Coming of Age

THE FREEDOM RIDE

Driving has always been somewhat of an important event in my family. Ever since I can remember my dad has taken me for rides on his motorcycles, three-wheelers, or in his racecar. I can even remember one time when I was two years old that he let me drive our VW Bug. Of course I wasn’t actually driving. My chubby two-year-old legs struggled to maintain their balance on top of my dad’s knees while I carelessly and innocently swung the steering wheel from side to side, and my dad maneuvered his feet between the gas and the brakes. I can only imagine the horror my mom must have experienced when she looked out the kitchen window and saw me standing on the driver’s side of the Bug and the car veering chaotically from side to side across the road, with no regard for anybody else.

I had a lot of opportunities to have fun in cars with my dad. He owned several racecars, motorcycles, and even a few sports cars like a Corvette, and a 1968 Firebird Convertible – a car that I fell in love with as a young boy. That car was every teenager’s fantasy. It was cherry-apple red, with sleek curves, and a big block motor caged under the hood yearning to roar. This monument to power stayed with the family for several years. We had many joy rides with the top down, the wind going over our faces and through our hair. The meanest thing my dad ever did to me was keep that car long enough for me to love it – then sell it before I could drive.
Growing up on top of dirt bikes, three wheelers, racecars, and the Firebird had warped my sense of reality. Every young boy wants to be like his dad. My dad did amazing things with his cars. When I watched him on the racetrack I wanted to do what he did. A car was much more than a mode of transportation to me. I wanted to use the man-made wonder as an instrument the same way my dad did when he was driving.

When I finally began to drive (I was given a $100 Buick to drive) I was extremely disappointed with the process. My parents constantly nitpicked at every little thing I did. I thought things would be a certain way when I began driving, because of the background I had with the different cars our family had owned. But nothing turned out the way I had originally thought.
Driving was supposed to be a fun and exciting experience, instead my dad turned into Sherlock Holmes trying to solve the greatest crime mystery in the universe as he inspected every detail of my ability to drive. No matter what I did, there was always something wrong. I twitched while I was holding the steering wheel. I slowed down too early or too late. I didn’t put my blinker on in enough time. Constant criticism was a staple of driving with Ryan. Sometimes I wanted to release my frustrations after every little comment: “WELL I’M SORRY DETECTIVE, I DIDN’T REALIZE THE SAFETY OF THE NATION DEPENDED ON MY ABILITY TO USE MY TURN SIGNAL AT 500 FEET INSTEAD OF 300!!!”

After several years of driving, nothing much had changed. I just decided to drive less with my parents. I mean I was in my early twenties and had never been in an accident. I had gotten a couple of speeding tickets, but nothing major. And my parents still berated me when I got behind the wheel. When I decided to come to St. George for school, I had to borrow my parents’ car. (In fact, I had never owned my own car. I had always driven one of my parents’ cars.) After a couple of months my parents came to visit me. They lived in Blanding – if there really is a middle-of-nowhere then Blanding is the capitol. Driving in St. George is quite a bit different than Blanding.

We decided to run some errands, and I drove since I knew my way around better than them. I was driving a Chevy Cavalier. The deceiving checkered decals on both sides lied to my fellow drivers. The four cylinder engine was a gutless wonder. Somehow this vehicle defied logic, along with physics, and actually slowed down when I pushed on the gas pedal. As we traveled home from our errands, I decided to take the interstate. As I slowly and carefully feathered the throttle for optimal velocity on the onramp, I could feel the engine rhythmically lurching in an attempt to suck whatever power the gasoline could feed it. Surprisingly, the Cavalier sprung forward and accelerated at a decent clip to reach my desired speed of seventy-five miles per hour.

The stretch of interstate I had chosen to use was only a few miles long. The long semis clogged the transportation routes, and in an attempt to beat stoplights and other traffic, it becomes necessary to outrun the opponents. As I strategically sped past the semi-trucks and other participants on this freeway free-for-all, Sherlock Holmes returned in full-force. Without warning, my dad began his tirade on my speed and driving style.

“What the Hell are you doing?” My dad said.

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“You need to take care of this car! It has to last a long time! When you start making the payments you’ll understand.” His face distorted into a look of anger as he not-so-calmly let me know I was driving his car and needed to take better care of it.

“I’m only going seventy-five.” I replied.

“You’re romping on the throttle and weaving between cars – you’re going to get in an accident…or get a ticket!!”

“No I’m not!”

“Ryan!! Listen to me, and slow the DAMN car down!!!”

“Whatever.”

My grip on the wheel tightened, my knuckles turned white and the sweat increased in the small space between my palms and the black, worn, steering wheel. Of course he was right, how dare I drive ten-over the speed limit and pass the dinosaurs that were blocking my lane!!! What was I thinking?!!!!

After the shouts were exchanged and I submitted (for the moment) to his desires, in the interest of world peace of course, a tense silence overcame the Cavalier. There was nothing ‘cavalier’ about our attitudes at that point. The Cavalier was a pop can that had been shaken vigorously and about to explode. More words were said in the last two minutes of silence than in the five minutes of yelling.

This wasn’t the first argument with my parents. But it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Something clicked in my head. I was done. The charade was over. Just as we all must move on and separate ourselves from those we depend on. The time had come for me to go my own way. One month later, I was the proud owner of a 2000 Dodge Dakota Crew Cab truck – cherry-apple red with sleek curves of course. Six months later I moved out of my grandparents’ house and rented a room in a house with a few of my friends. There aren’t many people that find joy in paying car payments or sending out their rent checks. I am one of those people.
I still remember walking into the credit union after I had decided I wanted to buy the truck. This was my first experience applying for a loan. I thought I was going to make a fool of myself. As I slowly turned the corner after passing through the entrance, a nice woman named Rose asked if she could help me with anything. I clumsily mumbled a question regarding the place to go for a car loan. She assured me, in her thick Brazilian accent, that she would be able to help me. The process went smoothly. A few days later the truck was mine. I handed over a cashier’s check for seven-thousand dollars and the previous owner handed me his, I mean my, keys. Nothing compares to the sweet satisfaction of becoming an owner of a car or truck for the first time. Other people may own nicer cars, but a first-owned truck has an unseen value for its owner.

One month later, I drove my pride and joy down to the credit union and delivered my first payment. When I walked out after I was done, I took a deep breath “Welcome to the world Ryan.” I told myself. “Enjoy the Ride.” Every time I step out of my cherry-apple red truck and walk into the credit union, and I make it a point to make all of my payments in person, I am paying for my independence.

When my parents ride in the truck with me, there are still a few slips when they try to correct me in my driving ways. However, the truck is mine. No matter what anybody does or says, I am the true master. I make the final decisions on how to control the truck. The truck is so much more than a mode of transportation – it is my freedom.

The emancipation of children is difficult for parents and children. We grow up learning to listen and do everything our parents tell us. However there comes a time, for some it is earlier than others, when we realize we are not our parents and we have opinions of our own. All we can do is put our foot on the gas – and enjoy the ride.