Should I drive a muscle car?

I’m not real old, but old enough to remember learning to drive a stick shift.  The best friend of my now husband, then boyfriend, offered to teach me.  He had his grandparents’ indestructible, in theory, 1950 Oldsmobile 88.  I thought it looked like a lunker.  My boyfriend thought his friend was not-so-slyly trying to move in on his girl.  I think it’s sweet that he is retro-jealous.

Not quite the one I learned in, but a cute pic

Now it should be noted that I am not an auto aficionado.  I do like cute cars, fast cars, funky cars and I adore old-school muscle cars.  The car I learned to drive in falls into the latter category.  The ‘50 Olds rolled off the line as the first factory hot-rod.  Muscle-car-mania was born with a Rocket V-8 powerhouse engine…and three on the column.

The hipness of the car itself needs to be set aside.  I didn’t know how to drive, let alone push a clutch in and make my way, totally clueless, with a column pattern of elusive hidden gears.

My boyfriend’s best friend and I headed out to the country roads outside of Redmond.  We changed seats and I was given basic instructions.  Easing on the gas pedal while trying to let out the clutch, the car got jiggy like a wild horse being let out of the shoot, flinging the rider in rag-doll fashion.  Our heads snapped so hard we probably should have worn a neck brace for the next six weeks, but we were young and continued on…in first gear.

Not wanting to be left in the dust, it was time to repeat step one to slip into second gear:  push in the clutch, give the Olds some gas and find the gear.  What I managed to do was create a noise that I am sure was the gears way of complaining that I had no idea what I was doing…which was quite true.

Now the roads in Central Oregon tend to be straight, framing the parcels of farmland checkerboarding the area.  All was going rather well until I needed to make a right hand turn.  This required engaging the clutch, finding that nowhere-to-be-found lower gear, braking, turning and remembering to put the signal on.  Did I mention there was the irrigation ditch and wooden fence post?  This moment had all the ingredients for a fiasco …this is my boyfriend’s best friend’s grandparents’ car.  Part way through the oh, so treacherous turn I slammed on the brakes, killing the engine, but avoiding a monumental debacle.

After breathing a nervous laugh, the driving lesson ended for the day.  This fresh would-be driver had hopscotched down the road, having ground the gears of America’s first factory built muscle car.  As I think about it, there’s also the story of driving another friend’s bumblebee yellow corvette.  It was an automatic…no clutch required, just squealing down the highway when the brake is mistaken for the clutch...

Should I drive a muscle car? Missy

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