My driving instructor has a moustache. His name is Lars. He
drives me out to the edge of town and then we get out and switch sides. I start
to drive a car for the first time in my life.
How did I get to 30 without learning to drive? Something to
do with an accident I was in, a dislike of motor vehicles, a lack of cash or
time, a love of train travel, rather a lot of drinking, a lack of necessity, a
deep disinclination...
Lars wants me to drive up into the valley. He says we don't
worry about what others are doing. He tells me I need to practice shifting
gears. He says I should take my foot off the break just before the car stops.
He seems surprised at the way I keep killing the engine. He doesn't enjoy it
when I start driving in the left lane.
Oh, you drivers. Are you aware how difficult it is, this
thing you do in open traffic?
Lars says I need to demonstrate independence. He wants me to
gear up and gear down of my own free will. I can't do it though. I don't like
it. I want to focus on keeping the car in the middle of the road. We are
driving through a cutting at 80 kilometers and hour. He tells me I'm too close
to the edge of the road, that my wheels are on the white lines. I look in the
wing mirror to try to straighten up, but instead I start swerving off to the
side. Lars grabs the steering wheel and gets us back on the road. He tells me
never to do that again.
We drive across a small bridge and up some country roads. I
grip the wheel and look straight forwards. There are times when I seem to have
total control, then others when I suddenly start driving like a drunk. My driving
instructor is singing a song. He's building a cabin somewhere around here.
Lars has had many jobs in his life. He drove long distance
lorries, he's worked as a plumber and as a mechanic. He didn't learn much
English when he was at school. I doubt whether he knows much English at all, which is reassuring in some strange way.
He's nearing retirement and firmly believes that it is important to be happy in
the morning. He's talking on his mobile now and I shift gears carefully, as if
he might not notice. I still don't really understand what the point of it is, this shifting of gears.
Back at the driving school Lars asks me how I feel. We've
finished our sixth lesson and I'm still living in fear of the car. I talk for a
long time in my patchy Norwegian. I tell him I think I finally learnt how to
use a clutch. "You did do that," says Lars.
Lars says he has plenty of time, so long as I have plenty of
time.
