Remember the first time you drove a car? I do. It was my dad's diesel-burning, champagne-colored, 1979 Peugeot 504. The two of us were out cruising one day, with Three Dog Night blaring from the tape player and sunroof open to prevent suffocating on diesel fumes. Out of the blue I asked if I could drive.
"Sure," said Dad, much to my surprise and sheer glee. He pulled the car into a small parking lot near the side of the road, opened his door, and climbed out. I slid my skinny little teenage body across the center console and into the driver's seat, feeling an overwhelming sense of power and freedom at my fingertips, like I could conquer the world (Napolean must have driven a Peugeot). Dad remained by the side of the car, so I rolled down the window.
"Aren't you gonna get in?" I asked. "I think you need to get in."
"No. I'll just stand here and tell you what to do." He went on to explain that I was to push on the clutch with my left foot and turn the key to start the vehicle, and that once it was running I should put the car into first gear, slowly take my foot off the clutch, lightly press on the gas pedal with my right foot, and drive. He told me the brake was the middle pedal, the one I should push with my right foot to make the car stop.
It all sounded so easy.
When all was said and done, I think I drove around 27 inches. The trip included a few jerking lunges, three engine kills, and lots of nice black diesel smoke.
My first post feels a little bit like my first drive. Try not to choke on the fumes.
