driver's ed

When I was in high school driver's education was included in the curriculum, free of charge. It was called 'state requirements' then. No doubt that name came from a lengthy committee meeting chaired by our counselors. I could write thousands of words about our counselors but will save that for a day when I need to work off some anger. Now back to driver's ed. Driver's education was a combination of classroom education and behind the wheel practice. The classroom portion consisted of endless lectures on safe driving and a memorization of the California Driver's Handbook. We also watched some cool movies like 'Red Asphalt' and 'Mechanized Death'. During one of those movies one of my buddies grew faint and had to go the nurse's office. I really don't know why anyone would get queasy seeing someone's entrails spread across a highway, but it happens. I guess the point of  those movies is to scare the crap out of teenagers in the hopes of making them safe and sane drivers. Right.
In addition to the blood and guts movies, we sat at a machine that tests our reflex speed, and a Highway Patrolman came in to talk to us and demonstrate his fast draw. And I thought that only worked on the streets of Dodge City. Perhaps the nicest thing about State Requirements is that it was a pass/fail class, meaning letter grades were not awarded upon completion of the class. You either passed or failed. And it was pretty hard to fail this class. Impossible, I'd say. State Requirements was taught by two teachers: one was the track coach, the other a football coach. I got the track coach, a very nice man who happened to be into recreational vehicles.

The second part of driver's education was behind the wheel training. Our high school had 2 cars to use for this, donated by the local Ford dealer. One car was a Pinto station wagon. The other was a Gran Torino. Yeah, like in Starsky & Hutch. Well it wasn't racing red with white stripes, but essentially the same car. In some cruel twist of fate, the football coach got the Gran Torino. The track coach got the Pinto.

Yes. I learned to drive in a Pinto. A bomb waiting to explode.

For behind the wheel sessions a pair of students went out with the instructor. The instructor had his own brake pedal that he could use to keep the students in check. And the track coach liked his brake pedal. Anyhow, my driving partner was Victor.    Like many of the kids in school, Victor and I had been friends since we were little. Victor was an only child and his parents doted on him. In return for this devotion to their only child, Victor referred to his parents as the 'old man' and the 'old lady'. I don't think he meant to demean them, but rather establish himself with his buddies as a man's man, not to be trifled with. One of the perks of their devotion was allowing Victor to drive at an early age, so when he arrived for his behind the wheel sessions with me, he was clearly a man of the world and I was the newbie, the greenhorn, the virgin. OK, stop giggling. Unfortunately, his superior driving skills were wasted on the Pinto. How much damage can you do in a Pinto wagon? If you really wound it out on a downhill, you could hit 63, 64 mph. That was it. However, the Gran Torino was another story. The Gran Torino was better suited to our collective driving talents, all we had to do was get behind the wheel. So for one of our freeway sessions, Victor talked the track coach into letting us use the Torino so we could have experience in another car. Further, Victor came up with a scheme to keep the instructor from using the brake pedal and paying attention to our driving. When we were driving, the student not behind the wheel would keep the instructor talking about recreational vehicles (RVs), freeing the other student to   drive the Gran Torino with abandon, living out his Starsky & Hutch hot rodding crime fighting dreams. Naturally, Victor would drive the first leg. As we hit the freeway, the plan worked perfectly. I talked RVs with the instructor and Victor put the pedal to the metal. We scooted down I-505 like nobody's business, exceeding the speed limit by a wide margin. Cool. We were so smart. Soon, it would be my turn to lay down some miles.

Then we passed another student driver from another town like they were standing still. There was no amount of RV talk that could mask that. As we sped past the car from the other school with the large "Student Driver" sign on the back, I knew we were done. Without hesitation, our instructor looked over at the speedometer. 75 mph in a 55 zone. Victor did not have to be told to slow down. Our instructor noted that passing another student driver did not present ol Dixon High in the best light. Whatever. I knew that I would be watched like a hawk on the way back. Doomed to a 55 mph cruise all the way home.

Despite our antics, we managed to pass both the class and our driver's test. The state had no choice but to issue driver's licenses to us. Fooled them.

Our high school class numbered 100. Most of us had been together for many years. After  high school, as often is the case, we  move on to college, jobs, marriage. Victor got a job with PG&E, I went to work in construction. We rarely saw each other again. Then, in the early 80's, Victor was killed in a car accident. I had moved out of town and found out afterwards. Victor and too many others from the class of 77 died young as a result of car accidents. Victor's parents moved out of town, devastated by the death of their son. And every time I see a car with a 'Student Driver' sign attached, I think of  State Requirements, the Gran Torino, and Victor. Rest in peace my friend. Say hi to John, Joey, Cathy, and the rest of our friends.