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Six Ages of Driving-or How I Got From a Speed ​​Addiction in the Alleys of Heroin to a Driver in the City of Horrors | Bridged Delaney


Russell Street Amusement Arcade place In melbourne Buy heroin in the 90’s and early 2000’s. But I went there to learn how to drive.

My roommate and I wander around the city after class Play the car game Daytona For hours in a row. You slipped into your seat. You can choose between manual and automatic. There was a way. And after you make a choice, the voice will say, “Gentleman, start your engine!” It was essentially like being in a car. I liked it.It was a game you could felt The whole body, just like when you’re driving in real life.

The feeling was mainly speed, sharp turns, and the exhilaration of overtaking. Those were my driving lessons. I clocked hundreds of kilometers on those machines and emerged from the darkness of a high, fugue-state arcade with another type of drug.


At the job interview, the company partner didn’t ask me if I had a driver’s license because I was supposed to have a driver’s license. Discussions must have taken place when I appeared in the first week, when they discovered that I couldn’t visit branches, customers, and courts 100 km away.

Shortly thereafter, a Senior Associate taught me. A man with four young children, when I hit those L-plates with a station wagon and grabbed his handle, he seemed nervous and half regretted. After work between Portland and Warnambourg, I drove a distance of about 100km with a speed limit of 100km / h. We shared trucks and roads primarily on the route from Adelaide to Melbourne, and the car shook when they got too close.

I remember the dark wet roads, the watery yellow dusk, the shivering and crocheting of the cow road train, the rhythm of the reflectors and the white lines of hypnosis.But most I remember going really fast, like Daytona. I reached for the same feeling I got in the amusement arcade, the feeling of racing. When the car got faster, my blood seemed to flow faster around my body. Several times, my senior and I pulled the car out of the car with jelly-like legs and swapped locations. These were the nights when I was too fast or misjudged the gap when overtaking. He was no longer joking about me killing him and making his children fatherless.


I got my license, but I couldn’t get closer to anything bigger than the town of one horse. I was nervous in the city. Warrnambool was as much as I could handle – until one day I had an accident. When I heard a song I didn’t like, I approached the traffic light and listened to Silverchair. When I bowed down and fast-forwarded, I bumped into the car in front of me, which was stopped by the light. He was a French tourist driving a rental car. He was fine, but after smashing in Daytona, our car looked like a graphic.

I remember wearing pajamas in front of a dented car and the car passing by. One of the drivers was my mother. My mother saw me on the main street in my pajamas and continued to drive.

But when we talked about it this week, she couldn’t remember seeing me. “You didn’t even have pajamas,” she told me. “You were just sleeping in an old T-shirt.”

My memory may be wrong, but the feeling of embarrassment was clearly real. A cognitive cousin of Freudian slips, thus, the mother was inserted into the accident.

One was definitely real. At the time of the accident, I was uninsured. That amount was about one-third of my annual salary, and I spent my twenties paying it off. I didn’t drive again for a very long time.

Decades have passed. A 40th birthday party was held in the country and is now unlicensed and as helpless as a baby. I experienced a tremendous feeling of waiting outside for my parents to pick me up.


In 2016 and I returned to a driving school. It was a small town. One signal. I should be fine, right? But I’m a different person and a different driver now. After the first lesson, my arms and back hurt and I was very nervous and stiff in the driver’s seat. I missed the almost greasy sense of speed, the ease of turning fast, the confidence and the uplifting feeling. Who was this old man learning how to drive now? Was this timid person stuck with the sign “give way” and scared to cross?

After the first lesson, the instructor sent me a text message saying that he was retired and couldn’t take me anymore.


2019. New instructor. He called me “strudel” for no reason and told him to “turn it in the hands of Chardonnay.” what is that? I was frustrated and asked him. I don’t drink Chardonnay. I don’t know why, but I found the reference somehow insulting. Is it because Chardonnay is out of fashion? We drove during the day when there were few cars on the road. He didn’t think I was ready for the test “for years”. I zoned out in the lesson. I was bored – it was dangerous. Same street. The same set of traffic lights. From time to time he screamed and told me he drove with a murderer who was safer than me.


2021. A long blockade in Sydney. I met a new instructor on a quiet street at Darling Point. She was friendly, relaxed and accustomed to older learners. We drove some side streets, but as before, I was sticking to horror. In 30 minutes we rolled down a street on one side and turned into one of Sydney’s busiest roads! I was surprised. There were four lanes. There were trucks and cars. There was a pedestrian. A lot of things were happening because I wanted to leave my body. The wheels were sweaty and slippery, my breathing changed and I stopped a little.

Somehow the lesson was over and we were still alive. I did it! I drove a big city! In traffic! Like any other experience, it was different than before. We drove almost slowly, and it wasn’t about momentum, movement, and the bloody sensation of the white line rush. Instead, it was about stopping and starting. I try not to hit anyone. Keep cool, keep distance, keep moving. I met twice a week and drove slowly. It was exhilarating in another way. When he turned the corner well, the instructor said, “You are a real professional driver.” Did she mean a pro like an Uber driver? Or is it a professional like Formula One? Maybe she meant a pro like Daytona. Whatever she meant, I swelled with pride. It was better than being called strudel.

Six Ages of Driving-or How I Got From a Speed ​​Addiction in the Alleys of Heroin to a Driver in the City of Horrors | Bridged Delaney

Source link Six Ages of Driving-or How I Got From a Speed ​​Addiction in the Alleys of Heroin to a Driver in the City of Horrors | Bridged Delaney

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