Four on the Floor

On a recent trip to Florida, I was given the opportunity to drive a beautiful red convertible Mustang Cobra, looked after by an unbelievably skilled driver and mechanic, Dennis Tone, my Uncle. Before we left on the trip, my mom had called to find out if we could stay with him on the way down. In the conversation, she asked Dennis if it would be all right if I were to drive the car. He replied with reassurances it would be golden, except for one small problem: a manual transmission. This should normally not be a big deal, but until that point, I had not a clue how to drive a stick. Still, the idea of strapping the reigns on every pony that Wells Fargo had to offer and getting behind the wheel of this Mustang Cobra thrust upon me the desire to learn.

Of course, my family does not and is not planning on owning a manual transmission vehicle, so we needed to borrow one. I pondered whether or not it would be truly worth it to try and borrow a car, and it felt weird to ask someone. Still, how many more opportunities like this I would have? I decided to give it a shot. I asked my friend the next day at school if he could teach me in his car, but he replied that his truck might not be able to take it. Shows what confidence he has in my driving abilities. Psh!

A few days later, I was at a social event. During a pleasant, passing conversation, I jokingly asked Skip Trudeau if he had a stick shift car he would be willing to let me use, and with a grin and a laugh from deep within, he full-heartedly granted me the use of his pickup.

I swung by his office the next day with my dad, and picked up his keys from his secretary. The first time we checked the keys to see what car we were looking for, we had arrived at the parking lot. We knew we were looking for a Ford or a Chevy. First glances at the revealed over ten Fords and multiple Chevys. A little dumbfounded, we took a stroll through the lot, hoping for inspiration. Luckily, we chose correctly the first time.

My dad, not having driven a stick in many years, jerked, sped, and burned us out of the the lot in the rickety, yet venerable old truck. I laughed, and he grinned as he slowly got reacquainted with driving a 4 speed. This humor was merely foreshadow.

He took us around the block, and down the street a little ways to my church. Arriving in the parking lot, he turned the truck around, threw it in park, and gave me a quick overview on how to drive the monstrosity. As we switched positions in the car, I eyed the parking lot, looking for any unwanted company. Much to my disappointment, there were many people coming and going that could watch me fail.

I plopped into the driver's seat. Doing as my dad said, I pushed the clutch, turned the key, and made sure the car was in first gear. With a slow, cautious release of the break, the car drifted forward as I revved the engine up to speed, ever so gingerly releasing the clutch to find the catching point. I could feel the car getting ready to go, getting ready to move, and at the critical moment: Whump! Dead. Cold. The life that wanted so much to get out on the open road was gone, left not even in first gear.

Thoroughly embarrassed, I looked to my dad for inspiration, but all he could do was laugh. Rolling my eyes, I started the car again as he told me that everyone kills it their first time. I tried again; I took my foot off the brake, pushed the gas, and slowly came off the clutch, but this time I brought the clutch back to fast. The car lurched forward, stopped, lurched again. When I ripped my foot off the clutch and gas simultaneously, I got my second kill for the day.

It was not until my fourth attempt that I got the truck, jumping forward, to not die. Then it was easy, the heavens opened up, and it seemed as though I had it all under control. Shifting into second was a breeze, and braking was cake. All until my dad told me to stop and try starting again, this time with an uphill slant.

Needless to say, it took me almost 8 tries to get out of that.