Personal faults

I believe that everyone is entitled to one personal fault. One simple thing they cannot and will not overcome.

For me, it's driving stick shift.

I know, I know... millions of people do it everyday. Whole countries do it as a rule. But me and the clutch do not mix.

My hatred of the H-shift began at sixteen when I tried to learn to drive Stinky, the CJ-7 Jeep that I shared with my brother. I sucked. I once stalled over and over through an entire green light, all the while being heckled by a van full of third grade boys. Even the mom laughed at me.

I was lucky to get another car and successfully avoided manuals until just after college. I was going to visit high school buddy AP in Maine, and we planned a road trip to PEI and Nova Scotia. She warned me that I would have to learn how to drive stick.

A week before I left, I practiced on Husband's old car Bubba on country roads. It wasn't pretty, but I could do it if no one else was watching.

I started off OK, driving through Maine and even pulling off for gas. My second shift took us across New Brunswick to PEI. But it was in Anne-of-Green-Gables-land that I fell apart. I had eluded the evil stick shift, and now it was time to pay. AP drove us all the way up Nova Scotia and all the way back down again (i.e. a very long way).

It got to the point that on the way back, AP stopped on the on-ramp and we hopped out and swapped places. She'd driven for the last three days and there was no choice. I carefully made my way down the New Brunswick coast, dreading the evitable: the toolbooth at Saint John.

I started sweating at 100 km, watching for the "Toolbooth ahead" signs and trying to psych myself up. Finally there it was on the horizon. I slowed way down and eased in, so I didn't have to stop behind a car. I fumbled for the change, hands sweaty, and ignored the cheery greeting from the tollman. Focused intently on getting out of there without stalling, I slammed my foot on the gas. The car lept, the tires squealed, and the toolman yelled "Ride 'em cowboy!" at my jerkily departing form.

As I finally put it in fifth and let out my breath, I thought, yeah, everyone's entitled to one fault, right? It's not like I'm afraid of heights or hate puppies. I can give myself permission to fail at this.

And so I've never operated a stick shift since.