Thirty, flirty and finally driving

It starts with a break up that’s practically a divorce. My best friend, Erikka, asks me what I want to do now that I’m single. I pause, think. 

“I want to learn to drive, finally. I want to get my licence.”

“Right! Let’s do this,” Erikka encourages me.

I buy my friend Sasha’s car. A wee blue 2015 Toyota Yaris with the name Seamus. So called by her siblings because of her own shameful driving. I love him from name alone. I start up driving lessons again. There are some parts of driving which are committed to memory from previous stop-starts with lessons, and others which take some time. Like double-checking with Erikka that the brake is the left pedal and the accelerator on the right. She asks me to show her where the lights are too, while we’re at it, just in case. 

The irony of driving to gain your independence is the interdependence that is needed to do so. It’s not a straightforward road to it, either. Some things take more time, like learning the dimensions of the car, or judging when to brake or apply the accelerator. My cerebral palsy shows itself in new, unexpected ways – the geometry of parking baffles me, and I veer closer to the left until I learn to judge spatial distances with the help of the wing and rear mirrors. 

There’s a rotation of friends who help me to get more miles under my belt. Erikka, Avril, Alicia, Penny. The benefit of learning to drive at 30 is that all your friends have been driving for years and can teach you. The curse of learning to drive at 30 is that all your friends have been driving for years so you’re the only one making mistakes. 

Upon failing my restricted licence test the first time, thanks to the dastardly Animates stop sign on the Thorndon testing route, I attend the Erikka Helliwell Driving School Boot Camp in the two weeks’ leading up to my re-sit. This involves driving. Every day. All traffic and weather conditions (thanks, Wellington). The Ngauranga Gorge embeds itself in my dreams. Indicating for three seconds becomes second nature. I pass the test the second time around. We pop a bottle in celebration. I sip prosecco, smiling at the thought that I can now drive myself to the pool or the movies, as long as I’m off the road by 10pm. That’s fine. I’m in bed by 10pm, generally, anyway. 

Flirting with crashes 

The next step of my driving journey begins: I can now drive by myself. I can also now crash by myself, with only my actions to blame. The first one is a fender bender on a narrow Wellington street. Me versus parked car. Both of us lost, and I have a walk-of-shame moment to deposit a note of apology on the affected car’s window while children head to the school across the road. The irony was that I’d just been to the mechanic to book a service. Well, this job needs more than a mechanic now. Erikka and I tape the car up so that the panel doesn’t flap in the wind. Number 8 wire.

I then drive to Miramar, where there’s a showing of a disability-related film as part of the film festival. I bump into my friends Erin and Etta there, too. They ask me how the driving’s going. I sheepishly admit to the duct-tape encrusted bumper on Seamus sitting outside. Etta cackles with glee. “Disabled people can do anything!”

Two more crashes follow. Both cause much mirth around my friends, family and colleagues. One still bamboozles us to this day - how I managed to roll my car at one kph, I’ll never quite know. Not even Formula One drivers can say they’ve done that. Each crash leaves me unscathed, but with new knowledge of driving and the importance of handbrakes  on hill starts (a handy lesson for Wellingtonians). 

Finally driving 

It is after the three crashes that I get in contact with the Sweet Production team about joining Licence to Drive. I’m intrigued that they're filming disabled people learning to drive and wonder whether they want someone at the latter stages of learning (in all senses of the word). They're keen. I’m gearing up for my full licence test, over a year after gaining my restricted licence. Sometimes things take longer and that’s OK. 

In the lead-up to the final test, it’s back to bootcamp. Erikka and I loop around the route late at night. Thorndon Quay. Right onto Hobson Street. Tinakori Road. Right. Right, again. Down the hill to the Hutt Road. Animates. Stop sign one. Stop sign two. Flush median. Indicate. Merge. Speed up, slow down. Everything is mechanical. Yet I feel the fluidity of my movements flowing. Erikka says: “I think you’ve got this. I really do.” The day of the test dawns. I work in the morning. Well, try to. Sentences stall; I clutch at words, trying to manoeuvre them. 

The film crew arrive to rig my car. I feel a pit in my stomach, battery acid running in my veins. Jolty, jump-starting myself all over the place. I drive Seamus to the testing site with the crew following. I’m not being filmed yet, so I crank the New Radicals. You Get What You Give plays. One, two. One, two, three, four. I feel the music in me as I pull into the testing site, dodging the road cones on Thorndon Quay.

I could say I remember the test, but I would be lying. I remember my palms oozing sweat, wiping them on my dress and the instructor sympathetically says “it’s nerve wracking, eh?” I remember the turns, the dance of the car, wheeling Seamus through traffic, weaving through the windy Wellington streets. We exit the Animates stop signs with no hitches. I realise as we turn back into the VTNZ that I’ve done it. I’ve done it. The instructor confirms this. He says such lovely things that I cry. Damn it. We then have to re-take the shot and he says lovely things, again, and I cry, again. I did it, I did it, I did it. I got by with the help of my friends. 

I wipe my eyes and get in the car to drive home and say a final goodbye to the crew. Tears still leak. I play Flowers by Miley Cyrus. I could drive myself for hours if I wanted. I change direction, and head to the pool. 

Licence to Drive premieres on Wednesday 2 July at 7.30pm on Sky Open NZ (Freeview channel 15) or stream the series on Sky Go and NEON.

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