Yahoo News Like Nicola Sturgeon, I learnt to drive in midlife – here's what she needs to know
Like brushing your teeth, driving is one of those things you do without thinking – unless, like Nicola Sturgeon, you somehow missed the classic route of lessons at 17, a first-test fail followed by an easy pass a few weeks later. Indeed, Scotland’s outgoing First Minister sacked off learning to drive in favour of following her political dreams.
Speaking to the BBC’s Nicola Sturgeon Podcast, her friend Ricky Bell said, “You don’t need driving lessons if you are going to be chauffeur-driven about as the First Minister. She said to me many years ago she didn’t want to sit her driving test in case she failed, because up until that point in her life she had never failed an exam.”
That was until last week when, aged 52, Sturgeon announced she’s finally willing to risk it, and is learning how to drive, describing it as “a bit of personal freedom”. I’m exactly the same age as the former First Minister, and I passed my test five years ago, aged 47, after several decades of false starts, disappointing fails and crippling anxiety.
Unlike the blithe 17-year-olds who breeze through 10 lessons then head for the motorway, for me, driving a car felt as terrifying as piloting a Spitfire over the Channel. Coordinating the wheel, gears, pedals and mirrors seemed as complex as a Pink Floyd drum solo.
At 46, I had already failed my test four times. I first had lessons aged 17, but my instructor was sexist, bloke-ish and not minded to reassure a terrified teenager. I stalled so often I’d have done better in a homemade go-kart. After three agonising lessons, I gave up.
My next attempt was when I had a young family and lived in a busy area of Trafford in Manchester. My instructor was female (a deliberate choice) and very chatty. We spent a lot of time discussing her difficult boyfriend, but while our friendship flourished, my driving didn’t.
She believed I was ready for my test, but on the day, I was so flooded with adrenaline I failed to look before pulling out of the test centre, so failed before the test had begun. The second time, I was at a junction featuring multiple traffic lights when I panicked, pulled into a yellow box and got stuck. The examiner had to shout “Move now!” – another grim fail, swiftly followed by a third. Filled with self-recrimination, I then gave up for 10 years – until I started a job near Liverpool and realised how nightmarish the daily train commute could be.
I found a jolly Scouser who told me he’d get me through my test if it killed him – “and frankly, love, it might”, I thought. This time I finally felt I might be able to do it – until I was made redundant. My confidence was battered. I was in my mid-40s, and the idea of trying again, with yet another instructor, was like being expected to get to Grade eight piano when I was mired at the Chopsticks level.
Forced to learn
But at 46, I moved to remote rural Scotland to live with my partner (now husband) Andy. We were 15 miles from the nearest shops, with no public transport, and driving wasn’t just desirable, but essential. This time, I had no choice. If I was going to be with Andy, I couldn’t condemn him to a lifetime of ferrying me about like an elderly aunt. I found a patient driving instructor and commenced lessons.
I’d like to say that my renewed focus had improved things, but I was still shockingly poor. I couldn’t understand how to reverse around a corner until Andy bought me a toy truck with articulated wheels to demonstrate, and once, driving home down a winding loch road with Andy supervising, it began to rain heavily. I burst into tears with fright and had to pull over.
None of it boded well, and unsurprisingly, I was so nervous during my eventual test that I forgot to check my mirrors, and failed, despite the test centre being in our tiny town. In the past, I’d have quit, again. But this time, I didn’t have a choice – I just had to keep going until I could master my nerves. By the next test, I had revised hard; I’d watched a hundred videos of engine parts, and practiced reversing until I could dock a spaceship on a sixpence.
The moment the examiner climbed into the car, however, my heart rate shot up. The anxiety was as bad as ever, and for the first half of the test, I clunked around corners and crunched gears. “Pull over,” he said. I thought he was going to tell me that I’d failed. “You seem very nervous,” he said. “Would you be happier if we chatted?” I said I would, and he, immensely kindly, talked to me about fancy dress parties until the test was over. He said he was pleased to tell me that I’d passed, and for a few moments, I didn’t believe him.
Five years on, I am now happy to drive all over the local area. I can pick up my son from the station, take the dogs to the vet, or go shopping in Oban 40 miles away. I enjoy the time to myself in the car with the radio on, and though I’ve so far had no reason to drive on motorways, I intend to master it.
