WELCOME to the final instalment of my driving trilogy.
First in the story was how my driving instructor was frighteningly familiar with Finglas gangs; second was my dismal and, ultimately, disappointing first driving test. Consider this the happy(ish) ending.
Yes, I finally passed the test. Immediately after my first attempt, I re-applied and put in for a cancellation. D-Day was on Friday 23 July at 11.05am (very precise, these Road Safety Authority people).
My pre-test started at 9.15, and was appallingly bad, so when I expressed my doubts to my driving instructor about my ability to pass, his lips said I’d be fine but his eyes said my poor feet were destined to carry my weight forever.
When the time came, I made a point of emphasising to the truculent tester that it was my second attempt. I hoped my tone, direct eye contact and bone-crunching handshake were forceful enough to convey the message that I didn’t intend on having to do it a third time, thank you very much.
Alas, things started badly when he asked me what I shouldn’t do if I saw zig-zag lines on the sides of the road. I resisted witty replies and, instead, tried to waffle my way out of it. Eventually, he had to ask: “And would you overtake?” “Oh god no”, came my reply.
Things got worse when, at the car, he asked me to lift the bonnet for the standard checks. I was initially confident and, on demand, pointed out where the brake fluid was. But my confidence was dashed when he asked how I’d check it. I hadn’t been taught that at all, and was quick to point that out. His stare told me he didn’t care for my whining. “Umm... I dunno. I suppose you’d just take the cap off and have a gawk in, yeah?”
His vacant expression left me unsure whether my answer was correct, albeit not exactly textbook. I thought things couldn’t get much worse, but then the practical part of the test got underway and I managed to stall the car in the middle of the road while trying to turn right. And, naturally, I blamed the car when I tried to move off but the damn thing wouldn’t budge an inch.
Until, that was, I saw that I’d forgotten to drop the handbrake. Oops. And subsequently, while once again wondering why the car wouldn’t move, I discovered that my foot was planted squarely on the brake instead of the accelerator. Cue further embarrassment.
So yes, it’s safe to say that, when we got back to the test centre, I fully expected to hear those awful words again – “It’s not good news”. The tester’s stern expression did nothing to allay those fears, and when he finally said, “you’ve passed your test”, it was like he was telling me my whole family had been killed in a horrific accident while I was out driving around, such was his sombre speech.
And that was that. I had passed. But there was no joy in it. I was too busy being absolutely disgusted at the RSA for allowing someone who drove as badly as I did to actually pass their test. So no, I didn’t celebrate, not even when my full licence arrived in the post. All it does is remind me how screwed the system is.
In fact, the only time I’ll think fondly of it is in situations requiring a passport and/or driving licence, and I can smile because I finally have that choice.
So what advice do I have for learner drivers? Well, the more cynical among us would say that you’ll be automatically failed the first time you do your test so that the RSA can get more money out of you. For legal reasons, I won’t say that at all.
What I will say is that, from my own vast experience, the one fail-safe, water-tight way to absolutely guarantee that you will pass your second test... is to show up.