I'd forgotten how stressful it is to be a driving teacher, which shows I am suffering from short-term memory loss, because it wasn't that long ago. (sigh) But, oh man, if you want raise your BP, sit next to a teenager learning to navigate a metal box through traffic of other metal boxes, some impatient (and honking), others cutting in and out behind and in front of him, all of the while sensing just how vulnerable everyone inside your particular metal box is to what happens next.
One thing I believe I am really good at is worrying, and I always have been. It's not a problem for me to imagine the worst possible consequence of whatever I'm doing and play that scenario out as a type of motivation to avoid it coming true.
This is probably a version of what psychologists would call a "control" issue; I've also heard sociologists refer to it as a "strategy" for managing risks.
I just call it worrying.
Back to Dogpatch and up and down Illinois Street we went today. We were one of the few vehicles in the area, which is an industrial zone, as this was a Sunday. The road runs along San Francisco Bay, past any number of old piers and crumbling warehouses.
A massive passenger ship was anchored offshore. "I'd love to go on one of those someday," said our back-seat driver, our pilot's little sister. "Then I wouldn't have to look down at the water but way off in the distance where it would be fun to go."
Her eagle eyes helped a lot, actually, because for whatever reason, many local cop cars seemed to be cruising this district today. "They're probably avoiding doing their jobs, given nobody's down here," I cracked, pleased with finding a joke that crosses several generational divides.
Our driver bravely pushed on, learning the meanings of four-way stops, blinking red lights, turn signals, lane changes, braking softly vs. immediately, taking a hard left vs. a soft left, and on and on.
How the hell am I ever going to be able to turn over to him the knowledge gained from a lifetime of driving. About all of the unexpected things that happen, that test your reflexes, that reward your attentiveness and punish -- sometimes even fatally -- your momentary lapses?
"Cop car coming up from the rear," piped up our back-seat driver. After he had successfully come to a complete stop, and pulled over into a parking spot while the policia disappeared to our west, the big brother turned to the little sister to deliver perhaps the greatest compliment he could have in that moment.
"You are going to be a very good driver!"
As I breathed a sigh of relief (we are doing this off the grid, i.e., with no permit yet) he pulled back into traffic and kept figuring out how to change lanes with the correct turn signal blinking as opposed to triggering the windshield wipers, an equally viable option.
***
Later on this day. I watched this young driver as he competed in an indoor soccer game, which around here is called futsol. I felt kind of bad that he had already put himself (and me, and our backseat driver, though she never complains) through so much stress down in Dogpatch, and then through and over Potrero Hill, and then (on only his second driving lesson!) up Cesar Chavez Street, up and over Bernal Hill to his Mom's place, because futsol is a fast-paced version of soccer where even the slightest mistake in a micro-second leads to the other side scoring a goal.
Since he plays defense, it would be his tiny mistake that could cost his team the game. But of course that is how it always is for an athlete like him. He comported himself well, even brilliantly, but in the end his team lost badly.
As I was driving him back to his Mom's, I realized that teaching an athlete to drive a car is different from teaching other kinds of people. He already is used to making split-second decisions, reacting instantaneously to threats or dangers, and relying on his instincts to survive. He already is doing all of this at a far higher level of competition than I ever have experienced in my lifetime, and he is a bare quarter of my age.
Of course, I am a worrier, and he knows that. As I drove away, with my window down, he leaned over from his Mom's front door to call out, "Thanks, Dad, for the driving lesson today. I loved it. I don't want to be just a good driver, I want to be a great driver. Like you."
-30
No comments:
Post a Comment