F.A.S.T

My first driving experience was when I was fifteen years old, freshly permitted and confident in my abilities, if a bit nervous. My family drove a lot, and I had been driving since I was two. Admittedly, it mostly involved sitting in my dad’s lap and turning the wheel under his guidance, but I had experience, I thought. And sure, I didn’t expect to know everything, but I did expect to be fairly capable behind the wheel. Within the first fifteen minutes of my lesson, however, I was thoroughly convinced that, not only did I not know what I was doing, but that I was the worst driver on the planet and would never improve and that it was better for all involved if I was to quit right then and there. This impression was aided by my instructor, a bleached-blonde woman who gave her instructions in as loud of a voice as she could possibly manage.
“Did you check your MIRRORS?”
“Did you see that BICYCLE!?”
“STOP!?!!@#!@#”
The lesson was two hours long, but felt more like an eternity. For everything I did, the teacher seemed to have a correction to be made.
While leaving from a stop sign: “You can accelerate a bit faster, you know. Someone might get road rage and pull you over to shoot you.”
While heading downhill, “It’s certainly a good thing I have this brake on my side, or we’d be in a world of trouble!”
While heading in a curve up a hill: “Are you going fifteen miles an hour? Take your foot off the gas! We’re going too fast. We could crash.”
While on a multi-lane road: “Don’t look over your shoulder when changing lanes! What happens if you take your eyes off the road in front of you?”
And that wasn’t even the least of it. By the end of my first two hours on the road as an official driver, and when I finally stopped to meet my parents, I was shaky, weak, terrified, convinced I was going to kill someone, and so promptly stumbled out of the car to cry into the shoulder of my baffled father.
“What happened?” he asked my instructor.
“Oh, nothing. That’s a normal reaction,” she replied airily.
That was my first driving experience. And, for several months after that, my last. I refused to get behind the wheel. The mere thought of it made me quake in terror, and whenever I did take control of a car, some silly mistake would have me pulling over and breaking down in tears, because I was convinced it meant I would never learn and was completely incapable of driving.
Eventually, I did consent to drive again. It took some time: at least six months. Then, reluctantly, I consented to drive with a different driving instructor—the scary woman had been fired. She was better, but I was still nervous behind the wheel. But I took my last two lessons with her, and, because I was now sixteen and a half, took my license test.
And failed. Didn’t stop on a right turn on red. Oops.
I was pretty distraught. A lot of my friends had their licenses. I was the odd person out of the bunch. It also didn’t help to confirm the impression that I really couldn’t drive: because, if I could, I would obviously have a license. My permit expired, but I didn’t renew it until my parents, eventually, convinced me to drive again. It wasn’t easy. But I did as they asked, practiced driving a little, then took my test.
And failed again. This time, for almost really running a red light. I can still remember my teacher’s flailing moments as he yelled “STOP!”
He was a nice guy. I can’t remember his name, but he was too tall for the little car I tested in, and so had to hunch his shoulders to fit. He let me continue the test, in spite of the disaster. I wasn’t nervous anymore, so I did fine. What did I have to lose? I had already failed. So by the time we arrived back in the parking lot, he turned to me.
“You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he asked. I just nodded. I was numb at this point. He smiled at me, patted me on the shoulder, and we got out of the car.
“She drives fine,” he told my mother, who knew by my strained expression that I hadn’t passed. “She just needs some confidence.”
Yeah. How reassuring.
But here’s a funny fact about this story: he was right. Two months later, I retook my test, and passed. I got my license. And now I haven’t gotten into an accident nor gotten a ticket yet. What was the difference? Well, I got better teachers. I went to Skip Barber’s High Performance Racing School, where I learned how to handle a car while hydroplaning, how to stop from spinning out if going too fast, how to deal with and recognize over and understeer, and how to stop quickly. I learned that I could drive, did know how to handle a car, and wasn’t going to kill anyone if I drove.
The difference in teaching was phenomenal. Now, I am the first to admit that my first teacher was horrible. But it wasn’t just her. What is taught in driver’s training right now is how to be afraid. They view that as the method to make a point. Be afraid of dying if you go too slow. Be afraid if you go too fast, because everything you can do wrong might kill you. This isn’t inaccurate, but to a young, afraid teen, that isn’t the best thing to tell them. Instead, why not tell them how to survive? This was the difference between Skip Barber and my regular driver’s training. In driver’s training, I was taught all the things that I could do that would kill me. In Skip Barber, I was taught all the things I could do to survive. There isn’t enough of that nowadays.
That is why I’ve started F.A.S.T—Fighting Against Scare Tactics. Check it out on Facebook—there’s more information there. To advocate against instilling this fear of dying that currently passes for educating drivers, and to fight instead for better teaching methods and educating teens on how to drive safely in the California licensing system. Take a look, ask some questions. Together, we can help teens stop being afraid of driving, just like I was.

In the Beginning

Hello! My name is Sara, and I am doing book reviews for the character inclined.

I've been thinking about this for a while, ever since I decided that I was tired of being labelled as "single" on Facebook. And, after reading Blogging Twilight (which I'll post the link at the bottom, by the way, because it is one of the most hilarious things I've ever read), I've decided to carry through with my crazy idea.

What is this idea? To write book reviews as if I was dating the leading male.

Or, if I really can't STAND him/there isn't one, I will simply write a quick book review on the goods and the bads.

I'll start with Jane Eyre, which I'm mostly through, and will move on to any book that people suggest--save Westerns. Just no, please. But this does include teen books, romance novels, fantasy, comic books, autobiographies...ANYTHING. Just give poor Sara something to reead!

How is this possible? Well, my job involves a LOT of down time, and happens to be right down the street from a bookstore. Opportunities, anyone?

If interested, just send me a book, or start doing it yourself! I can't wait to see how this goes. Hope to hear from you all soon!