Perfect parallel parking
The power of using Mom as motivation
I’m dedicating this week’s story to my 89-year-old mom. She is currently recovering from a broken hip.
My dad called two weeks ago and said she was in hospital. The fire alarm had gone off in their building at 1:00 am. (Leaky sprinkler, no fire).
“She jumped out of bed”, Dad said.
While my brain was struggling to process that image, he continued,
“She sprinted toward the bathroom to get her housecoat.“
“She fell.”
Fortunately, when the fire alarm goes off at their independent living residence, there is an all-hands-on-deck response from emergency services. Within minutes, two firemen were at Mom’s side. They were cute she said, but she couldn’t remember if they were wearing their helmets.
The firemen called for an ambulance and less than 36 hours later, Mom’s broken hip had been nailed back together. (I didn’t know doctors needed the skills of a builder, but they also stapled her incision, so I guess DIY tools and office supplies are standard in operating rooms these days.)
Long story short, Mom’s recovering.
Walking back to the car after a recent visit to the hospital, I noticed a teenager in a vehicle decorated with Young Drivers of Canada warning signs desperately trying to parallel park. If it had been a Smart car, it would have been OK, but placing a Toyota Corolla at a 90-degree angle to the curb is a fail. I know. Forty-eight years ago, I was that kid…
Mom: this one’s for you!
Kelowna, BC, Canada, 1976
In Canada in the ‘70s, you got your driver’s license on your sixteenth birthday. If your birthday was on a weekend or a statutory holiday, you had to wait until the next weekday, but it was punishable by harsh ridicule from your friends if you waited any longer than an extra day or two.
Driver’s licenses weren’t just handed out like they were in my Dad’s day. He simply bought his first one when he was sixteen, but of course, he’d been driving for a couple of years by then so if he was incompetent the entire village, including the person that handed out driving licenses, would have known.
Nope, in the ‘70s, there was a 20-question multiple-choice test before you could grab the wheel of your parents’ wheels. I had been taking theory lessons at Young Drivers of Canada (they still have the same logo but when I was learning they didn’t have huge illuminated signs on the roof to alert others on the road) and raced through the exam in less than a minute. The adjudicator had a piece of cardboard with holes that matched the correct answers on the quiz paper. None of the holes lined up with my answers.
“Oops!”
No, that wasn’t me, that was the clerk at the DMV. The cardboard cutout was upside down. He flipped it, I scored 20/20 and a nice, green cardboard learner’s permit was issued with my name on it.
One of my brothers was on a gap year in Europe, the other was somewhere with my Mother, so Dad took me out for Chinese food to celebrate my 16th. When we left the restaurant, he threw me the keys and said, “You have a driver’s license, you drive us home.”
Unfortunately, Mom had the Volvo that day, so we had the Rabbit.
Also unfortunately, the Rabbit had a manual transmission, so I stalled it 47 times on the way home. 46 of those times were because the railway crossing was on an incline. It was only a two-inch incline, but my fear of rolling back into the honking line of cars behind me was so great that I choked. So did the Rabbit. 46 times if you’re counting.
A week later, my driving lesson was in a car with a manual transmission. The teacher told me to turn left onto Kelview which was a steep hill.
Halfway up, the instructor pulled the emergency brake. The car choked and died. After I yelled, “What are you doing?”, it became quiet.
“Today, we’re going to practice starting on hills.”
(Good news for the kid I saw the other day, Kelview isn’t where it once was. I guess too many kids’ dreams of driving died on that hill, so they moved the road to a more manageable slope.)
He was an unorthodox instructor. Sometimes he would open the glove compartment and place a cup of coffee on it. My task was to drive so smoothly that his coffee didn’t spill. I can only imagine the court case if I’d spilled hot coffee on his crotch…
He had his ways, but he taught me to be an observant and competent driver.
The only thing he couldn’t teach me was parallel parking.
I wasn’t as bad as the kid I saw the other day, but I struggled to get the car at anything less than a 65-degree angle to the curb.
The instructor thought I should have a few more lessons but the three-week window was closing. Three weeks after you received your learner’s permit, you could take a road test and get your real license which was your ticket to freedom.
Naturally, three weeks to the day after I received my learner’s permit, I wanted to take the road test and get my real license.
“You’re not ready”, Mom said.
I knew she was right, but a teenager’s desire for freedom is a powerful calling.
Out of an abundance of caution, because it had an automatic transmission, I drove the Tank to the courthouse. I still had my learner’s license, so Mom accompanied me.
I tried to parallel park out front. After 87 unsuccessful attempts, I was at risk of missing my appointment.
“You’re not ready”, Mom said.
I drove around the corner onto Doyle Avenue and angle-parked outside the arena.
I don’t know where Mom went during the test. It was just me and an adjudicator in the car.
“I see you went to Young Drivers”, he said, as we were driving down Ellis. “They’re the best school. No one ever fails. It’s always hard to find a place to parallel park, so we’ll skip that and you can just drive around a bit.”
YES! The driving gods were with me! I could get my license and never have to learn to parallel park.
As we headed down Water Street back toward the courthouse, disaster struck.
“Oh, look! There’s a spot. You can park there.”
I was doomed.
I pulled up beside a Corvette convertible and thought as a lifelong pedestrian, I’d never drive one of those.
Then, something weird happened.
Images of Mom and other competent parallel parkers (Dad could even do it with a trailer hitched to the back of The Tank), appeared in my mind.
I reversed, swung the wheel one way, then the other, and then I stopped.
I think my eyes were closed the whole time.
DMV guy opened the passenger side door.
“Perfectly parallel. Two inches from the curb. I knew this was a waste of time!”
Before I perfected starting on inclines, I would watch my mom’s feet as she smoothly started every single time. That was a powerful motivator. If Mom could do it, I HAD to be able to do it.
It took a little longer to learn to parallel park, but she was invisibly there when I needed it most.
Thanks, Mom!
I don’t know if the kid I saw the other day has a Mom that motivates them like my Mom motivated me. I don’t know if they will ever learn to parallel park. Maybe they’ll just save up and get a car with the parking assist feature.
As for me, the perfect parallel parker, I’m looking forward to again having Mom as my backseat driver as soon as she’s released from rehab!
Stay safe, Always Care
Written with the clarity of hindsight, the accuracy of a faded memory, and countless creative liberties, 87 Stories is a journal of how my gap year lasted four decades, made me an emigrant, an immigrant and gave me a life I never dreamed of.
In addition to my love for writing, I’m an educator and a consultant with a passion for hotels, hospitality, and keeping people safe during their travels.
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Best wishes to your mother for a speedy recovery.
Your story brought up many memories of my experience learning to drive in that very same year. I was also trained by Young Drivers of Canada. My instructor must've thought I was an aspiring rally driver, because he took me on the curvy part of Glenmore Road North and made me practice "hitting the apex".
I've long forgotten how many times I had to practice starting on an uphill grade with a manual transmission, or parallel parking, but I think my numbers were similar to yours.
Great writing as usual, Paul. You are an accomplished storyteller!
Glad your mom is okay.