One afternoon when I was sixteen, I was partying with a bunch of kids—there might have been beer, for sure there was pot. We all partook, except this boy Mike, who didn’t smoke. Tall, lanky, and blond with a wisecracking, manic energy, Mike was no doubt bored by us stoners, lazily debating what record to put on next.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” he said to me. “Let’s get outta here. I’ll teach you to drive.”

What was I thinking? “He’s so cute! He’s so cool! He’s gonna teach me to drive!” In other words, not much.

Mike had a muscle car, a khaki-colored Oldsmobile Cutlass SS. It sat along the avenue that borders Brooklyn’s Canarsie Park, gleaming in the sun. What happened next is a bit fuzzy, but Mike must’ve pulled out of his spot, then we changed places. (Seat belts? Please!) I don’t remember receiving much instruction, but I do remember pressing the gas pedal, surging forward and losing control, swerving until I crashed into a parked car.

We heard sirens. Mike thought fast, telling me, “I was driving!” Cops came. Maybe an ambulance? Mike and I were both unscathed, but that SS was beyond SOS. I can still see the snaky skid marks I created on the asphalt.

Suffice to say my introduction to motor vehicle operation was not a good one.

 The Roads Not Taken

Miraculously, thanks to driver’s ed my senior year in high school, I managed to get my license. Which I proceeded to not use for 15 years. A bus and the subway got me into Manhattan for college, and most of my friends were older, so I cruised with them for whatever hijinks we got up to.

In my early 30s, I moved to California on a whim–okay, for a man. But my solo driving excursions amounted to grocery runs.

Then, in my early thirties, I moved to California on a whim—okay, for a man. While he drove for the most part, we did plunk down $400 on a 1977 Ford Granada, a big, boxy sedan that I could hit a brick wall with and still walk away from. (Airbags? Please!) In downtown Los Angeles, where we lived, my solo excursions amounted to grocery runs. 

When I left the man, I took a place in West Hollywood, which largely let me function like a New Yorker: I walked—always my preferred form of mobility—for errands, dining, even to the music clubs on Santa Monica Boulevard. Because I worked as an entertainment journalist, I got free tickets to lots of stuff and rode shotgun with my chosen plus-ones.

Of course, I did drive a little. My magazine job was a few miles from home and a straight shot. And I’ll never forget the valet guys’ laughing good-naturedly as I pulled up to the Beverly Hills Hotel for an interview in Bluebell (my name for the Granada). During those few years, I only had one minor fender-bender, but since I drove so infrequently, that’s hardly a boast. 

Driven by Necessity

Eventually, I returned to NYC. Late at night, especially if I was tipsy, I hailed a cab. But mostly I relied on public transportation, including to visit my parents, who’d left Brooklyn for the Long Island suburbs during my L.A. tenure.  Soon after I headed back east, heartbreak happened: My dad died of a sudden heart attack. Although he had typically done the driving in our family, my mom, at 70, dusted off her license and got behind the wheel. Unlike me, this remarkable woman wasn’t about to rely on friends to pick her up and take her places.

If I was going to have an independent social life, I’d need to be self-propelled. But I hadn’t been behind the wheel in 25 years, and I was scared.

Today, a nonagenarian, Mom still gets around in her cute little Kia—but by “gets around,” I mean an ingrained route within a two-mile radius. She won’t admit to being in decline in any way, but once it became clear that she needed help in various areas, my husband and I said “see ya!” to the city and moved in with her.

Though incredibly healthy overall, Mom is occasionally troubled by optical migraines and vertigo, so I realized that part of my caregiver responsibilities would include chauffeuring Ms. Dizzy to appointments and activities. Plus, if I was going to have any kind of independent social life, I’d need to be self-propelled. So you know how for some challenges, the anticipation is worse than the actuality? Yeah, no—not this time. I hadn’t been behind the wheel in 25 years, and I was scared. 

Considering my initial teenage driving experience, the fear ran deep—not flashbacks or anything truly PTSD; more along the lines of “shit happens all the time; I do not want to be responsible for shit happening while wielding 3000 or so pounds.”

Relearning to Drive: Getting Behind the Wheel Again

The very thought of driving in the suburbs put my generalized anxiety disorder into, well, overdrive. Around here, stop signs are considered optional—slow signs, at best. Many of the folks I see on the road remind me of two cartoon characters from my childhood: either Speed Racer or Mr. Magoo. Then there’s the type of fellow I call the Ramblin’ Man (cue the Allman Brothers), who pilots a massive pickup despite never having to haul anything. And what about the multi-tasking mama with the pedal to the metal who should’ve picked up her youngest half an hour ago?

So I started small. Girding my loins, with my brave husband, J. beside me, I backed out of the driveway to tool around the block. We survived, so for the next week we continued, going around the neighborhood. J. is a teacher, and he patiently gave me pointers—so how come I was so uncomfortable? Even his gentlest guidance felt like a scolding like I was doing something “wrong” (my problem, not his). I had to go it alone.  

My patient husband rode with me, but even his gentlest guidance felt like a scolding, so I knew I had to go it alone.

But before I hit the “big streets”—the ones with strip malls, supermarkets, and other essentials of suburban life—I signed up for an online safe-driving course. Crucial, since I didn’t remember too many road rules.  It took all damn day, but it was so helpful. I learned that most accidents occur due to speeding and distraction (i.e., texting), two things I would never do.

Because driving demands attention (duh)! In conflicting ways, too: Keep your eyes on the road but be sure to check your mirrors, drive the speed of traffic yet stay within the posted limit, stay in your lane, but be prepared to change should a double-parked delivery van be blocking you every six seconds.

Going My Way

After several weeks of going nowhere slow, I took a deep breath and pulled out into traffic on one of the major thoroughfares. There were a LOT of cars on the road. I drove about two traffic lights’ worth, made a right into the safety of the residential streets, then circled back and—whee!—did it again. The next day I went further and even changed lanes. It was a major accomplishment, but on the way home I got honked at. Not sure what I did to deserve it, I felt a rush of heat at the sound of the horn, but you know what? I got over it.

Now the time had come for a sojourn to the supermarket. Talk about precious cargo: I had my mom with me. I knew the store’s location but studied the map anyway, figuring out the best places for dreaded left turns. We made it there and back safely. Phew!

Though I’m more experienced now, parking lots are not my happy place. Returning from the town pool last summer, I backed directly into a parked car—and it couldn’t have been a hooptie, oh, no; it was a shiny new Mercedes (of course I left a note!). And forget Grand Theft Auto, for real excitement, they ought to make a video game called Trader Joe’s Parking Lot. Also, ever hear of this thing called parallel parking? Me neither!

It would be totally NextTribe of me (Aging Boldly, right?) to say that these days, a year and a half later, I hop on the highway at the slightest provocation, motoring off on out-of-state girls’ trips—but I’d be lying. 

The first time I solo drove to the beach, it was a huge gift – to me, from me. That I didn’t have to wait for a bus or train but got there by car felt great.

Maybe someday I’ll be that adventurous, but I’m not pushing it beyond friends’ homes, doctors’ offices, my volunteer gig at an animal shelter, the pool, the park, and the beach. Ah, yes, the beach. The first time I soloed there was a huge gift—to me, from me. Though I’ve always been a beach baby, that day, walking along the water, was a whole new level of joy. That I didn’t have to wait for a bus or train, that I could propel myself there in a mere ten minutes by car, felt great.

So what about the local library, drug store, post office, three different pizzerias, and the aforementioned Trader Joe’s? Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. I walk!

 Edie Larkin is a New York-based writer, circling a Trader Joe’s parking lot near you.