Even with six years of almost clean driving under my belt, the first ten minutes in my BSM Corsa navigating through roadworks in Stratford, East London qualifies as the single most nerve-wracking moment of my adult life. Gone were the carrion-feasting buzzards, replaced by jungles of traffic cones, angry, honking white van men (don't they see the BSM sign?), flocks of equally distraught-looking fellow learner drivers, potholes the size of kiddie pools and signage that simply refused to clarify anything for me. Why, for example, is the national speed limit a black diagonal stroke? Why are other speed limits posted so small that by the time you've read them, the speed limit has changed? Why is it acceptable to signpost a road at one roundabout, but then not put a pointer up at the next junction when you needed to turn left? Why should street signage be placed where you'd least expect it? For the first few lessons, I was at my wit's end.
If it weren't for my Yoda-like driving instructor Khalid, I may have packed it in. He did well to calm me down. Whether it was to give me a breather I'm not entirely sure, but he would have me pull over and take a few moments while he did his evening prayers right there in the passenger seat. Afterwards, he would say: "It's like going to the toilet: you just have to pull over and do it sometimes." Come to think, he may have been praying that I didn't drive into oncoming traffic like I had on the first lesson.
His other secret weapon for keeping me composed on the road was a never-ending supply of Wrigley's spearmint gum. Somehow, it worked wonders. Khalid swears by it to get him through the worst of London's traffic nightmares...
Ten hours of tutelage later, I was just starting to get the hang of this clutch business. Another ten and I was almost losing the sense of dread when I saw his BSM sign coming up the road. Another ten and Khalid reckoned I was ready for the Big Day. He built up my confidence with some statistics: up to 1 out of 4 people taking the test fail first time, and that ratio worsens the more times you attempt it. Khalid assured me that BSM's success record was at around 50 percent, though, and told me that his previous three test-takers had all made it through last week. Not exactly a winning streak, but I got a glimmer of hope. I'm not sure what the stats are Stateside, but in the more bucolic regions, you're probably looking at a 80-90 percent pass rate.
So the day came. It was an early morning start, dead smack in the middle of London's rush hour. My 'pits were waterfalls, and my neck ached from all the exaggerated craning towards wing mirrors. I was so nervous my clutch foot was shaking. It took me a good hour before I could settle down. Khalid was on hand with the spearmint gum, but I would have liked a prayer breather.
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| Andrew's coveted pink card |
I think I was lucky. My examiner was a jolly lady, and we got on well. During the test I stalled once (the shaky clutch foot). And I almost didn't see an OAP crossing a zebra with her shopping trolley - almost. But the London traffic was so congested that the forty minutes passed without me having to go into any of the areas whose roadworks confuse the hell out of me. In short, I got the licence, but oh to be back in Delaware, circling traffic cones in a car park...
