Too Many Roundabouts

I believe myself to be one of the most expensively educated drivers in Scotland. When I finally passed my test, I felt a little sorry for my driving instructor: I'd suddenly dried up a huge source of his income. Still, I'll bet the amount of money he saved on gin and aspirin after he parted company with me went some way towards compensating for the loss.

Having a learner's sticker on our car got to be so embarrassing. "Is your daughter already learning to drive?" people would ask me. "Is she actually old enough?" And no, she wasn't anywhere near old enough, though at one point I figured we might as well leave the sticker there until she was: I started lessons when she was twelve and proudly peeled off that sticker shortly after her 15th birthday.

One of the reasons it took me so long to learn is that I refused to listen to the wisdom of the ages (and all my women friends) and allowed my husband to give me my first few lessons. This put us both off the idea of getting me licensed for years. But I’m also an unapologetic greenie. So even though I come from California, where not having a driver’s license is like not having running water, I’ve resisted learning how to drive for decades. I’m a great believer in using public transport, walking and cycling. All my life I’ve gotten around on buses, trains, trams, bicycles and subways – and Shank’s mare.

When we moved to a small town in Scotland, though, I knew I’d finally have to crack. I made it plain to my kids that even if I did pass my test that didn’t mean I would ferry them places they could just as easily walk to. After this face-saving gesture, I signed up for driving lessons. I figured I’d have my license in a couple of months, tops.

The first inkling I had that it might take longer was on my second lesson, when I was told to turn right at the roundabout. The problem was, I did. Turn right, that is. I don’t mean that I turned left onto the roundabout and then exited on the right, but rather that I executed a right turn into the roundabout, eliciting my instructor’s screams and speedy use of the dual control steering. In my own defence, I did exactly what he told me to do; it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t get the underlying concept.

Once I got the basic idea, I still had the problem of figuring out ‘left,’ ‘right’ and ‘straight ahead’ – especially when there were more than three exits. Directions have always been a problem for me: I got lost on my way home from kindergarten, which was only a block away from our house. As a child, before shaking hands I had to do a quick mental check of which hand I used when I wrote my name. I’ve since gotten over my early dyslexia, but roundabouts helped me revisit it. My driving instructor learned to issue clear, slowly enunciated instructions to me: "Turn left onto this next roundabout, then take the third exit."

I had dozens and dozens of lessons. I drove on icy streets, through snow, and over flooded country lanes. We idled on rural roads waiting for cattle and sheep to get out of the way, and in the evenings, when I learned how to emergency brake for badgers, foxes and deer. And there is one particular corner in Dumfries that really should be named after me considering the hours I spent there – and the fact that I first successfully backed around its curve. But still I was not ready to pass my test. Roundabouts – that’s what was holding me up.

All I had to do was see a roundabout up ahead – or that horrible, telltale roundabout sign – for my heart to fill with terror. When to enter? When to exit? Which way to look? It’s no big deal now, but back then, roundabouts made every driving a lesson a misery.

At some point my driving instructor decided that I ought to take my road test in Lanark and not Dumfries due to the fact that there were fewer roundabouts in Lanark. I was all for this, of course, but during one of my subsequent lessons, I was confused to hear my instructor say that the good thing about Lanark was that it had too many roundabouts.

Having spent two hours a week with my instructor for the better part of three years, I flattered myself that I could finally understand his toned-down Glaswegian dialect. But when he told me that all I had to worry about in Lanark was too many roundabouts, I suddenly felt like we were back to square one. I’d been doing so well up until then, both with my driving and my understanding of his spoken directions, that I hardly dared question him about this. Then he said it again and I just had to ask.

"I thought that we were going to Lanark because there weren’t so many roundabouts there," I ventured. He agreed: quite right, so we were. "But you just said that there are a lot of them there. Roundabouts, I mean." My instructor gave me a sidelong glance. "I never said that."

I frowned. "You did, though, you said so just now."

A long awkward silence followed, then my instructor spoke again in a father-to-idiot- daughter voice. "What I said was that in Lanark there aren’t very many roundabouts at all. That’s why we’re going there and not Dumfries."

We drove along in sullen silence for a few moments. From the way we were quarrelling, my instructor and I might as well be married, so no wonder I was starting to regress.

"Look," he said a little shortly, breaking the strained silence, "there are only too many roundabouts in Lanark, and when we get there, I’m going to have you go over them as many times as possible until you’ve got them sussed. Okay?"

"You just said it again!" I cried triumphantly. "You said that there are too many roundabouts in Lanark!"

This was followed by a brief silence, then a bark of laughter.

"Two, as in one-two-three! And mini as in mini and maxi! Two mini roundabouts!"