I adore my new commute! What used to take me at least an hour and 15 minutes now takes me only 15 minutes, and while I miss driving on the wild, wild freeway, there is nothing I would change about my drive. In fact, I fear I’ll be spoiled for all of my future commutes.

Lately, though, it’s led me to think about how and where I learned to drive. I took driver’s ed at school and had a couple of lessons from an independent driving school, where the teacher flunked me on my practice test because I kept getting the first and third gears confused. My mother also spent some high-flying, emotional time with me while I accumulated some hell-filled hours under my learner’s permit. [I passed with flying colors for the real thing, though, both the written and the driving tests at the DMV, and to this day my auto insurance still gives me a “good driver” status. So don’t worry about my being on the road!]

Still, I think I learned most of my driving skills while I was a senior in high school, as one of the cheerleaders on my squad who could drive. Unlike the well-funded football team, we had no bus and driver to take us from game to game; we had to caravan each and every time we had to travel to another school, and as one of the drivers, I’d end up taking a handful of cheerleaders with me in the car and following either our cheer advisor, Big Red, or one of the other girls who drove, like Rina, Samantha, or Dee Dee.

Big Red and Rina usually led the caravan, which meant the followers had to hustle or lose their way. For Big Red and Rina, 90 miles per hour on the freeway is “slow,” and even if you had to weave in and out of heavy traffic you did what you could to keep up because you would really and truly lose sight of them if you didn’t. It might have been fine if they always knew where they were going and how to get there, but that wasn’t the case.

There were times they would dart across five lanes to get to an exit at the last minute. I’ve ended up having to coolly slide across the five lanes within four seconds, just a hair’s breadth in front of speeding cars simply to make the exit with them. I still remember one particular incident. The pick-up truck that barely missed me honked. My passengers screamed. The passengers in the car I was following screamed. It was a unique performance by the world’s oddest orchestra, yet it was a common occurrence, and strangely enough I was the only one who remained calm during those times.

Looking back on it now, I wonder why I wasn’t a total mess.

Then, there was the incident of the car chase. Mind you, we were cheerleaders and were therefore dressed in bright, bold stripes and short, pleated skirts—like candy to a pimply male population. So when we unwittingly caught the attention of a carload of teenage boys, we found ourselves being followed. Every turn, every lane change, every mile we went, there they were. The girls were concerned because I was driving each of them home, and they didn’t want the boys to know where they lived, so I did what I could do to shake our tail.

I made quick lane changes and sudden turns. U-turns. Right turns from left lanes. Left turns from right lanes. I was like some movie stunt driver, and everyone in the world was screaming except for me. The boys stuck to our tail like glue, though, and I had to raise the level a notch. It got so that every one of my passengers squirmed and looked out each window, suggesting turns and pointing toward unfamiliar streets. Go this way! No, that way! They’re still there! Hurry!

It couldn’t have been choreographed better; the girls were like headless poultry in motion, panicking crazily over the car chase with our would-be stalkers, and the anonymous boys were like determined pig chasers licking their chops and calling, “Sooooouuuuiiiieeee-eet!” It was an altogether hellish experience that no doubt added to my growing skill set in driving.

Not that I ever used that skill set successfully—or at all after that day [I’m a good driver, yes, I am!]. I managed to lose the boys somehow, but last year alone I was followed for miles and miles in my car by two strange men at different times. It was only through the sheer length of my old commute that I managed to lose their interest, as they finally drove past me with a sad little wave in my direction.

Ah, to be driven wild. Thank goodness I can remain calm, whatever my driving circumstances, fast or slow, with evil tailgating stalkers or no.

::Sigh::

But what I wouldn’t give to go back to telecommuting!

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