Hell on a Stick

Ok, so I knew the basics and I could manage getting through neighborhoods without obliterating every mailbox and garbage can that happened within 2 yards of my driving radius.
Mark decided it was time to take me to the streets. The streets with actual painted lines on them. And more people. Lots of people.
All I remember of this one was getting out on the road, ka-klomping along and barely making it into first before we were headed down higley to heaven knows where when at a stoplight....I stalled.
In the middle of traffic.
And again, suddenly, just like the first time I forgot what part of the galaxy I was from or whether up was down and light was dark. I began shouting,
"What do I do??!"
And didn't hear a word Mark said because the panic was ringing so loudly in my ears.
I totally abandoned trying to think of how to start the car and just searched for the caution-blinkers button. People began zooming around me and the embarrassment settled in and guess what!
I cried again.
My brain finally began clicking again and I tried to get the car going but failed once, twice then finally rolled in 1st gear up the last 3 yards to get to the now red light.
I don't remember if we switched spots then or later but I do know I was completely and totally against EVER manning a manual car. EVER.




And then I married him.

And gosh darn it that guy makes me pretty happy so I'll do much of anything he says. Which, if you're thinking sounds like a bad thing, quit it. Cuz he's the more sensible of the two of us and pretty much a genius who can really actually think about things whereas I'm like,

"Oh my gosh! A rock! Let's set it on fire, k?"

But he thinks I'm cute so it's whatever.

Thus, when he said,

"If you're gonna be my wife, you've gotta drive stick..."

It was like,

"You have betrayed me. But I love you. So ok."

So we recently found a ska-reaming deal on craigslist for a '96 VW with only 95k on it and only one previous owner and listed for $5,000 (we paid $6,000 because, again, my husband is the greatest human on the planet and felt like he was cheating the guy with only 5k. It's fine. He's just a saint, is all). 

We brought it back down, registered it in my name, passed emissions and wheee! New car for the Douglass'! 

Only problem was his car, the other VW, was broken so he had to use Benji (my car's name) to get to work. But all his spare time was spent slaving in the heat and attempting to fix Marvin (his car's name).

We're going to skip over that process because it was an absolute nightmare. In every sense. It's still not over really.

But finally, at the beginning of this week he stated that the car would be mine and I needed to learn how to drive it. Starting with backing it out of the driveway so he could get Marvin out. 

Except it's been another load of months since I last drove a stick-shift and I don't retain information very well at all (as exposed by my horrid story-telling lacking any sort of concrete detail whatsoever). So I got in and couldn't even get the car to start. Not even a single turnover in the engine. Mark comes back to my door and states,

"You have to put the clutch in to start, remember? This car is different."

Umm, no. I don't remember. I don't' remember anything. Who are you?

So I start the car and he goes sauntering back to his car, giggling at my mishap.

And then no matter what I seemed to do, every time I began letting the clutch out the car would "ka-chunk! ka-klump!" rocking forward and back and then die.

I did that about 7 times until Mark stuck his head out impatiently and shouted (with quite the perturbed look on his face),

"Honey! The parking brake!!"

Imagine humiliation and then put some horse dung on top. That's about how I felt. I sheepishly, and red-faced, put the brake down and half rolled down into the gutter ramp and Mark didn't even wait for me to make it all the way out into the street he just popped into gear, zoomed out around me and away he went.

We had a little discussion on the rudeness of that behavior and that I very much needed him to say a kind word to me before he'd be gone till 11 at night or at the very least, roll down the window to say goodbye.

But before that discussion I was left to get the car back into the driveway. Which I mostly failed at.

I went inside, eyes stinging with tears (again!) but a harder, grimmer determination to absolutely NOT cry this time around.

Later, after I'd stewed awhile. I gathered up my lady-balls and marched back out to that car. I decided I was going to take it to the nearest parking lot and do what I'd always done. Start, and stop. 

