Reading Margaret and dotti's recent blogs on cars and learning to drive reminded me of my own experiences learning to drive standard transmission. That little exercise led to a day that has become stamped in infamy in my household, and it will forever be known as "Black Monday."
It was time to trade in our vehicle, so off Hubby and I marched to the nearest car dealership. We were saying goodbye to our much loved Toyota Solara coupe - a pretty car that was eye catching in its sleekness and vibrant paint colour: Flame Red. The mileage was getting a little high, it's gas guzzling ways were no longer defensible, and for our new lives as potters, a two door with beige leather seats just wasn't practical. We looked instead to a sensible, back-seats-go-flat and hawls a ton-of-stuff Matrix - not in the least bit pretty, but looked like the little workhorse it was.
The salesman totalled up his figures, complete with trade in allowance for the Solara. Hubby's face was not smiling. The Solara wasn't fetching as much against the Matrix as we had hoped. Time for plan B. "What if we got it in manual transmission" I asked "would that shave anything off the price?"
Now a little bit of background here. A couple of months before I had been driven around by a gal pal in her nifty little Honda Civic. It was a stick shift, and I was impressed by how she went through those gears, and sling-shotted that little car to get the most out of its thrifty little engine. It was nippy, and cute, and I thought I'd like to try that some day. Well, maybe that day had come!
Meanwhile, back at the car dealers Hubby looked at me sideways. He had driven stick shift all his driving life, until he met me, that is, and the car in our new life together had to be automatic. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "Of course I am!" said I with considerable bravado. "How hard can it be?" Famous last words. Now I was well aware that it's never a good idea to have one's spouse giving one driving lessons, but Hubby and I got along famously most of the time, so I was convinced it wouldn't be an issue for us.
The deal was struck. We saved a good $1500 by getting the Matrix with a stick. I handed over the keys of my beloved Solara with a tear in my eye. I get quite emotional about my cars, I know. A few days later we picked up the new one, and Hubby of course had to drive it home. He gave me a quick explanation of the workings of the clutch and gear shift leaver as he did so. My bravado was in full puffery - "Right - when can I have my first lesson?"
He took me out to a deserted parking lot, and had me give it a go. It wasn't pretty. I stalled, I sweared. Calmly, he encouraged me to re-start, and try again. Stalled again. More swearing from me - this was harder than I thought! He maintained his calm demeanour admirably - at least for the next 5 or so lessons. My frustration was growing, his too. His patience was starting to wear thin, I could tell. Yet he (mostly) kept his cool and tried to find new ways to explain it to me. But to no avail, except for one thing, I became quite proficient at driving the car backwards. He was incredulous. Why then couldn't I go forwards without stalling? I don't know to this day - it just seemed to work out that way. But backwards driving is frowned upon when everyone is going forwards, so the lessons continued.
For weeks we went on like this - weeks of utter frustration for me. I had been driving for well over 30 years. A car represented my freedom - and here I was now practically immobile. Anywhere I wanted to go, I had to ask Hubby to drive me. It was galling! Then came that fateful day. I'd had it!! That @$&#% car had to go back. "I don't care how much it costs us," I cried tearfully, "take it back and get me an automatic!"
I can see his face to this day. It was not smiling. In a tone that I decidedly didn't like, an almost mocking tone, he said "Do you mean to tell me you're the only person on this planet who can't learn to drive stick shift?" I was livid. That really got my dander up. I was determined to drive that bluddy car if it was the last thing I did.
I took off in it by myself for the first time, circling round and round all the quiet little side streets I could find until I had some semblance of normal driving. Trouble was, my starts were still troublesome, and quiet streets come with four way stop signs at their intersections. I would drive up to one of these, and silently pray that no other cars would come up and force me to stop, then start off again. Of course, this happened numerous times. I would try to wave them on so they wouldn't see my embarrassment: inevitably stalling, then starting off again like a Jack rabbit - blue smoke emanating from the back wheels.
I eventually got a little better at it, but it took months. I still remember my Aunty Sheila gripping the door handle as if she feared impending disaster every time I took her out. But of course, my skill improved little by little as time went by, and I even came to enjoy sling-shotting along in my nippy little car. Hill starts were no problem - in fact I would rock back and forth, cockily sure of my clutch pedal/acceleration technique.
That car served us well for 6 years, until the day it went in for service and the technician gave us the news. Not only the clutch, but the transmission was shot. Caput. Finito. It was irreparably damaged, and would need to be replaced. This was at 103,000 kilometres - just 3000 over the warranty. The dealer was very kind, and cut us a bit of a deal, but it still cost us thousands to repair. Hubby to his credit was very good. He didn't pass blame once. But I strongly suspect it was all the hard driving I put it through in my days of learning to drive stick.
We have an automatic transmission car now, and I must say it takes less effort to drive, especially in city traffic. That plus it's easier on my arthritic old knees! But I still remember my little Matrix with a stick quite fondly. We got along very well once we got over Black Monday.
