Queen of the Road

QUEEN OF THE ROAD

I've always been a late bloomer. I prefer to do things in my own sweet time instead of when others think I should do them.

When I turned sixteen, my parents wanted me to learn to drive. The trouble was, I didn't feel ready to learn to manipulate a two-ton hunk of metal around town. Almost every teenager lived for the moment when he/she got a driver's license, but not me. I was the exception to the rule. Under pressure, I got my learner's permit and took lessons, but I was not comfortable driving and did not go for my driver's test. I decided to wait until I was seventeen.

It's funny how the best-laid plans can get sidetracked when life gets in the way. I never got my license when I was seventeen either. Instead, I ended up living and working in a small town where having a car was not really a necessity. I could walk to work in less than five minutes. Every convenience was almost at my doorstep, including grocery delivery right to my home. Who needed a car when it was an expense I couldn't afford anyway.

A few years later, I married and moved to the "big city." My husband had a sporty Camaro Z28, in candy apple red. Shortly afterwards, he traded it in for a more family-oriented car, a Volkswagen Rabbit, also red. I was leery about learning to drive it, because it had a standard transmission. I was not a very coordinated person, so driving is stressful enough for me without playing a foot dance with the pedals and gearshifts.

A few more years went by, and when we again needed a new car, we chose a Mercury Marquis. Yes, it was red. It had an automatic transmission, so that was the jump-start I needed to get myself in gear. I finally relearned to drive, and at the age of thirty, belatedly but proudly acquired my driver's license. Oh, the freedom, the independence! I couldn't believe what I had been missing. I took driving seriously; never getting traffic violations, never taking risks on the road.

When it was time for a new car again, I told my husband, "Get whatever you want, just make sure it has four doors, an automatic transmission, and any other colour but red!" He came home with a white Corsica, which required a lot more care due to the dirt factor, but at least it wasn't red.

Next, we decided to become a two-car family, and became the owners of a dark green Dodge Caravan. Being seated so high made me feel like I was driving a bus. Once I got used to it, driving took a different perspective. Maybe it was my imagination, but other drivers seemed to stay respectfully clear of vans. I got such a rush every time I put the pedal to the metal, and the Corsica got a bit neglected.

Being the self-proclaimed "queen of the road" also gave this previously timid driver a rush of confidence. Suddenly I found great satisfaction in gleefully muttering irreverent things under my breath about other drivers who dared slow me down. They couldn't hear me, but being behind the wheel of a van had unleashed my tongue and made me a road warrior. I spouted all kinds of absurd phrases, such us: "The long skinny one is the gas pedal!" Or, "If you were going any slower, you'd be going backwards!" Or, my favourite, "If that light gets any greener, it's going to get sick!" Suddenly I had "the power!"

One day, the brakes were slammed on my cockiness. I had driven the van to do an errand, and when I finished my business, I clicked on the automatic door opener on my key chain to unlock the door. It didn't unlock. I tried again. Still nothing. What was wrong? Although I could hear a faint click in the distance, the door would not unlock. Thinking the opener was malfunctioning, I manually inserted the key in the door, but it would not turn. Now I was really puzzled.

Annoyed, I rummaged in my purse for my phone to call my husband. As I started to dial, I happened to look into the van and with a start, I saw that the interior looked different. With a dawning sense of horror, I realized that I had been trying to get into someone else's vehicle all along. I surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my attempted "break in," my face burning as red as our first three cars. Walking nonchalantly (in case anyone was watching) around the impostor van to our van, I successfully unlocked the door, got in, and for the first time in my life, burned rubber as I sped away.

Maria Harden
©2002

Story ID:	224
Written by:	Maria Harden (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Winnipeg Manitoba Canada
Year:	2002
Person:	Maria Harden