| General Non-Fiction posted September 25, 2023 |
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High school story. (1,000 words)
Driving a Lesson
by LisaMay
In my family, getting a driver's licence as soon as legally possible was an expectation. Dad encouraged my older brother, Jeff, and myself in motoring skills from an early age.
When Jeff gained his licence he took up stock car racing, but he never let me take the wheel. The closest I got was being allowed to paint number 71 on the driver's door.
Dad taught me to drive a car when I was 15. He showed me the basics in our manual-geared Vanguard, then at various times I was let loose in paddocks way out in the countryside, when we went foraging for firewood or field mushrooms. Eventually I got the hang of clutch-and-accelerator coordination after kangaroo-hopping multiple times as I practised.
I had to wait until I turned 16 for a learner's permit, then gained a full licence at 17. This meant that in my last year of high school - 1970 - I had that precious slip of paper, a teenager's rite of passage. Then I just needed some wheels of my own. They represented freedom, not that I was trying to escape anything. Dad enjoyed driving and we always went camping somewhere different every school holiday break. Now I wanted to have my own adventures.
It was motorbikes that appealed to me most. Giacomo Agostini had become my hero. He was a dashing Italian Grand Prix motorcycle racer who rose to international fame during the 1960's-70's. Other girls had pin-ups of pop stars on their bedroom walls; I had pictures of motorbikes (usually draped with sexy, half-naked women, whereas I would've preferred half-naked men).
If Mum had still been alive she would never have allowed it, but I felt the luckiest and happiest girl in the world when Dad said he'd buy me a motorbike. My heart sank when he showed me what he'd chosen for me to ride: a second-hand, beat-up Rabbit 90cc step-thru scooter. Not at all glamorous. Nevertheless, I achieved some notoriety by being the first girl student to arrive at school on motorised 2-wheeled transport. (It's all so different today, where many senior high pupils arrive in their own brand new cars.)
Although my father insisted I wear a motorcycle helmet, I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair and often rode without it once I was out of his view. I wore goggles to keep the bugs out of my eyes, but no other specific safety clothing. 'Health & Safety' was not so legislated back then.
To my surprise - and delight - that little Japanese scooter could go quite fast. It was also very robust. I became a 'rebel without a pause' on that machine, always out and about on it. I attracted the attention of the police on a couple of occasions when speeding, but I managed to avoid receiving a ticket when I cried. It's a useful skill to be able to cry on demand. When I told the boys at school they thought I had a terribly unfair advantage.
It seemed my luck had run out one day, though. I was late for school because I'd been riding a track on a hillside, and when I got back on the main street and zoomed at speed towards school, a policeman intercepted me. The flashing lights of his car attracted attention and I could see kids and teachers hanging out of the school windows to watch what was going to happen. This was far too public for my liking, and very embarrassing, as I was a school prefect and supposed to be a role model! I thought I'd try a few tears on the cop, but then I saw that the Deputy Headmaster, Mr. Reid, had come out of the school office and was hurrying towards us.
Fear gripped my heart. Mr. Reid was notorious for being the school's disciplinarian, administering corporal punishment on miscreants. He had a permanent evil smile. I'd never heard of a girl getting caned by him, but misbehaving boys who came out of his office were noticeably chagrined by their experience, refusing to discuss what had happened. Whatever went on in there was very effective; none of the errant boys transgressed again.
When Mr. Reid, the smiling assassin, told the policeman that he would deal with me, I wet my pants. I felt sure I was going to be caned. The crying would come afterwards, not before.
I did the walk of shame into Mr. Reid's office. There was a row of canes in varying thicknesses leaning against the wall. He asked me to choose one. I wasn't sure which one would inflict the most damage, so I hesitated. Boys wore long trousers at our school, which hid any cuts or bruising that was caused, whereas I was wearing a skirt and had bare legs.
Smiling sadistically all the while, Mr. Reid took his time to choose a cane, flexing several before he decided on one. He told me to bend over with my hands on his desk.
Whack! Whack!... six times the cane hit, and my brain buzzed with shock at each impact. But I felt no pain. He had struck the desk instead. Was his aim really that bad? I laughed with relief and turned around. My laughter changed to hiccups under his steely gaze.
"You are to tell no-one about this. I have a reputation to maintain. But next time might be different. There won't be a next time, will there?"
I stammered my agreement.
Mr. Reid continued: "Slow down and always wear a helmet. Don't break your father's heart."
As he ushered me out the door, I don't know if it was my imagination, but for once Mr. Reid's smile seemed to have a touch of humanity about it, though I'm sure he enjoyed frightening the crap out of misbehaving students.
Author note: The illustration shows a Rabbit scooter of the 1960's. Mine was pale green. These days I own a Yamaha XJR1200 and a Kawasaki KLR650.
High School Memories contest entry
In my family, getting a driver's licence as soon as legally possible was an expectation. Dad encouraged my older brother, Jeff, and myself in motoring skills from an early age.
When Jeff gained his licence he took up stock car racing, but he never let me take the wheel. The closest I got was being allowed to paint number 71 on the driver's door.
Dad taught me to drive a car when I was 15. He showed me the basics in our manual-geared Vanguard, then at various times I was let loose in paddocks way out in the countryside, when we went foraging for firewood or field mushrooms. Eventually I got the hang of clutch-and-accelerator coordination after kangaroo-hopping multiple times as I practised.
