|Okay. Picture it in orange . . .|
If one was raised on a ranch in Southern Alberta, one was driving by the time one could clearly see above the dashboard.
This involved getting physically taller.
Because Dad wouldn’t allow one to use the Sears catalogue for added height.
By the time I was 12, I was there.
Dad handed me the keys, took me through car control basics in a nearby empty field, and set me loose.
Oh, I wasn’t allowed on any roads.
And my driving was strictly limited to running errands to and from said fields.
But I was driving!
Oddly enough, in those early days, I never had any accidents.
Those were reserved for after I received my driver’s license and had discovered the joys of driving on real roads.
Case in point:
I was driving a friend’s cool, orange, 1974 Ford truck.
Four-on-the-floor with a smooth clutch.
The steering was a bit dodgy. Armstrong, as we were fond of calling it.
But it was a sweet truck to drive.
We were heading to the track.
I should mention, here, that I used to help my friend with his uncle’s racehorses at the track.
It was . . . fun.
But that is another blog post.
Moving on . . .
It was time to feed and start the day’s training.
And, as is usually the custom in Alberta in February, the roads were icy.
We were coming to a curve.
Slowing was indicated.
Now I had been well-instructed by my brothers on the best way to begin.
I pressed the clutch.
Expertly shoved the gearshift into the next lower gear.
And let out the clutch.
All while driving over a sheet of black ice.
The next few moments are a blur.
I do remember the sensation of spinning.
Because we were.
That old truck performed maneuvers that could have put it on center stage during a performance by the Royal Alberta Ballet.
Did you know a truck can pirouette?
Well, it can.
And very gracefully, too.
Eons and multiple circles later, we finally came to a rest, parked neatly on the median.
Facing the wrong way.
We had, somehow, managed to miss three traffic signs, two trees and one astonished pedestrian.
For a moment, we caught our breath and counted limbs.
Then I put the truck into gear and started forward.
Down off the median and onto the street.
The wrong way.
“In Canada, we drive on the right side,” my friend pointed out shakily.
I drove back onto the median and crossed over it to the other side of the street.
We made it to the track safely.
But, for some reason, my friend would never let me drive his truck again.
Even though I pointed out, rather intelligently I believe, that there couldn’t possibly be ice on the streets of Lethbridge in the middle of July.
Some people simply don’t forgive and forget.
Emphasis on forget.