Except for I only got to the first 4-way intersection stop sign and died. I put my caution-blinkers on again and rolled down the window to wave people by me. When I'd jerked and rolled myself halfway out into the intersection, a chatty lady stopped next to me to ask if I was alright. When I explained I was learning to drive stick she exclaimed,

"Ah! Oh, I could never do that. Had to stick with automatic for me. Good luck!"

And left me to my misery.

I got myself going again through sheer luck it seemed. I never felt like I knew what I was doing right to get going. I was coming up on a streetlight that was necessary to go through to get to the parking lot where I was headed but after that previous intersection I chickened out and turned onto another side street. 

I got stuck, AGAIN, and for the longest time could not. get. going. I began throwing fits like you see in the movies when the guy wants to show off for the girl but his old klunker of a car won't work and he has a seizure against the steering wheel. The frustration from all these failed attempts was welling up and about to make me scream.

I stopped and turned the car completely off, whipping up the parking brake and sending Mark a rage-text of angst and failure. I sat for another couple minutes just pissed off at the car and my inability to function.

I tried again and I wish I could say I was suddenly a genius but I wasn't. I got stuck over a speed bump which was super fun.

But then miraculously, my feet just kinda got it. I don't know what was right or different about it but it just started working. I was heading home but I was doing so good I decided I could try and go out on public streets. My new goal was to make it to a nearby McDonald's because I deserved a Dr. Pepper gosh dang it! As well as I wanted a straw to use for a pinterest nail painting experiment.

And you know what? I made it! There and back, without killing a single soul. I did kill the engine only a couple times but easily made it back on track. Died in the drive-thru lane actually. That was fun.

That night I had a zumba class to go to. 6 miles away from my house and over freeway too. I spent quite a bit of time agonizing over whether I was ready to do that or not. I gave myself a little bit of acid reflux just from stressing out so much. But I did drive there, stalled once at a light but got myself going again in one try and about 2 seconds flat. Got to the class.

It was cancelled. 

I was so drained of frustration and anger though that I could only laugh and go home again. Didn't stall a single bit on the way back.

So all in all, Benji makes driving manual bearable. I'm getting more awesome. And my husband is sure a supportive and amazing guy.

And there you have it.

Oh, ps, here's how that nail experiment went...

Nailed it!

Get it?

'Nail'??

haaaaaaaha

Sticking to the Shift

So after the mini-cooper fiasco it would be another 5 or so years before I touched a manual joystick again.
I do not recall whether we were dating or just about to be dating or really totally dating but not admitting it at the time, but my now-husband-person, Mark, decided I should learn to drive stick. So we went out in the pirate mobile, to another church parking lot and went around and around and around. I learned a couple tricks and he explained to me in helpful detail what the engine was doing when I put the clutch in and let it out and shifted the gears and all of that. Understanding what was happening made it a teensy bit easier. Teeny tiny bit.
But I refused to drive on the road.
The next time, Mark and I were at a pool party having a grand old time when for one reason or another something needed to be retrieved from his house. One of the reasons I married this kid, he makes me do the things I need to but desperately do not want to do. So he persuaded me to take his VW (stick-shift, of course) and go get the...stuff.
Cursing his name the whole way, I made it well enough back to his house without killing the engine. (Or any of the children gallivanting through the streets seeing as school had just been let out.) I also took all the backstreets rather than facing a streetlight and actual speed limits over 15.
I grabbed the ______ and got back out to the car, still breathing like a yoga master trying to focus my panic but feeling a little more confident from my previous accident free adventure.
But then I had to back the car out of the driveway.
And the joystick no longer had a sticker telling you which gears were where.
But! I knew that in my Dad's car, R had been where a "6th" gear would be. So I tried that.
There was no 6th slot.
I sat there and stared at the joystick. Willing my brain to have a stroke of genius and magically know where reverse was. I couldn't fathom a clue.
Soooo to avoid gashing a dent in my pride, I took out the parking brake, opened my door and used my foot to propel myself and the 2 ton car backwards.
But then I swung into the gutter rut and was helpless.
So luckily I had my cell phone and called Mark.
"HOooooow do you reverse in this stupid thing??!"
"Oh, right. That's kinda tricky..."
"Mm, of course. Thanks for that."
"You push the joystick down and pull all the way to the left and up."

