What, Me Worry and Drive?
“The big pad is go, the little pad is stop.”
“No, the big pad is stop, the little pad is go.”
My foot hovered over the pedals. I only had to drive three kilometres to the car rental office so we could drop off the vehicle we rented for a weekend trip to Toronto, but it might as well have been 3000 kilometres. My partner, ever forbearing, reassured me that I was capable of piloting a car in light traffic. “You’ll be fine. Just remember – big pad stop, little pad go. And check your rear view and side mirrors now and then. I’ll be behind you in the van.”
It all seemed a bridge too far. It had been over a decade since I was behind the wheel of a car solo. I gripped the wheel to stop the trembling in my hands. I breathed deeply, like all the books and websites tell you to do when you’re having a panic attack. They also tell you to exhale, which I didn’t do until dizziness forced the air out of my lungs. Driving a vehicle is second nature for the inhabitants of the small Ontario municipality where we now live. Not for me. My partner and I live in the town core where groceries, the gym and the Via train station are less than a kilometre away. Why would I need to drive?
It was my late aunt, a flamboyant child-free widow who lived alone in a tidy split level in Mississauga, who berated me into taking driving lessons. She insisted that driving meant independence, especially from any man. She sprung for the lessons, so I felt obliged to follow through. My instructor at the driving school, renowned as the “blond Tom Cruise”, made stopping, left turns and yielding on Toronto streets a little less terrifying. My driving test, conducted by a young comedy fan, produced a pass, probably because I dropped the name Russell Peters. At age 35, with a Class G licence in my hands, I felt like I had achieved a milestone that I never thought possible or desirable.
Before she died, my aunt had leased a Honda CR-V and demanded I drive when we went out for dinner. Sober for some time, I became her designated driver, which proved convenient as she adored merlot. One night, returning from an evening of a three course meal (and her five course imbibing), I white-knuckled it from Cambridge to Mississauga, keeping up with speeding 401 drivers unfazed by blinding sheets of rain. My aunt prattled on, oblivious to the torrential downpour we barrelled through. When we finally pulled into her driveway and after seeing her into her house, I lurched to the sidewalk and vomited. I was never happier to ride two buses and the subway to get home.
As empowering as driving is, having weak vision in one eye has kept me on the sidelines. Amblyopia is the clinical term for it, much more distinguished than the colloquialism ‘lazy eye’. When I was a child I had to wear a patch over my good eye for awhile, during the summer months. My siblings played baseball and badminton at the cottage; I stumbled around on the grass negotiating divots and frogs. Do I use amblyopia as an excuse for being a perennial passenger? Yes. I have a driver’s licence, am able to drive, but lacking reliable depth perception undermines my confidence. I laugh when I’m parallel parking.
Primarily, I blame not driving all these years on the Toronto Transit Commission. Blaming the TTC for everything that’s wrong in the world is TO lifeblood. The Leafs lost again? Blame the TTC. That job interview went sideways? Blame the TTC. I haven’t paid my taxes in five years? Well, you get it. The TTC is the scapegoat for all societal ills. But it also, in its own inefficient, lumbering way, transports hundreds of thousands of people daily to their destinations. People rely on the TTC, much like some children must rely on emotionally unavailable parents. TTC riders are stoic and tough, have to be. It’s either that or shell out tens of thousands of dollars to have your own car and the privilege of being stuck in gridlock. So it’s the TTC’s fault that I never chose to drive in the city and opted for the thrilling gamble of public transit.
To top it off, I used to cycle to a job at Queen’s Park. On Bloor Street. In the bike lane. Now that’d make me public enemy number one.
Why would I need to drive?
I slowly merged into the left lane and flicked on the turn signal. Pickup trucks, SUVs and sedans whizzed by in the opposite lane. I pulled into the lot, my spouse following in the van. I had driven the little rental car to the office all by myself, had helmed over two tonnes of machinery without veering into a ditch. I had faced my fear. It felt good.
Good enough to purchase my own car and take day trips into Ottawa, Montreal or Toronto by myself?
Did I mention that Via is only a few blocks away?
