“There are a lot of idiots on the road … I mean, uneducated people, unaware of their surroundings,” Umar, my driving examiner, corrects himself. If he means clueless chumps like me, he’s right either way. I passed my driving test, first attempt, age 17, and drove regularly until I moved to London in my late 20s. But driving is like riding a bike, right? You never forget. Or so I thought. Under scrutiny 30 years later, it appears I’ve certainly forgotten some vital rules of the road. Like how to parallel park, check for blind spots and avoid crashing into e-scooters that weren’t even invented in my day.
I’ve decided to put myself to trial with a mock driving test because with all the recent news about the dangers of younger drivers, I’ve come to suspect older drivers like me are getting off easy. The AA has called for new drivers under 21 to be banned from carrying passengers of a similar age, while previous governments have suggested banning them from driving at night or using a six-points-in-two-years-and-you’re-out graduate driving licence scheme. This seems harsh. Driving your friends around after passing is a teenage rite of passage. The evening I passed my test, I was elbow out the window of my mum’s Mk 1 1974 metallic purple Escort, tunes on the stereo, mates in the back, cruisin’ round town like a pro.
Sure, there were teenage driving mishaps. Like the time two friends and I drove a red Fiesta belonging to one of their mums past all the “do not drive your car on to the beach signs” at Croyde Bay in Devon, got stuck and watched it float away when the tide came in. But that could happen to anybody. In the years since, I’ve just hired a car when need be, confident that 30 years’ driving experience is adequate to get me from A to B, without ending up in the sea.
Now that confidence will be tested. Umar introduces me to the concept of “Kusa”, as I politely ask where the clutch is. (I’ve never driven an automatic like his VW Polo before.) “Knowledge. Understanding. Skill. Attitude.” I hope that’s all there is to remember. But there are more acronyms to come. He reminds me first to “be normal, be happy and be safe … ”, then to “Pom”. P for prepare. Put my foot on the brake, the car into drive, and prepare to release the handbrake. O for observation. Check my left blind spot, left wing mirror, rear view mirror, front window, and right wing mirror. M for move. Indicate, turn the wheel, release the handbrake, and smoothly pull out. Except I forget to check my right blind spot, “which is a fail right there”. Ooops.
Umar seems to chalk this up to my particular personal style: “You just drive how you drive,” he says. I vaguely remember I should be feeding the wheel at 10 and 2, rather than steering with one hand so I can eat a sandwich, drink a coffee, fiddle with the stereo and – should I wish – wave at people to show off that I can drive one-handed with the other.
“At the roundabout, take the third exit.” says Umar, as I drive down what I had no idea was a 20mph road at 27mph. I accidentally take the fourth, so am directed round the block to have another go. “Twice, when you came off the roundabout, you didn’t check your mirrors and blind spots for cyclists or e-scooters,” says Umar. “That’s another fail. There’s a certain protocol you need to follow – MSPSLADA – mirror, signal, position, speed, look, access, decide …” oh, for goodness’ sake, man, will you let me concentrate on trying to drive.
After a couple more insignificantly minuscule mishaps Umar puts my final score at, well, failing my test on four counts: failing to check my blind spot when pulling out, failing to check my mirrors and blind spot at a roundabout, stopping halfway over a pedestrian crossing and mounting the kerb while parallel parking.
And that’s without even mentioning the multiple choice theory test, which I never had to take first time around (the separate theory test was introduced in 1996), and I’ve now bombed at a rubbish 37 out of 50 (the pass rate is 43). “Why is a toucan crossing different from a puffin crossing?”. When I mention the question, Umar informs me there are actually five types of different crossing, “zebra, pelican, puffin, toucan, pegasus…”. If he’s got an acronym for that, I think I’ll scream.
It’s certainly been interesting. It was only a mock test, so I still have my licence and am free to drive. It makes me suspect many other adult drivers would end up the same as me. “Everyone should have to re-do their licence every 10 years,” reasons Umar, and I think I’ve just proved him right. Clearly, I’m a driving menace and should be taken off the road immediately. Any chance of a lift?
Rich Pelley is a freelance writer
