Driving everyone a little crazy

The e-mail conversation had turned to cars, particularly nostalgia about cars from the late 1950s and early 1960s, the era of fins and flash.

And suddenly I was back in driver education class at Portland High School. It was sophomore or junior year; I didn't turn 16 until November my junior year, so I'm a little unclear on how the timing worked.

The classroom teacher is lost to the mists of time, but the in-car instructor was Glen Bryant, a man whose patience must have been infinite at times.

Scheduling was complicated because with just one driver's ed car, only three students at a time could be out on the streets with Glen.

And it was only through some quirk of fate that three of us from the same neighborhood were scheduled to be in the car together at the same time.

Don and I had literally grown up together, playing together before we set foot in kindergarten and hanging out together all through school. We had the sort of rivalry that sometimes develops between siblings, and about once a year we got on each other's nerves enough that fists would fly for an afternoon. But we always got over it, and our friendship was probably stronger as a result.

Tom had moved into the neighborhood when we were in fourth grade. All through junior high and high school we walked to school together and walked back home at the end of the school day.

We had jokes no one else could understand, nicknames not everyone knew, and a firm understanding of how to get under each other's skin when the time came.

So it was a gift of fate that we were scheduled to learn to drive together.

The sun was shining that first day.

Glen drove us over to the parking lot by Portland Pool, where a series of traffic cones or pylons had been set up. Then it was our turn.

I have no idea which one of us was the first to get behind the wheel.

It doesn't matter, because the end result was the same.

No matter who attempted to drive around the course, the other two were in the back seat giggling or making wise guy comments. It was even worse when we tried to back up. (It was a tough day in the life of any traffic cone.)

Of the three of us, Don had the most familiarity with cars. My experience was limited to the traditional "up and down the driveway" experimentation. Tom's grasp of things automotive was even less than mine.

But for entertainment value, watching one another attempt to learn this thing called driving was pure comedic gold. We laughed at each other until our sides hurt.

Glen laughed as well, the way I remember it.

At least, that is, he had the last laugh. From that day forward, the three of us were never allowed in, around, or near the driver's education car at the same time.

The three musketeers were broken up and sent in separate directions. I ended up with a group of girls, including a friend who today works at the BMV.

Don turned out to be an excellent driver. Tom lives in California and drives as little as possible. And as for Glen, he made it to retirement; but I'll always suspect we gave him a little push that afternoon.[[In-content Ad]]