Bonzer Words!: Car Courage
...My father-in-law owned an aging blue Pontiac that floated down Sydney roads like a rudderless ship. For six days father-in-law drove me to the hospital and back. On the eve of the seventh day, he informed me that I must drive myself...
Goldie Alexander tells of days of fear on the road.
Goldie writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please do visit www.bonzer.org.au
Memorable experiences rarely happen in isolation. They are often the culmination of a series of happenings that help bring the general into the specific. For me, the road has always been the scene of potential carnage. A place where being involved in an accident is somehow inevitable. That's why thirty years ago, though I held a driving license, I had yet to go into battle. Anyway, in the small country town where I lived, public transport was adequate, my neighbours were friends, the corner shops provided most of my needs, parks were within walking distance.
Then one day my husband became sick enough for us to fly to Sydney for an operation. The hospital was in Wahroonga. I was to stay with my in-laws some thirty kilometres south. My father-in-law owned an aging blue Pontiac that floated down Sydney roads like a rudderless ship. For six days father-in-law drove me to the hospital and back. On the eve of the seventh day, he informed me that I must drive myself.
Next morning the Pontiac loomed large. I climbed in and tried dragging the seat forward. The seat refused to budge. I stared through the windscreen. My world view was a tiny area under the wipers. The garage opened onto a busy street. I released the brake, and immediately backed into a double line of traffic. Horns blared. Inching forward, jerking and shuddering, I turned into the line of traffic with as little control over the steering and brakes as sailing a yacht through treacherous seas.
At the first major crossing, the car pig-rooted and stalled. Traffic banked up behind me. Drivers glared. Horns blared. Suddenly an elderly man in paint-splattered overalls jumped into my car and pushed me aside. 'What's a girlie like you doin' in this great tub?' he yelled. Next, he'd fired the engine and disappeared back into the traffic from whence he'd come.
I drove on. Just beyond Sydney Harbour, a sudden downpour splattered the windscreen. I pressed the wiper button. The lights came on. The downpour became a deluge. Somehow I managed to see through the downpour that thankfully soon stopped. However, to this day how I managed to get to the hospital and back still remains a mystery.
Back home, I swore I'd never drive again. My friends disagreed. They said, 'What you need is practice.' So late at night I practised left and right hand turns, hill starts and reverse parking, until the day arrived when I felt confident enough to drive a gaggle of bickering kids to the beach and back.
That should have been that. But those old gory fears were revitalized by returning to Sydney with its busy streets and barely subdued road-rage. I avoided right hand turns, shunned peak hour traffic, stuck to public transport, never drove unless I had to. My courage failing in leaps and bounds, I wondered—Was an accident inevitable? Was it time to give up?
Before, however, I'd reluctantly agreed to fetch my grandson home from school. Swallowing my alarm, I drove towards a busy intersection. From my left, a white sedan darted out from a small side street and slammed into me. As I hung onto the wheel, my car skittered and made for the opposite side. I remember sliding into two lines of oncoming vehicles…the drivers' shocked faces...dodging a truck, two sedans, a taxi...and the unexpected elation as I steered myself out of trouble…
Carefully, methodically, I drew up by the footpath and staggered out to stare at the mangled mess that once was my car. But something more important had occurred. Coward that I was, the long anticipated smash had finally happened. And through my own skilful driving, I'd emerged unhurt. The ghost of that terrifying initiation so many years before, was finally being dispelled.
I suppose this is where I should boast that from now on I will drive any time to any place. But bad habits die hard. I'm still not Grand Prix material. However, these days I finger truckies, jump lanes, nip across yellow lights. Sitting behind the wheel is no longer an act of courage.
The Oxford Dictionary describes courage as 'the ability to control fear when facing danger or pain.' It makes me wonder about a world where bravery is often presented as yet another infotainment. Not that I want to quibble about heroes being granted their rewards. Rather, I would like to suggest that we make room for other, less acknowledged feats. Maybe we need to award medals for 'Confronting that bastard who's trying to steal my parking spot!'
© Goldie Alexander
