Driving Dad Crazy

Guess what, guess what. Ok, maybe you can't. Red light, green light, 1, 2, 3, no lights in Lexington... I'm learning to drive. And I'm doing it. On real roads. Well, upstate roads. But not just bumpy back country parking lots anymore. No more dirt driving little byways alone. I'm driving. Like a real human being. A capable one. I won't be just one of those academics whose only contact with the real world is when they stub their toe on a bookcase, who can't be bothered with steering a car around the same mundane bend for steering of a thought over the edge and who don't learn to drive till they're 40. I'll show practical skill. Finally appreciative of the allure of cars, I want to own every curve. I am high above pedestrians and dogs. I fly by joggers, imitations of my morning running slow self gone in a blink. With blinkers, I signal. I stop and slow at the one blinking light for miles. I accelerate up hills. I cut through mountains. I take turns too fast and brake too sharp almost breaking my dad's infinite calm. Cars pass me. And I tailgate the violent tail lights of the sunsetting sky. In upstate New York, still unable to do something as simple as ride a bike, this is my first taste of independent mobility. I am as mature as the local 16 year olds. Shocked at my own power over the world. I gobble highway and close in on clouds and am close to forgetting who is in control. I am so well acquainted with being a passenger. With being driven by the dad, mom, car. I have been driven on these roads to riding lessons and libraries. I have listened to songs and read Jane Austen. Now I read speed and deer next 17 miles and watch out, children at play signs. No more helping hands or verbs. I hold the wheel. I drive. As long as licensed driver Dad can stand it. And I swear, well, I swerve from saying that the white hairs have anything to do with my driving.

Jesse's just home made ice cream. Ready, set, go. Pedal to the floor for the chocolate.