I’m a pretty good driver. Aside from a couple of bumper dings and that time I forgot to open the garage door before I backed out, my driving record is unblemished.
(This doesn’t include the three years we lived in Japan where the steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car, which I had to drive on the wrong side of the road, while shifting with my wrong/left hand. Bad stuff was bound to happen, so I don’t think that should count against me.)
All things considered, I am a good driver. However, I’ve never felt comfortable behind the wheel of our motorhome. It’s a big rig, 33 feet long, over 50 when we tow our car behind us. That’s very much like driving a train.
Taking the reins
When we first started RVing, my traveling companion and I had a delightful arrangement — he did all the driving and I told him where to go. But then he came up with the idea that I should be able to drive the RV too, in case of an emergency.
I was pretty tense that first time, but after about 20 miles of straight road, wide lanes and no traffic, I kind of liked it. Then came trial by fire through a long stretch of construction, and Wham! I was fighting with big semis for space on narrow, uneven lanes.
“You’re doing great!” my companion/instructor encouraged, even though I was hyperventilating.
I got through it, but about the same time I allowed myself a breath of relief, I saw the sign: Toll Booth Ahead.
“Oh boy! We’re dead!” I yelled to him and the dog, just to prepare them.
“Go slow,” he said, ignoring my protests that I couldn’t push a 50-foot long camel through the eye of that fast-approaching needle.
I did go slow. Like about ¼-mile-per-hour slow, and literally inch-by-inched us through that narrow slot, past the female toll taker who had to wrench money from my clenched fist. That’s about all I remember of that harrowing incident, except that she was wearing the prettiest nail polish.
“Black cherry,” she said when I complimented her, “Revlon.”
Gradually I became more proficient, calmly maneuvering in and out of toll booths (calmly as in without screaming, “We’re gonna die!”) and weaving my way through Sunday after-church crowds in Cracker Barrel parking lots.
Running with the (really) big boys
But my most memorable experience happened when I shared the road — side-by-side and eyeball to eyeball — with the famous Budweiser Clydesdale horses. We were at a truck stop restaurant in Virginia where I spoke with a group of people wearing silk jackets with pictures of horses on them. They were part of the escort that travels with those pampered horses, which were being chauffeured to participate in a Memorial Day Parade.
I was driving when we left the parking lot and I spotted coming up from behind two brilliant red Budweiser trucks, both with paintings of bigger-than-life teams of Clydesdales on the sides. From a distance, they are beautiful. Up close — not so much.
When those two massive trucks caught up with me I was in the center lane and didn’t have enough room to move to my preferred place in the slow lane. I gripped the wheel, stopped breathing and kept my unblinking eyes on the road, but I swear I could hear the hot breath of those horses on both sides of me.
There was I, trapped, the lesser middle of a Budweiser Clydesdale Oreo cookie. I jockeyed to hold steady and not wobble out of my lane; if I made one wrong move I was going to be in big trouble. I tried to not pass out as the horses on my left gained on me and moved ahead, but the horses on my right didn’t. When I slowed down that truck slowed down too, as if the driver was intentionally keeping pace with me, but I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off the road to look over there.
You go, girl!
Finally, probably because I was getting kind of wobbly, the truck backed off and maneuvered so it could pass me on my left. This time as it came up alongside, I stole a quick glance at the cab and there, sitting in the driver’s seat was a woman wearing a cowboy hat, which she tipped at me. Kind of like a “Hey Girl! Look at us in the same big-rig club!” salute.
At the risk of getting even more wobbly, I waved back, and wobbled, just a little, then looked over at my driving companion who was pale, unblinking and hyperventilating. So was the dog. They missed the whole wave thing.
That was Memorial Day Weekend, 2007 — memorable because I rode with those beloved Clydesdales, but maybe more so because nobody’s asked me to drive a big rig since then.
