FULL THROTTLE
Should you really teach your kids how to drive?
Ioften wonder what the point is of some of the so-called “women’s” auto-themed websites? That’s aside from the fact that their pages usually are mauve- and pink-hued, and there are pictures of the attractive, squeaky clean “Everywoman” sitting in the featured cars.
I’ve come across a number that could very well be written for either gender. They offer the same standard car advice: model reviews; should you lease or buy; how to pick a mechanic; how to handle a new-car sale and so forth.
The administrators of these sites don’t seem to understand that — contrary to popular lore — there are also a lot of men out there who weren’t born with innate ability to check the oil.
Occasionally, though, I come across a story that really does hit home with women drivers. One of the latest was an online quiz that posed the vexing question: should you teach your teenager to drive?
Having been taught to drive by men, this is a woman-oriented question. Why? Now, don’t take this the wrong way, guys, but it’s because most men “think” they can teach a kid to drive.
Women at least seem to possess the common sense to wonder if a few hundred wellspent dollars on a young-driver’s course isn’t worth avoiding the guilt of passing down road-rage tendencies, bad manners, aggression and lazy blinker habits.
Or, more specifically, that the course might be worth avoiding the likely situation that you’ll end up perched within a hair’s breadth of a deep precipice after having yelled, “Ease into the right lane! Ease! Stomping on the gas pedal does not mean ease!”
My father was remarkably patient with me. In fact, I actually lost my patience with him.
After about his 80th reminder for me to use my blinker, while pulling into a mall parking spot — “It never hurts,” was his refrain, “Let everyone know what you’re doing,” — I lost it.
“If you don’t stop, I’m going to fail my next driver’s exam on purpose, and you’ll have to pick me up from drama practice every Friday night until I graduate,” I threatened. He stopped. If I have any advice for a driving parent with a teen, it’s this: even if he or she has their beginner’s licence, don’t let them drive with their grandmother.
One afternoon when I was 17, my Grammie bravely offered to let me cart her around while I got the feel for the little 1978 Corolla — my parents’ second car, soon to be commandeered by me.
Being a dear, sweet Grammie didn’t utter a word when I steered the Corolla toward a ditch adjacent to a quiet country road. Instead, she clutched her chest. “Brake,” she whispered. Then, in the same low, gravely voice: “Do a five-point turn and get me home.”
Thankfully, it was her hiatus hernia acting up — she had fries for lunch — but that was the last time she let me take her for a spin.
Yes, dear father, you were right, but next time, spend the few hundred bucks, for all of our sakes.