The whole world waited and watched with bated breath as I first released the handbrake to my left, then the clutch pedal beneath my foot. As the Honda Civic started lurching forward upon reaching the “biting point”, better known to the male species as the sweet spot for some strange reason, I knew that was it. I’m done with the theory and down to the hands-on! That half an hour of shaky steering resulting in the helter skelter movement of the car was the best half hour of my life yet! (Besides the very first time we jammed at Wee Lee as a complete band) It seemed like forever as I was going round and round the same route but to me I felt like I’ve traversed great deserts and vast oceans to have come thus far. Let’s just say some people have stronger bonds with machines than other people.
It seems that working with an M113 armoured personnel carrier for 6 months of my life back in Sungei Gedong actually helps the way I manoevre its way lighter and air conditioned (gasp =Þ) distant cousin. Steering a modern Class 3 vehicle requires relatively less strength due to the power steering mechanism, according to my bro Yiwei. Of course it is unfair to compare the Civic to a post-World War relic. Especially when the former is air conditioned. But there’s the similarities, like the way the gears function, how at Neutral position the vehicles don’t move for example; and how the vehicles jerk when a change of gear is too abrupt; and most importantly the way to bring them to a stop without rearranging the way passengers at the rear are seated (snigger). That’s about the end of the common traits. What is different is how while the car has a steering wheel, the M113 uses a pair of metal bars that double up as the brakes (tug left- turn left, tug right-turn right, tug both- stop, tug none- are ya outta ya mind?!). There is no need to step on a clutch pedal to change gears for M113, we just push the gear stick in the right place, but the manual car requires more expertise. What I find the most shameful about their differences, needless to say, is their ventilation systems. While the car has adjustable flaps to channel cold air from face to torso (and all is good cool air), the M113 has a pathetic plastic fan blowing at where else but the driver’s crotch when driving open hatched. And we shouldn’t complain. Sometimes even that spoils and we’d wished we had done our bit for infertile couples by “donating” at the local hospital before tragedy struck.
Even now Mr Cheng, my instructor’s words occur in my head:
“Hit-clutch-release-accelerator!” sputtered out in under one second.
“Roll to a stop behind the line…Too far NOW TOO NEAR-- OWW!! EASY ON THE BRAKES!! ” on how the clutch should be depressed first then the brakes, or the consequences as mentioned.
and
“OK now play with the clutch, ONE TWO THREE FOUR FOUR THREE TWO ONE, and GO!”, commands my aerobic teacher.
and who can forget,
“…Stop beside this road, ah, OK now to the left of the coffeeshop got ATM…Go draw the money for this session’s fee, go go I wait you here”
But I like him. Cheerful guy who can
i) Joke about how I fare better than his other students when he is the one who leans over to control the steering wheel when we reach the bends,
ii) Say that I am handsome while keeping a straight face,
iii) Show me the photos of his first time passing students right after collecting the payment thereby justifying my choice of instructors and the momentary heartache as I parted with cash made from calling up people just to get scolded,
iv) Remain energetic after a whole day of repetitive babysitting.
Most of all:
v) Do all of the above while saving the world from yet another errant newbie driver from hurting the nearest tree, or even worse, the post box which will then send unsent letters fluttering all over the neighbourhood. Hence the proverbial term, air mail.
The feeling of cruising around in a vehicle that provides added protection against the wind, rain, heat and of course, those bloody dengue-inducing mosquitoes, is in a word – transcendental. (It helps that Mr Cheng was partially holding the steering wheel while helping to man the mirrors, turning around to check my blind spot, almost changing the gear for me after I depressed the clutch, reminding me to activate and cancel signals and helping me watch out for red lights.)
Now to the events leading to this exhilarating experience: I had quite a good day at tele-surveying today under Doreen who’s nice to us Hong Kong-ers (and of course to Singapore-ers as well), having brushed up skills to deal with difficult ladies who are unwilling to disclose much needed information to complete our project. Lunch was strange, as it was a Subway Italian BMT with onions, cucumbers and capsicums and pickles (I was pointing to the capsicums when this unwanted component made its way into the warm embrace of the parmesan oregano bun) with mustard and... more mustard. Honey mustard. Thanks to Shiuan Shiuan who educated me on the other sauces available – BBQ, vinegarette, mayonnaise etc. It tasted strange, like sour then sour and sweet. All filler no killer! Caryn looked like a business woman today, predominantly pink business woman. Spunky.
Then I had a revision of one of life’s very first lessons over dinner: never judge the book by its cover. I spent an unbearable 3 minutes of my life withstanding the suffocating smell of second hand smoke from this semi-old guy who apparently had contracted the “smoker’s cough”, ha ha no surprise there. Amidst measures to avoid tables with smokers and not sitting in the windward direction of them, I came to this table with a kind looking greying man having dinner and I asked him if I could join. Given his blessings, I then proceeded to have my cai peng (vegetable rice) plugged in to Lush 99.5FM. After he was done, he fumbled for a while under the table and to my horror, brandished that dreaded stick of doom right in front of my very eyes, and I couldn’t describe the destitute as he puffed away and left the wisps of grey trailing in the wind, towards my poor being.
Ruminations in the grey area: Not all who smoke are bad, not all who don’t smoke are good. But one thing’s for sure: all those who smoke in public without consideration for other non-smokers deserve to smoke… something else (“like my cigar”, says my sergeant who banned the platoon from smoking once and they begged for leniency and got offered “alternatives”).
All in all, what a day! The next lesson is in 6 hours! Snooze!
Listening to: Nirvana’s Nevermind when typing.
Special melody-stuck-in-head-can’t-get-out-tune: Come As You Are
Great pity that their reign lasted so briefly; a flash in the pan.
And grunge was born.
