Driving Miss Crazy

13th Jun 2009

Driving Miss Crazy
Alan Ger

A lamp around the Driving Test centre on Sarsfield's Road any Sunday morning you'll see scores of erratically moving vehicles jolting erratically around the industrial area nearby. The sound of over-clutched roaring engines thunders through the still morning air.

Being a flah might help. A little.

Cars violently bopping about in mid-spasm like unruly mares in a holding pen conk out again and again - their nauseating petrol fumes fill the air and drift off on long journeys to melt another few centimetres of ice in Antarctica.

This cacophony of engines under stress is created by an unknowing choir of learner drivers desperate to rid themselves of the large red and white plates stuck to their windows that effectively says 'Mind me there lah - I can't drive properly'.

Driving tests are different to most other exams. You're not bothered about the score, the result is either a pass or a fail. There's no in-between or bonus 'Super Safe Mega Driver' award if you deliver a flawless performance. Passing means cheaper insurance and more road-cred. Failure means back to the drawing board and more expensive time consuming lessons.

In the beginning it may be wise to get lessons with a family member. The upside is that they can't charge you (unless things are really bad between you). The downside is that they are under no financial obligation to be diplomatic about your performance - or lack of it - therefore you are at acute risk of having your confidence shattered by an inconsiderate relative that ends up in a shouting match and pledge to never help with the garden again.

All smiles until they get to the South Ring and the Magic Roundabout and the domestic kicks off.

Males love showing their relatives how to drive. Teaching somebody how to operate a large complicated piece of machinery or any piece of technology triggers all sort of dopamine pleasure cells in the part of the brain that houses the macho alpha-male ego. Issuing orders to inferior beings is secretly everyone's desire (how oft do our thoughts and fancies dwell on Cork dominating the inferior Dublin citizen).

Meanwhile, as you continually fail to realise that being in first gear at 25mph begins to turn the engine into a fireworks display your older brother, father or uncle may decide on drastic action including yanking the handbrake up or opening his door and bailing out altogether.

Already terrified about your upcoming test this direct blow to your confidence may reduce you to Cork's answer to Driving Miss Daisy (except with the banks not giving credit for silly things anymore you can't afford Morgan Freeman or any other competent chauffeur to bus you around).

Finding a good driving instructor is not difficult but you need to get a recommendation from someone you trust rather than picking up the phonebook and playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

After giving just two lessons to her sister the stress turned young Denise McCarthy 's hair grey.

For the absolute beginner (read: road terrorist) some instructors have special cars with two sets of controls so in the event of an unexpectedly early midlife crisis striking as you make your debut on the Magic Roundabout your instructor can take over and drop you off at the nearest counselling centre or, depending on the severity of your condition, the pub.

Many overweight instructors spend long periods of time in stuffy vehicles and especially in stickier humid weather this can have an effect on your own performance unless you grew up within a few yards of a slurry pit.

Although it would be rude to insist that your instructor showers before your lesson it may be wise to take an early morning lesson rather than one after work on a muggy Friday evening when his armpits have spent hours brewing up an odour that could only be superseded by low tide in Kinsale harbour in blistering sunshine.

The handy thing about instructors is that they know all the driving test routes and all the little flaws that the examiners look out for. All your bad habits and quirks will be addressed but you shouldn't take the constant correction in your left ear personally: not actually stopping fully at stop signs, the exaggerated rear view mirror work and blowing the horn in a samba rhythm when you pass one of the lads from the hurling club out walking his dog.

Click here to check out Osama Bin Murphy's guide to driving in Cork

Suddenly slamming on the brakes, pulling your instructor out of the car by the blubber and committing acts of rage that gets your mug on Crime Call the following Tuesday night are likely to effect your license to drive in ways far more wide reaching than failing your driving test.

Not passing this once off examination can be a humbling experience. The infuriating thing about it is that you will know other people who've passed who aren't as dangerous as you. Like Johnny-No-Brains from work whose L-plates came down last year but still clips bumpers and wing mirrors everyday in the car park.

Watching boy racers with full licenses zig-zag their way out the City Link road at death-defying speed while you've spent the evening carefully practicing your exaggerated "check-wing-mirror, indicator on, look-over the-shoulder, pull-out-slowly-with-the-caution-of-a-neurosurgeon" routine, can require some lip biting patience but you've got to stick with it. Think of it as a performance in front of a highly critical audience. A very small one.

To those members of the First Time Club - and we'll assume for the sake of consistency that because of Corkonians' higher intelligence that our county has far more people who pass their test first time round than any other - we salute you. Our roads, car parks and Funderland dodgems are all the safer for your efforts.

To the rest of you keep up the acting classes and try to resist the temptation to doughnut the car instead of performing those laborious three-point-turns. Good luck and drive safe for all our sakes!