The Southwest Voice

I have been driving for the past 42 years and consider myself to be a pretty good driver. Having driven on California freeways my entire life, and on a dare, drove a motor home down San Francisco’s Lombard Street, qualifies me as a decent driver. But, in spite of my experiences I think that some of my best driving takes place in the back seat. That’s right, I am a back-seat driver extraordinaire and proud of it!

I’m not really certain at what point I stopped being the principal driver, but when my daughter and son-in-law are around, they do the driving. According to my wife it takes nerves of steel to drive with me in the passenger seat. In fact, Debbie has now implemented her version of the “three strikes” law. That is, upon my third complaint, Debbie pulls the car to the curb and hands the keys to me.

Now, while I am an experienced driver, as I have gotten older a few things began to bother me. These are, driving in the mountains, especially on the edge of a cliff, and driving across a bridge. The latter makes a trip to San Francisco interesting, but we have managed. One very good friend drove me to Kernville, and after what was referred to as “hysterical rantings and ravings,” she has nicknamed me the Mountain Goat. Simply put, I don’t do mountains and cliffs.

Which brings me to the most recent trip I took to Morro Bay. Since my wife was already there, and I wasn’t feeling up to par, my son-in-law volunteered to drive me to Morro Bay. I was very appreciative, in spite of the fact that normally, Daniel (son-in-law) drives like he’s piloting some experimental stealth fighter. The few times I’d ridden with him driving had caused me to quote Scriptures, or as my aunt used to say, “Get Religion.”  I must have really wanted to go to the beach to have gone on what I felt would be a risky venture, but I did.

Since Daniel’s friend rode with us, I was moved from shotgun to the rear seat. This was not a big problem because my Dodge is a boat. Besides, I was just as happy not to be riding in the suicide seat. When we started out, the trip went smoothly. After all, we were driving on Interstate 5. I do extremely well on flat land. Then we came to Highway 46, sometimes called “Blood Alley.”  This is when things began to get interesting.

You have to understand one thing -  like most people under the age of 30, Daniel is a risk-taker. (after all, he did choose me for a father-in-law, didn’t he?) As the Dodge began to speed along that two-lane highway we began to encounter trucks. No problem, because Daniel would simply pass. At first I began making comments like, “Well, that was close,” or, “Phew, I never pass on this highway!” or, my personal favorite, “Do you realize how many people die passing on this road?” These comments became more numerous, and yet Daniel didn’t respond. I finally gave up and began to tell myself that he wouldn’t put himself in any danger, so I was safe. Right? Well, at least that thinking worked for a time being.

Then came the mountains. By now it was dusk, and I’m not sure if I mentioned that I don’t “do” dusk, especially combined with mountains. And yet, here I was, sitting in the back seat and holding onto the “Oh, Lord!” handle for all I was worth. And all the while, we raced through the mountains and along the cliffs on Highway 43. I normally have to psych myself up to drive through there, and almost never ride down that canyon with someone else driving. And yet, here I was, eyes wide and babbling, “Slow down…didn’t you see that speed limit sign…just remember that your wife will be really angry if you kill her father!” On and on, and I have to give him credit, but Daniel just took it in stride. When we finally got into town, he pulled over and turned around, saying, “I’m not being rude, but have you ever thought of asking the doctor to prescribe some kind of pill to calm you down? You know, especially for times like this. You get really worked up.” Before I could respond I thought of the time we’d taken our dog to the vet, just to get something to calm her down on car trips. It worked for her. I smiled. Maybe he had found the solution. “Good idea,” I answered.

At this point I haven’t asked for a prescription of Valium, but it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. However, the trip has had one effect on me - now I’m very conscious of just how much I “help” others drive and have made a serious effort to cool it. At the end of a trip to town, or the grocery story, it’s almost humorous to be told, “You did really well, Dad.” Sad, isn’t it? Well, I’m still working on traveling with my mouth shut, and in spite of my vast improvements, a trip with me in the car is now referred to as, “Driving Mr. Crazy.” Guess I’ve earned it.