Weekly |
The Driving Circle of Life
My eldest daughter recently passed her driving test. Now I know why, when I passed mine, mum didn't hang out the balloons and whoop and cheer. It's scary.
For almost 17 years I've been ferrying Eliza to and fro, back and forth, here and there. I've entertained her with songs, stories, and snacks while she sat in her car seat watching the world zoom by. Then, as she progressed to the passenger seat and was within reaching distance of the radio dial, we'd squabble over 99.5 vs. NPR.
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When Eliza passed her driving test, however, and it came time to surrender the keys, I took Dylan Thomas's advice to "not go gentle into that goodnight" and I raged. Oh, how I raged! Hell hath no fury like a mother one-upped by her daughter. After all, it took me two attempts to pass my test. That's pretty standard in the UK though, where the overall pass rate is just 42% and the first-time pass rate even lower. My mother was the only British person I ever knew who passed her test the first time. But then mum did have Mrs. B. as an instructor–Mrs. B., whose frumpy Susan Boyle-like appearance belied the fact that her year-long weekly one-hour lessons would actually make my 40-year-old mother a proficient driver. Every week they'd tootle around the streets of Clacton looking as though they were off for a game of bridge instead of a driving lesson. Mrs. B. was no mug, though; she knew exactly what she was doing–especially when she scheduled mum's test to take place on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of winter.
You see, Clacton, which in the summer months is teeming with holiday makers, is a far different town in winter, and Wednesdays, back when mum learned to drive, were half-day closing days. This meant that shops and services such as banks, doctor's surgeries, and post offices all closed up at 1p.m. and the streets were empty. It was a ghost town. A bit frustrating when you'd run out of milk or needed to put a bill in the mail, but ideal conditions in which to take one's driving test.
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My Eliza, however, did not have a Mrs. B. in her life. Instead she took lessons through her high school, an opportunity not offered in British schools. Driving lessons in the U.K. have to be scheduled with a qualified driving instructor. And you have to be at least 17–unless you're disabled, in which case you can drive at 16. (I'm still trying to figure out the logic of that one).
The one-on-one instruction usually lasts for about a year, or until your instructor thinks you're ready to "put in for your test," which is administered by a member of Britain's "Driving Standards Agency." It's a nerve-racking ordeal comprised of three distinct parts: a multiple-choice theory test, a hazard perception test, and a practical test. All three parts have to be passed before you get your license. It's also expensive–about $100 if you take the test during a weekday and about $130 if you take it in the evening or at the weekend. On top of the roughly $40 for each hourly lesson, it's enough to drive you broke.
Things are a little simpler here. There can be–and usually are–other kids in the car while you're learning and lessons take place over what is usually a two-week period of time, at the end of which the instructor administers a short practical driving test. The instructor then signs off on a piece of paper and that's it. Bob's your uncle. You're all done and dusted. Case closed. You are officially a driver. Unless, of course, you didn't pass.
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It's hard to know how pass levels here compare statistically to those in the U.K. Unlike the DSA, which publishes annual reports, the keepers of the USA's driving test statistics must belong to some sort of Grand Lodge, members of which are sworn to never reveal their statistical secrets.
Among my daughter's friends though, it seems every one of them passed their test on the first attempt. Now, I've lived here long enough to know that while Dustin Hoffman's Rain Man character may have been an "excellent driver," he was probably in the minority. Surely becoming a qualified driver can't be like getting onto a kiddie sports team? Roll up, roll up, everyone's a winner. The teams don't even keep score for fear of making the kids feel like...well, I hardly durst say the word.
The "f" word in this country is deemed unacceptable, while failure in England is not nearly so frowned upon. I guess when you're brought up lulled to sleep at night by tales of Robbie the Bruce and his encounter with a spider in 1306, the lesson of "if at first you don't succeed, try, try again" tends to stick.
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The great thing about failing your driving test, though, is how great it feels when you succeed. You get to rip those "L" plates off of the car and head for the nearest pub, where for once you can volunteer to be the designated driver. "L" plates are a legal requirement in the U.K. They have to be displayed prominently on the outside of the car, both on the front and the back. They're also mandatory in the State of New Jersey, of course, but in all other states we have to rely on swerving cars, sudden stops, and missed turn signals to identify our learner drivers.
U.K. drivers who have recently passed their test can also opt to display green "L" plates or green "P" plates, both of which mean the same thing: that the driver of the vehicle is newly qualified and deserves a little understanding and patience. As though the British needed another incentive to show their penchant for politeness.
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There was no such thing as green plates back when I was a novice driver. The only thing green back then was the actual driving license, a simple piece of paper without a photo ID. Not that there'd have been much use for a photo, seeing as the license didn't expire until your 70th birthday. Getting mine back in the 1970s and seeing a date of 2029 seemed surreal at the time. It was fun to imagine what life would be like in a new millennium. Now it doesn't seem nearly as amusing.
Licenses in the U.K. nowadays have to comply with the European Union directive that they be in a card format with the holder's photo and signature. They might be more practical, but not nearly as fanciful. Still, if it's whimsy or quaintness you're looking for, then driving in Britain can still suffice. It's a completely different experience than driving on American roads.
Not only do the cars in the U.K. have the steering wheel, mirrors, and gear shift in the wrong places, after you've finally managed to fathom getting onto a highway from the wrong side, there are all those roundabouts to navigate. They seem to pop up out of nowhere. It's pretty thrilling once you get used to it; a bit like being in Disney's Cars Land minus the costumed characters.
Once you have managed to stop going round in circles long enough to exit the highway, you may decide to make a hasty retreat into the British countryside. Do so at your peril. Rural England might look relaxing, with its lush green fields, hedgerows, and quaint villages, but the speed limit on a British country lane is 60 mph. Also note the word "lane." It's not plural. So what happens when a vehicle is coming in the opposite direction? Buckle up and enjoy the ride!
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