Driving Lessons

an auto-biography

This story was written for the exhibition ‘202123456’ curated by Archie Fooks-Smith. It featured several artists and writers who were invited to respond to the theme of the years 2021-2026. It took place at Alfie’s Antiques Market from 18-20 June 2026 and was supported by Bolding. All the texts can be read here: https://202123456.blogspot.com/

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I had my driving test booked for 21 January 2021. About two weeks before, my instructor, Rocky, called me to let me know I wouldn’t be able to use his car to take the test. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough, though I wasn’t. He had been happy to let me wing it. That was his teaching philosophy. His first piece of advice, as I wove us through the busy roads of Finsbury Park and Camden Town a few minutes into my first ever lesson, had been to try not to grip the steering wheel so tightly. Then he told me to pull over, and popped out to pick up some chicken and chips which he ate while I continued to drive the car.

For a quick learner this is a great approach, and after few lessons we were ready for the motorway. I got us up to about 60mph and he said to put it into fifth. I began looking for it on the gearstick, but he told me to keep my eyes on the road. When I changed gear the car made an awful metallic grating sound. ‘That’s reverse’, he said. In a flash I corrected myself, with the lightning-quick reflexes of a Formula One driver.

Unfortunately Rocky was involved in a road traffic accident shortly before my test day. He was laid up in hospital in a whole body cast, but still managed to send along a few cheerful Whatsapp messages. It wasn’t his fault, I hasten to add. Really wasn’t – a car had opened its door in front of him while he was riding his bike and he’d gone over the top.

The replacement teacher he recommended, Angela, had a different philosophy and a different kind of car which she didn’t think I was ready to take the test in. As for me, I was disturbed by the claw-like shape of her hands. So I missed my test and the lessons petered out after I moved to a different part of London. After that I was in auto-limbo. My dad said I could practise in his car, which was made in 1964, has no seatbelts, and had the front seat stuck at a position so far back that I could only reach the pedals with the very tips of my toes, while the leather backrest was locked at maximum recline, so I was lying almost flat on my back, barely able to see above the speedometer. I think even my dad was frightened by our cruise, although passers-by cheered us on when they saw the red L-plates on the old girl.

Then followed mere bicycling till 2024 when I took a day course that qualified me to ride a 125cc motorbike for two years. Though small, mine is a beautiful machine which got me up to sixty for the second time in my life on the road to Margate. On the return journey I was feeling relaxed after a couple of hours in the beach sauna. I managed to end up on a fast motorway which strictly speaking I wasn’t allowed to be on with my license type. One driver drew up next to me and pulled his finger across his neck to signal death. My grip on the handlebars was too firm to give him the finger at that time.

I had to put the bike away before embarking on the proper motorcycle test, because for an unlicensed, unmarried male graduate student in a flatshare the monthly insurance premium can be steep. So from 2021 to 2026 I can say that I have failed to learn to drive. But life is a journey, not a destination. Like other events that have taken place during these years, this is not the end of the story. In fact, I daresay this is only the beginning.