It was time to trade in our vehicle, so off Hubby and I marched to the nearest car dealership. We were saying goodbye to our much loved Toyota Solara coupe - a pretty car that was eye catching in its sleekness and vibrant paint colour: Flame Red. The mileage was getting a little high, it's gas guzzling ways were no longer defensible, and for our new lives as potters, a two door with beige leather seats just wasn't practical. We looked instead to a sensible, back-seats-go-flat and hawls a ton-of-stuff Matrix - not in the least bit pretty, but looked like the little workhorse it was.
The salesman totalled up his figures, complete with trade in allowance for the Solara. Hubby's face was not smiling. The Solara wasn't fetching as much against the Matrix as we had hoped. Time for plan B. "What if we got it in manual transmission" I asked "would that shave anything off the price?"
Now a little bit of background here. A couple of months before I had been driven around by a gal pal in her nifty little Honda Civic. It was a stick shift, and I was impressed by how she went through those gears, and sling-shotted that little car to get the most out of its thrifty little engine. It was nippy, and cute, and I thought I'd like to try that some day. Well, maybe that day had come!
Meanwhile, back at the car dealers Hubby looked at me sideways. He had driven stick shift all his driving life, until he met me, that is, and the car in our new life together had to be automatic. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. "Of course I am!" said I with considerable bravado. "How hard can it be?" Famous last words. Now I was well aware that it's never a good idea to have one's spouse giving one driving lessons, but Hubby and I got along famously most of the time, so I was convinced it wouldn't be an issue for us.
The deal was struck. We saved a good $1500 by getting the Matrix with a stick. I handed over the keys of my beloved Solara with a tear in my eye. I get quite emotional about my cars, I know. A few days later we picked up the new one, and Hubby of course had to drive it home. He gave me a quick explanation of the workings of the clutch and gear shift leaver as he did so. My bravado was in full puffery - "Right - when can I have my first lesson?"
He took me out to a deserted parking lot, and had me give it a go. It wasn't pretty. I stalled, I sweared. Calmly, he encouraged me to re-start, and try again. Stalled again. More swearing from me - this was harder than I thought! He maintained his calm demeanour admirably - at least for the next 5 or so lessons. My frustration was growing, his too. His patience was starting to wear thin, I could tell. Yet he (mostly) kept his cool and tried to find new ways to explain it to me. But to no avail, except for one thing, I became quite proficient at driving the car backwards. He was incredulous. Why then couldn't I go forwards without stalling? I don't know to this day - it just seemed to work out that way. But backwards driving is frowned upon when everyone is going forwards, so the lessons continued.
For weeks we went on like this - weeks of utter frustration for me. I had been driving for well over 30 years. A car represented my freedom - and here I was now practically immobile. Anywhere I wanted to go, I had to ask Hubby to drive me. It was galling! Then came that fateful day. I'd had it!! That @$&#% car had to go back. "I don't care how much it costs us," I cried tearfully, "take it back and get me an automatic!"
I can see his face to this day. It was not smiling. In a tone that I decidedly didn't like, an almost mocking tone, he said "Do you mean to tell me you're the only person on this planet who can't learn to drive stick shift?" I was livid. That really got my dander up. I was determined to drive that bluddy car if it was the last thing I did.
I took off in it by myself for the first time, circling round and round all the quiet little side streets I could find until I had some semblance of normal driving. Trouble was, my starts were still troublesome, and quiet streets come with four way stop signs at their intersections. I would drive up to one of these, and silently pray that no other cars would come up and force me to stop, then start off again. Of course, this happened numerous times. I would try to wave them on so they wouldn't see my embarrassment: inevitably stalling, then starting off again like a Jack rabbit - blue smoke emanating from the back wheels.
I eventually got a little better at it, but it took months. I still remember my Aunty Sheila gripping the door handle as if she feared impending disaster every time I took her out. But of course, my skill improved little by little as time went by, and I even came to enjoy sling-shotting along in my nippy little car. Hill starts were no problem - in fact I would rock back and forth, cockily sure of my clutch pedal/acceleration technique.
That car served us well for 6 years, until the day it went in for service and the technician gave us the news. Not only the clutch, but the transmission was shot. Caput. Finito. It was irreparably damaged, and would need to be replaced. This was at 103,000 kilometres - just 3000 over the warranty. The dealer was very kind, and cut us a bit of a deal, but it still cost us thousands to repair. Hubby to his credit was very good. He didn't pass blame once. But I strongly suspect it was all the hard driving I put it through in my days of learning to drive stick.
We have an automatic transmission car now, and I must say it takes less effort to drive, especially in city traffic. That plus it's easier on my arthritic old knees! But I still remember my little Matrix with a stick quite fondly. We got along very well once we got over Black Monday.