Wait.
You push the thing DOWN?? That's a real thing?
It was seriously NASA space ship talk to me.
But it worked, he was right. Although I got myself stuck in the middle of the road.

I got back to the party soundly, but even further buried in my loathing of manuals.

Stick-Shift; a Series

I have recently acquired the very first vehicle of my lifetime that is registered IN MY NAME. My own name. My very own brand spankin' new name, at that. The title says so and everything.
Also a first, it's a manual.

And here is where I have to open my clenched hands and let my little ball of pride slip free and fall out into the dirt. Where you have free range to judge, as you please.
But as I tell you these woeful tales of misery and demise, please think on me in the most compassionate way you can muster. Because I tell you what, I wish I had a different story here.

I wish I could tell you I'm a beast and took to driving stick like an octopus would take to sticking to the ceiling. (Whether that would work or not I don't know, but they both have the word "stick" in them.) Or that I'm the speediest speed demon to ever never get a ticket because I'm like an Indy500 prodigy dynamite woman who obeys laws cuz she's cool like that.
Instead, I'll tell you how it's really been for me to learn stick-shift.

It all started back in 9th grade, when I first got my permit. Maybe it was 10th grade. But then I'd be older and more susceptible to responsibility expectations and the ability to grasp concepts faster so we'll stick with 9th grade. My dad still had his little baby. His toy car. The mini cooper S soft top. A 5-speed manual. He rather looked like Mr. Incredible, in fact...

Except a lot less miserable because he thought that tiny car was the best thing since sliced bread.

So he took me out driving! He drove to the church parking lot and then we switched places. I plopped down in the seat and realized I had suddenly forgotten what planet I was on let alone what sort of contraption I was supposed to be operating. I didn't know how to turn it on. How to open the door. What the first step to going was. I was an empty-minded idiot. But of course Dad was there (laughing at my brain-blip) and coached me [roughly] on the basics of manual driving while also rambling off stories that had no pertinence to anything ever. If there was ever someone to get off topic lightning quick, it's my father. Bless 'is heart.

A couple rounds about the church building and then he says, "Hey, let's go out on the road." Like he's proposing we take a picnic in a flowery field. Nothing to worry about right?

But he's Dad so I wasn't about to argue. So I haltingly pull out onto the road and successfully manage a left turn to go east and head out toward Bush Hwy. The perfect, long, mostly empty scenic highway to practice starting and stopping.

But lo! A wild stop sign appears! 

That awkward moment when you seriously contemplate running straight through a stop sign because you're just too terrified to put the clutch back in.

But I stopped. And tried to start. And tried. And tried. And naturally there was a line of three scumbag, impatient misers behind who were just waiting and hoping for an excuse to lay on their blaring horns. 

And you know what I did?

I cried.

I broke down and burst into tears. Dad doesn't skip a beat and hops right out of the car, comes around and takes over. I got the hint the moment he opened the doors and just scooched over the console to stare pitifully out the window in complete morbid humiliation.

He zoomed on out of there and the people I stole 10 whole seconds of life from were soon gone down other roads and to other places. Dad got us out to the high way and parked the car down off the side of the road in the dirt and was quiet for just a second before chuckling and saying,

"I think that guy thought I was getting out to beat the crap outta him. His face was terrified."

I giggled and remembered the incident and about started crying again.

But he made me try again and mostly let me shift up and up and cruise along in 5th gear.

I'm pretty sure I couldn't look my mom in the eyes when we got home. I actually don't even remember if I was the one that got us there. Traumatized. Blocked it out, I suppose.

I never drove that car again.