Most of my friends saw learning to drive as a rite of passage. They asked for driving lessons for their 17th birthdays and were cruising around town in their third-hand bangers by 18. Not me.
I was never really that interested in driving; I saw it as a necessary evil. Plus, I lived in London. I would hop on buses, the tube, and grab lifts with my mates in said third-hand vehicles when required.
Then I found out I was going to be a dad, and everything changed. With my newfound parental responsibilities on the horizon, a move from the Big Smoke to somewhere far more suburban looked imminent. Somewhere more sparse in terms of public transport and doorstep amenities.
It became clear that I needed to learn to drive at 30. Time was not on my side.
I booked my theory test, studied here and there for around three weeks, and, to my surprise, passed on the first try. I bought myself a celebratory burger.
Then I booked a big batch of lessons with a local driving instructor. Within days, I was kangarooing a next-to-new Peugeot 208 Allure around the streets of Southgate, north London, wondering whether I’d ever get out of second gear.
Learning to drive in the UK, I soon discovered, is a pain in the backside. Even after passing my theory test, I had to take at least 35 to 45 hours of driving lessons to get up to scratch.
The day I passed (second time, with only two minors thank you very much), I felt a sense of relief, pride and contentment that I still can’t quite describe. My dad kindly sorted me out an odd-coloured first car, which I affectionately called “the Golden Nugget”. A few weeks later, I nervously took to the M1 with my son in tow – and embraced a whole new chapter.
It only took me a few months behind the wheel to shed my cynicism towards driving, and fall in love with the freedom and autonomy it gave me. Yes, I’ve sat in my fair share of sweaty traffic jams, and experienced my fair share of mechanical issues. But those quibbles are more than made up for by the adventures I’ve taken since passing my test.
Like weaving my way down to the Rame peninsula on an epic journey to south Cornwall from Stoke-on-Trent. Equal parts exhilarating and terrifying, when we finally saw the sea on the horizon, all my troubles melted away. I felt a real sense of achievement that day, and it made my ice-cream taste even sweeter.
Then there was the trip from county Durham to Oban, in the West Highlands, last year. I packed myself, my partner, her two kids, my son, and our labrador into the car, along with a few bags, and hit the road. On the last section of the drive, we hugged the contours of Loch Lomond as we rose further into the Highlands. We felt as if we were gliding along as we gazed at the lake and surrounding landscape in awe, the scenery growing more epic by the mile.
Towards the end of our jaunt to Oban, it really hit me that being able to drive means I can give my son and my partner’s children access to such memorable adventures. I was overcome by a real sense of pride in that moment (which was short-lived as one of the kids announced that they needed an emergency pee).
Perhaps my biggest driving adventure is now. What it lacks in grand vistas and dramatic turns, it more than makes up for in meaning. Aged 40, I now live in county Durham while my son is in Stoke-on-Trent. I spend a couple of days a week in Stoke, and he spends regular weekends and holiday time at our family home in county Durham.
We may spend large parts of the journey to and fro rolling along uninspiring sections of the M6, but we use them as bonding time. We play I-spy, talk about our days, and chant along to the Beatles as if we were members of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. One time, we even came up with the plot of a potential kids’ book idea featuring a talking bubble named Sammy.
He sees my partner’s children so often that they have become his siblings; we’ve become a family. It’s possible because I learned to drive in my 30s.
Find out more about driving for pleasure – and purpose – with Peugeot
