Laura P., Berkeley CA
It didn't occur to me until asked about driving a stick shift that I have a definite prejudice for cars with manual transmissions, particularly as a woman driver. I think the act of shifting requires a little muscle AND some intelligence. It keeps you from falling asleep while driving. It means you can "go both ways" and therefore have a little more sex appeal and a wider range of playing power. It also means you can drive anyone's car or truck. Thanks to my dual driving abilities, I've sat in the cab of some pretty big trucks and felt like a red-hot mama. And, yeah, it's true that I've also been known to grind the gears, ride the clutch, lurch forward on steep hills and roll ominously back sending my heart into palpitations that probably took years off my life. But so what? I felt like a he-woman all the same. I like being able to play the gears and dance with my feet while I drive.
My earliest driving memories involve a stick. I still remember my mother nearly sending me through the front window when she mistakenly shifted into reverse while we were moving at about forty miles an hour. Her aging parents were in the car and she'd been cautioning me, a driver in training, to take care shifting from second to third when using the gear levers on the side of the steering wheel. The incident was pretty funny since her mother and father never even noticed the car jerking forward and back and seemed not to see my body move into the front seat. They were just so happy being out on a summer drive with their grandchildren.
But the trauma (and drama) of driving a steering wheel stick was to become a personal memory as well. Just before I took my driving test, I learned that the DMV didn't allow tests in cars with console shifts. You see, the console gets in the way if the examiner needs, god forbid, to stretch his foot over to the slam on the brake during the road test. That meant I needed to borrow a car to take my exam.
I'd practiced driving in a VW beetle with the gearshift in the console. After the near-death experience with my mother, I was relieved only to coordinate clutch release and gas pressure without worrying about accidentally sending the car into reverse. Little did I know that too much gas pressure might also be life threatening. As I attempted to maintain even pressure on clutch and gas, I nearly rolled the egg-shaped VW when I made a left hand turn into our driveway! I still remember my father holding onto a cigarette in one hand and the door handle with the other looking at me at an angle reminiscent of an amusement park ride. Luckily, we didn't roll but my blood pressure was so low that I was rejected from giving blood a short hour later when I'd finished my lesson and gamely went to the Red Cross during their annual blood drive.
I drove my neighbor's tank-sized convertible for my driving test. This car was a yacht in comparison to a modest sedan of the seventies. I still remember watching the gas tank fill-up tally over twenty gallons and the look on my father's face when we got the bill (which must have been less than $20). When I went for my exam, I smartly told the examiner that we'd borrowed this magnificent car and that it wasn't a well-worn member of the family. Lucky for me I said so because moments later the examiner did just what he wouldn't have been able to do had there been a console between us - he reached over and grabbed the wheel making sure that I didn't hit the oncoming car on the right. I had literally gunned the gas to avoid rolling back on the minor incline leading from the registry parking lot to the highway. With that momentum we nearly crossed two lanes of traffic, hence the need for an assist from the examiner. But wonder of wonders, I passed my exam! I must say I wouldn't have felt robbed if I'd been told that I'd failed. However, I credit the knowledge that this was my first time driving this extra large pleasure vehicle that helped me fall into the good graces of the examiner.
Some twenty years later, I'm a loyal manual transmission car owner. It's not that I enjoy the expense of replacing a clutch or that I've learned how to stop riding the clutch. Quite the opposite. I boldly balance on clutch and gas all around San Francisco's steep residential streets and I happily gun the gas to avoid rolling back. My accident record is clear (knock on a fender) so I must have learned to moderate the gas pressure reasonably well. Still and all, it's the sheer pleasure of dancing with my feet while driving that keeps me on the manual side of the transmission aisle.
My earliest driving memories involve a stick. I still remember my mother nearly sending me through the front window when she mistakenly shifted into reverse while we were moving at about forty miles an hour. Her aging parents were in the car and she'd been cautioning me, a driver in training, to take care shifting from second to third when using the gear levers on the side of the steering wheel. The incident was pretty funny since her mother and father never even noticed the car jerking forward and back and seemed not to see my body move into the front seat. They were just so happy being out on a summer drive with their grandchildren.
But the trauma (and drama) of driving a steering wheel stick was to become a personal memory as well. Just before I took my driving test, I learned that the DMV didn't allow tests in cars with console shifts. You see, the console gets in the way if the examiner needs, god forbid, to stretch his foot over to the slam on the brake during the road test. That meant I needed to borrow a car to take my exam.
I'd practiced driving in a VW beetle with the gearshift in the console. After the near-death experience with my mother, I was relieved only to coordinate clutch release and gas pressure without worrying about accidentally sending the car into reverse. Little did I know that too much gas pressure might also be life threatening. As I attempted to maintain even pressure on clutch and gas, I nearly rolled the egg-shaped VW when I made a left hand turn into our driveway! I still remember my father holding onto a cigarette in one hand and the door handle with the other looking at me at an angle reminiscent of an amusement park ride. Luckily, we didn't roll but my blood pressure was so low that I was rejected from giving blood a short hour later when I'd finished my lesson and gamely went to the Red Cross during their annual blood drive.
I drove my neighbor's tank-sized convertible for my driving test. This car was a yacht in comparison to a modest sedan of the seventies. I still remember watching the gas tank fill-up tally over twenty gallons and the look on my father's face when we got the bill (which must have been less than $20). When I went for my exam, I smartly told the examiner that we'd borrowed this magnificent car and that it wasn't a well-worn member of the family. Lucky for me I said so because moments later the examiner did just what he wouldn't have been able to do had there been a console between us - he reached over and grabbed the wheel making sure that I didn't hit the oncoming car on the right. I had literally gunned the gas to avoid rolling back on the minor incline leading from the registry parking lot to the highway. With that momentum we nearly crossed two lanes of traffic, hence the need for an assist from the examiner. But wonder of wonders, I passed my exam! I must say I wouldn't have felt robbed if I'd been told that I'd failed. However, I credit the knowledge that this was my first time driving this extra large pleasure vehicle that helped me fall into the good graces of the examiner.
Some twenty years later, I'm a loyal manual transmission car owner. It's not that I enjoy the expense of replacing a clutch or that I've learned how to stop riding the clutch. Quite the opposite. I boldly balance on clutch and gas all around San Francisco's steep residential streets and I happily gun the gas to avoid rolling back. My accident record is clear (knock on a fender) so I must have learned to moderate the gas pressure reasonably well. Still and all, it's the sheer pleasure of dancing with my feet while driving that keeps me on the manual side of the transmission aisle.