a bronco, my mother would shriek as if she were in real danger, and my father would simultaneously yell "Clutch!"

This happened over and over again until I was a shaking bundle of nerves in need of years of therapy.

But all that is behind me. I now live in Pinellas County - where there are far more cars than sane drivers to operate them - and I have a 15-year-old son who couldn't wait to learn how to drive. I've been just as eager (NOT) to carry on the finely honed family tradition of road rage training.

So we went to our local Department of Motor Vehicles office to get his "learner's permit." That's far too innocuous a term for a disastrous document that puts a pimply person with a mouthful of metal in control of several thousand pounds of steel with an accelerator.

The kind soul at the DMV did her best to lay down the law, reminding my junior joy rider that his driving destiny legally rested in the hands of his parents.

"Before you turn 18," she told him sternly, "your mom and dad can take away your license for any reason - maybe because your grades slip or maybe just because you don't keep your room clean. You got that?" He nodded his head in acquiescent (but phony) agreement, and I sent the government guardian angel a grateful look. Now that's a true public servant.

When it was time for his first lesson, my son emerged from the house wearing a T-shirt that said "Easily Distracted" - not a good sign. Next, he proceeded to check his hair in the mirror, reset all the radio buttons and casually drape his left arm out of the open window.

"I've got an idea," I said sarcastically, already feeling my blood pressure rising.

"How about we start with both hands on the wheel?"

The trip from our driveway to the nearest intersection was fraught with the kind of nail-biting nausea common to stressful situations. We had high-decibel discussions about the meaning of words like slow and stop, and we got into a screaming match over the proper enactment of the teen-tempting rule known as Right-On-Red. My son's apparent need for speed led me to point out that it wasn't necessary to always meet the speed limit.

"I know," he retorted in all seriousness. "You can go five miles over and the cops don't care."

I maintained a death grip on the handle above the passenger door, put my feet up on the dashboard for leverage and found myself wishing I'd left this particular task to my husband.

By the time we returned home, I had twice been called a terrible teacher and felt a deep satisfaction knowing I'd fulfilled the familial obligation to be a driving drill instructor.

My parents will be proud.

Jackie Papandrew lives in Largo and is the author of the syndicated humor column, "Airing My Dirty Laundry."

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