Dreaded time nigh for lessons in driving

Kate Stewart

With three teenage life forms of the male kind, it was inevitable driving lessons would become an issue at some point.

I was careful never to raise the subject in the hope that, by the time they were keen to start learning this most manly of skills, technology would have raced to my rescue with a self-driven vehicle that alleviated the need for the practical part of the test altogether.

In a time when I struggle to keep up with advancing technology, ironically I now want to complain that, in this case, it's not moving fast enough.

As much as I may want to drive the life forms from the nest, driving themselves to an early grave is not an option I care to consider.

I would be lying if I told you that the thought of them behind the wheel doesn't scare me to death.

The statistics for kids their age make for horrific reading and yet, in an all-too-frequent moment of madness, I have agreed to take the eldest out for a few lessons.

Back in the olden days, when I got my licence, I was taken out by a traffic officer before they merged with police.

Having flown through the written/theory part, I was confident of success. Who would have thought the tiny act of knocking over a stationary motorcycle while attempting a dreaded parallel park in Guyton St would spell failure?

My second attempt, however, got me the desired result and it was off to the car yard to purchase my first set of wheels.

My dad, a mechanic by trade, came with me to ensure his little girl didn't get sold a lemon. I got a lime instead - one of those hideous bright green Toyota Starlets that made me look like radioactive slime as I hurtled along the mean streets of Wanganui thinking I was "da bomb".

My bright green toxic machine would finally come to rest against the lamp post at the bottom of the driveway to the old Four Seasons theatre in Putiki Drive.

Even today, 30 years on, the dent is still there and the post remains on a lean - my lasting impact on the Wanganui landscape.

Turning too fast, too late and too bloody cocky for my own good, my pride was badly injured but, thankfully, I was not - though, sadly, the Kermit car was bound for the scrap heap.

Some might argue that "small accidents" like that are almost a teenage rite of passage and that it "wakes them up" to the reality of driving, but I'm not so sure.

It's easy to say when the result is not fatal, but the reality is that every time we venture on the roads we are chancing with death and, despite all the ad campaigns, our kids continue to kill or be killed when behind a wheel.

If my vehicle was an automatic I wouldn't be as worried, but I drive a manual so the whole issue of men and multitasking is freaking me out as I prepare to teach my life form.

I wonder how his fragile male ego will cope when I turn up in fireproof overalls, a crash helmet and my attempt at a home-made roll cage - and will he notice that we are being followed by the volunteer fire brigade whose help I plan to enlist?

If you're out this weekend, should you encounter a car that contains a female passenger screaming hysterically while contemplating hurling herself from the bunny-hopping vehicle, don't be alarmed - it's just me.

Although I may seem to be making light of it, this is, in fact, my way of coping. That lone maternal bone is, for the first time, questioning the need for teenage independence and literally driving me to distraction.

Hopefully I will live to tell the tale. So, wish me luck - and/or email me at investik8@gmail.com

Kate Stewart is an unemployed, reluctant mother of three, who just might be about to invest in a push bike.