The Story of My Driving Non-skills

I am a 40-something man who doesn’t know how to drive a car. Yes, that may seem shocking to many, especially in the West. And I have been ashamed of this fact my whole life. But why should I be, I keep asking myself.

I grew up in a country where car ownership is not a necessity and is unaffordable for the majority of the population. I come from a family that couldn’t afford a car, so getting a driver’s license at 18 (the legal age for driving there) was not a priority. Even after graduating from university and starting a job, it remained low on my list of priorities because no one around me was making it a focus. It’s ironic because the big city roads around me were always jam-packed with 2, 3, 4, 6, and 8-wheel vehicles.

As time passed, my income increased, and I had disposable income, yet learning to drive and owning a car was still not a priority. However, as in any emerging economy society, there was a societal expectation for someone in a well-paying job, especially at a certain age in a certain city: you have to own stuff. A car is one of them. Gradually, feelings of inadequacy began to build within me. At this point, I must be honest—I could have afforded and owned a car earlier in life, but I hid behind the excuse that no one around me was prioritizing it and that it wasn’t really needed. The truth is, I was and still am afraid to drive. You see, speed, among many things, doesn’t thrill me. And in the place I grew up in, the roads are filled with high-speed adventurers and law non-abiding drivers who have no qualms about hitting and running. Not that there’s a run-over body on the road every day but cars do get dented every minute.

As I was saying, I reached an age where owning a car became an expectation from a societal status perspective. My family was almost embarrassed to acknowledge that I was someone without a house or a car loan to my name. The saved-up cash in the bank account meant nothing to anyone. So, I mustered up the courage and enrolled in a driving school.

Fun fact: I already had my driving licence at that point because my brother-in-law knew someone who could make someone issue a driving licence without a formal and official road test in exchange for a few hundred bucks. Yes, I possessed something unethical. But that licence has long expired, and I have never felt more relieved than when I put it through my shredder. The reason my brother-in-law went through all the trouble to get me something like that is not a mystery, especially if you know what boosts the male ego in the part of the world I come from.

My first day of driving class went well. I learned about the car as a machine and its various switches and buttons. On the second day, I was asked to start the car, which I did. I was then asked to drive a distance, and I did that too. Finally, I was asked to make a U-turn. 

I said, “But there’s a truck coming from the other side.”  

“Make the U-turn before it hits you,” was the response.

I froze, much to the ire of my driving instructor, who didn’t hesitate to vocalise his ire in the choicest words.

“Let’s take a right turn here.” I did.

“There’s a car coming from the other side; scoot to the left.” I did and drove the front tire into an open drain.

This was followed by even more ire and an even finer selection of words. I almost decided to give up driving, but something within me compelled me to return to class the next day.

On day three, the driving instructor apologised for his behaviour. I felt better about it and was filled with a renewed spirit to learn.

The lesson ended with this: “By day three, my students are racing on the highways. You’re still on the neighbourhood streets.”  

I abandoned my aspiration to drive and accepted the shame of a thirty-something who doesn’t know how to drive.

A couple of years later, I moved to Canada. Canada is a country that promotes a glorified image in the developing world of what a paradise it is. I never thought I should have Googled how car-obsessed this country is before coming here. Driving is so normalised here that if someone were to see your ID, they would say, “Show me your driving licence.” Someone must remind them that there are other forms of IDs too. When I pull out my health card or passport as my ID, I usually get a look of shock and surprise. I am not sure these people know that a health card and a passport are issued by the govt.

The drivers are very law-abiding here, and there are rules to follow. The roads are wide enough and designed to follow the rules as well. But the trauma of my driving lessons from the past and my general fear of driving were deeply ingrained in me. The shame of not being able to drive was even greater in this great country, where I had hoped to use the “excellent” public transit to my benefit. My inferiority complex became more pronounced.

Two years back, I mustered the courage again on my second attempt to drive. I cleared the written test legally to obtain my learner’s permit. I enrolled in a driving school and was rewarded with the worst driving instructor ever. 

On day one, the instructor didn’t even look at me. He handed me the car keys and said, “Drive.”

I was dumbstruck. 

“But I don’t know how to drive. You have to teach me.”

He looked more dumbstruck than me.

“You know nothing about driving?”

I wondered if it’s a cultural thing here in Canada that you are supposed to know how to drive before taking a driving class. I was confused and mortified. My stress levels were rising, and I wished I could run back home and never get out of there. The class ended with a not so shocking statement.

“I don’t think the standard ten lessons would be enough for you. Before the next class, learn how to drive from YouTube videos and come prepared.”

I must commend myself while also slapping myself for even following his words. I checked out some YouTube videos and went for lesson number two. I made more mistakes than he could accept. The trauma from my previous driving lessons flashed before my eyes, and I was on the verge of crying. I called the driving school and requested a different instructor.

This new guy was good and had patience. I was glad I was finally learning and overcoming my nerves. But then the other shoe had to drop sometime. He asked me to enter into a private class arrangement with him outside the driving school. I was desperate, and he was a good instructor, so I agreed. However, I think it was his first time making such a deal, and he chickened out. The worst part was that he made his calendar extremely busy to fit me in.

I was depressed for a while. I took a fight with the driving school and got my money back (well, part of it) and enrolled with another recommended driving school. I have been taking driving lessons for the past six months. Not that I am a terrible driver, but because I have lessons once a month. By the time I get to my next lesson, I forget much of what I previously learned. Apparently, driving schools here expect students to learn driving in their friends’ and family’s cars and go to them for formal training and certification. I think 90% of the students fall into that category.  I don’t have friends and family around me who would help me with their time and car. So, I am stuck being at the mercy of driving schools.

Last week was supposed to be the final one of the standard ten lessons. My instructor told me I need at least one more. That additional lesson will likely be scheduled in two months, and I am pretty sure I will make a mistake that will lead him to suggest I buy another lesson. And in ten years’ time, I will be living with the shame of being a fifty-something guy who doesn’t know how to drive.