P.J. O' Rourke loves cars.
So do I.
P.J.'s most recent book (Driving Like Crazy) is a love story -- between a boy and his standard transmission. I highly recommend it.
Here is a taste:
Here is a taste:
Cars fulfilled the ideal of America's founding fathers. Of all the truths we hold self-evident, of all the unalienable rights with which we are endowed, what's most important to the American dream? It's right there in the Declaration of Independence: freedom to leave! Founding fathers, can I have the keys?
With the exception of two short splint-handicapped jaunts in Melaque, I have not driven a vehicle since I drove north to Puerto Vallarta to zip across canyons -- and meet my medical destiny. It was a nice four-hour farewell to driving. Five months ago.
Since my return, I have been dependent upon the kindness of friends to cart my ever-increasing body from place to place. To work. To the doctor. To physical therapy. To shop.
But that may all be coming to an end.
As of yesterday, I am back in the driver's seat.
I borrowed a friend's car to drive to Safeway to fill a prescription. I could have walked. But I wanted to see if my ankle was ready for chauffeur duty.
It is. At least, I had no trouble on that short drive.
Two concerns kept me out of the driver's seat: lack of motion in my ankle and discomfort with pressure.
I learned to drive an automatic transmission using only my right foot. Moving between the accelerator and the brake pedal. The problem was what might happen if I needed to use foot pressure with emergency braking.
So, I waited.
Yesterday I decided I was ready to fledge -- I thought.
On Friday, I am driving over to Bend with my mother to spend the weekend with my brother and his family. I intend to use my best litigation skills to persuade her to let me drive. (And that sentence shows an extreme lack of judgment. As you know, my mother is a frequent reader and commenter of this blog. Hi, Mom.)
If my next post is from the hospital, you will know just how it turned out.
