A Gut-Wrenching Confession

If you're interested in the whole sordid disaster, this is it! Shake, Rattle and Roll, without the big band, was what happened to me this morning. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try or work at something, it fails. Coming to terms with failure and moving on is a learning curve I have learnt. It's difficult.

“If only. Those must be the two saddest words in the world.” ― Mercedes Lackey.

I am sad and disappointed. A huge rock has lodged itself in my throat, not my chest. In fact, it’s crushing me.

Determined to be cool, calm and collected, I set off this morning to take my driving test for the Honey Badger. I have practised and practised. I have read the driver’s manual. I took to the wheel and did all my manoeuvres, saying out loud Blind spot, mirror, mirror, mirror, and blind spot.

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Yesterday I was the designated driver; I happily obliged. I pulled away perfectly, reversed seamlessly, and thought (with reservations) that I’d got this. I parked the HB in the shed, despite the tight squeeze. Before bed, I swallowed two Myprodols and rubbed Voltaren gel all over my neck for the head turning. Forewarned is forearmed. Butch's video of my "precursor" speaks for itself. The driving instructor/cameraman was very jolly after lunch yesterday when I did my "precursor".

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I rehearsed the route while walking on the treadmill this morning, doing a record 2.8 km in my allotted time before hopping onto my bike. I repeated the route in my mind’s eye, making sure I kept my eye on the road, not the gear lever, and kept my hands on the steering wheel at all times unless I had to change gears, of course. Never has a 45-minute spinning class flashed past me so quickly.

My daily routine sped up; I quickly got ready for my appointment with the traffic department. I made sure my hair was tied back securely to prevent any hair from blowing into my eyes as I stuck my head out to check the blind spot. I massaged the last good blob of Voltaren gel onto my neck for good measure, in case of an unexpected crick, and made sure my specs were crystal clear. I took two blasts of antihistamine in each nostril in case I sneezed and needed to blow my nose. Finally, I bit the bullet and wore sensible lace-up shoes to prevent my foot from slipping off the pedals. I couldn't be any more ready.

Half an hour ahead of schedule, my sweet instructor Deno and I walked the route; he explained every move and exactly what I had to do. Looking back now, I think that’s when my fear stepped in too, although at the back of my mind I was sure I’d manage.

I waited patiently for my name to be called, completed the necessary paperwork, and headed outside to the waiting truck. When my bladder announced itself, I had a premonition, but I shrugged it off. I had been warned the officers would be very officious, so I wasn't at all surprised by the chilly reception I received. No one greeted me as I stepped into the office to have the paperwork prepared. Officer Visagie explained what was expected, and off I went. I heard him and understood his instructions. I should've known.

Rattling off the vehicle checklist was fine. I set off. Around the arena I went, up the hill, no stalling as I set off, down the hill, the vehicle didn’t budge when I took my foot off the brake, and in neutral it relied on the handbrake beautifully. My straight reverse went swimmingly, and so it was time for the last hurdle before I had to go on the “big” road.

All I had to do was reverse the truck around a corner and into a demarcated parking bay, with blue markers marking the area. No rolling forward was allowed, and, of course, no driving into the posts. Full of confidence, I set off. With my head sticking out of the window, I cruised backwards, slowly, turning the steering wheel two rotations, then checking the mirrors. All that was fine. It was straight backwards, home and dry. My neck was working like a charm, no pain.

And then. My body seized up. My legs began to shake uncontrollably; my hands shook. Sweat beaded on my top lip. That was the end of my reverse. I stalled the truck between poles one and two. Only two to go. I turned the key to start up again and lurched forward. That was the end of that.

Officer Visagie tried to be sympathetic, but by then I thought I’d throw up. When pins and needles set in, I thought I might have had a stroke. That at least would be a plausible explanation.

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And so I must go through the whole rigmarole again. Back to the eye test, sitting in the queue for hours to make the appointment, and so it goes on and on.

Where was the confidence I had 44 years ago when I got my driving licence? I did it without looking at a book, clad in a bikini with shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops. My friend Hans and I dashed off to Bellville, and within 15 minutes I had my licence. One must do these things when you’re young and fearless.

I do not handle failure like a pro. I agonise about it for a (long) while until I can swallow my pride. No amount of molly-coddling will help. This is when one gets back into the saddle, hurt pride and all, and I can hear my parents say, 'Oh well.' 

Butch has been extremely kind and even took me for a coffee. That helped—just a teeny-weeny bit, for a little while. I must confess I am finding it hard to eat humble pie today.

I am really gutted and sad, and afraid. Will I ever get it right? Thank you to everyone for the lovely messages and good luck wishes. You all remembered 11/11; I am humbled and grateful. You’ll have to do it all again! Deno and I have a class set for Thursday. I am going to reverse until I can do it blindfolded.

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“Disappointment is a sort of bankruptcy - the bankruptcy of a soul that expends too much on hope and expectation.” ― Eric Hoffer.

Dianne said, "Sometimes one needs a bit of help. Brandy works a treat." Hilarious. I don't think Officer Visagie would've been too impressed.