Story time:
The first time I took my driving test, the evaluator said ‘pull out of your parking space’, which I did very precisely, stopping at the street where the test started.
Then he said ‘turn right at this street’, so I did – and made the semi-truck coming down that road lay on his horn a bounce a bit to avoid hitting me. I failed before we even started.
I was so focussed on his instructions that I lost all situational awareness.
I took more classes, then spent a few years as a delivery driver, so I actually learnt to be a very good driver. But my first test was abysmal.
High school driver’s ed. I’m behind the wheel of a 1985 Ford Tempo, instructor next to me, two other kids in the back. Instructor is giving me turn by turn where to go.
I suss out pretty quickly that he’s taking us to The Rickety Bridge. My dad used to drive us over it all the time. This was a very long one lane bridge over a huge railroad siding, with a steep ramp up to it and a steep ramp down. The bridge surface was loose railroad ties. There were no guardrails. You couldn’t actually see the bridge on the approach.
*Okay, turn right." Yup, there it is. I hit that fucker at 30 MPH. The instructor had one hand on the roof, the other on the dash, and both feet jammed to the floor. He must have forgotten he had a brake pedal over there. The kids in the back were somehow both entirely on the floor. It was a good thirty seconds before we came down the other side.
“Which way did you want me to turn now?”
It was another kid’s turn at that point.