I had to wait until I turned 16 for a learner's permit, then gained a full licence at 17. This meant that in my last year of high school - 1970 - I had that precious slip of paper, a teenager's rite of passage. Then I just needed some wheels of my own. They represented freedom, not that I was trying to escape anything. Dad enjoyed driving and we always went camping somewhere different every school holiday break. Now I wanted to have my own adventures.
It was motorbikes that appealed to me most. Giacomo Agostini had become my hero. He was a dashing Italian Grand Prix motorcycle racer who rose to international fame during the 1960's-70's. Other girls had pin-ups of pop stars on their bedroom walls; I had pictures of motorbikes (usually draped with sexy, half-naked women, whereas I would've preferred half-naked men).
If Mum had still been alive she would never have allowed it, but I felt the luckiest and happiest girl in the world when Dad said he'd buy me a motorbike. My heart sank when he showed me what he'd chosen for me to ride: a second-hand, beat-up Rabbit 90cc step-thru scooter. Not at all glamorous. Nevertheless, I achieved some notoriety by being the first girl student to arrive at school on motorised 2-wheeled transport. (It's all so different today, where many senior high pupils arrive in their own brand new cars.)
Although my father insisted I wear a motorcycle helmet, I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair and often rode without it once I was out of his view. I wore goggles to keep the bugs out of my eyes, but no other specific safety clothing. 'Health & Safety' was not so legislated back then.
To my surprise - and delight - that little Japanese scooter could go quite fast. It was also very robust. I became a 'rebel without a pause' on that machine, always out and about on it. I attracted the attention of the police on a couple of occasions when speeding, but I managed to avoid receiving a ticket when I cried. It's a useful skill to be able to cry on demand. When I told the boys at school they thought I had a terribly unfair advantage.
It seemed my luck had run out one day, though. I was late for school because I'd been riding a track on a hillside, and when I got back on the main street and zoomed at speed towards school, a policeman intercepted me. The flashing lights of his car attracted attention and I could see kids and teachers hanging out of the school windows to watch what was going to happen. This was far too public for my liking, and very embarrassing, as I was a school prefect and supposed to be a role model! I thought I'd try a few tears on the cop, but then I saw that the Deputy Headmaster, Mr. Reid, had come out of the school office and was hurrying towards us.
Fear gripped my heart. Mr. Reid was notorious for being the school's disciplinarian, administering corporal punishment on miscreants. He had a permanent evil smile. I'd never heard of a girl getting caned by him, but misbehaving boys who came out of his office were noticeably chagrined by their experience, refusing to discuss what had happened. Whatever went on in there was very effective; none of the errant boys transgressed again.
When Mr. Reid, the smiling assassin, told the policeman that he would deal with me, I wet my pants. I felt sure I was going to be caned. The crying would come afterwards, not before.
I did the walk of shame into Mr. Reid's office. There was a row of canes in varying thicknesses leaning against the wall. He asked me to choose one. I wasn't sure which one would inflict the most damage, so I hesitated. Boys wore long trousers at our school, which hid any cuts or bruising that was caused, whereas I was wearing a skirt and had bare legs.
Smiling sadistically all the while, Mr. Reid took his time to choose a cane, flexing several before he decided on one. He told me to bend over with my hands on his desk.
Whack! Whack!... six times the cane hit, and my brain buzzed with shock at each impact. But I felt no pain. He had struck the desk instead. Was his aim really that bad? I laughed with relief and turned around. My laughter changed to hiccups under his steely gaze.
"You are to tell no-one about this. I have a reputation to maintain. But next time might be different. There won't be a next time, will there?"
I stammered my agreement.
Mr. Reid continued: "Slow down and always wear a helmet. Don't break your father's heart."
As he ushered me out the door, I don't know if it was my imagination, but for once Mr. Reid's smile seemed to have a touch of humanity about it, though I'm sure he enjoyed frightening the crap out of misbehaving students.
Author note: The illustration shows a Rabbit scooter of the 1960's. Mine was pale green. These days I own a Yamaha XJR1200 and a Kawasaki KLR650.
When Jeff gained his licence he took up stock car racing, but he never let me take the wheel. The closest I got was being allowed to paint number 71 on the driver's door.
Dad taught me to drive a car when I was 15. He showed me the basics in our manual-geared Vanguard, then at various times I was let loose in paddocks way out in the countryside, when we went foraging for firewood or field mushrooms. Eventually I got the hang of clutch-and-accelerator coordination after kangaroo-hopping multiple times as I practised.
I had to wait until I turned 16 for a learner's permit, then gained a full licence at 17. This meant that in my last year of high school - 1970 - I had that precious slip of paper, a teenager's rite of passage. Then I just needed some wheels of my own. They represented freedom, not that I was trying to escape anything. Dad enjoyed driving and we always went camping somewhere different every school holiday break. Now I wanted to have my own adventures.
It was motorbikes that appealed to me most. Giacomo Agostini had become my hero. He was a dashing Italian Grand Prix motorcycle racer who rose to international fame during the 1960's-70's. Other girls had pin-ups of pop stars on their bedroom walls; I had pictures of motorbikes (usually draped with sexy, half-naked women, whereas I would've preferred half-naked men).
If Mum had still been alive she would never have allowed it, but I felt the luckiest and happiest girl in the world when Dad said he'd buy me a motorbike. My heart sank when he showed me what he'd chosen for me to ride: a second-hand, beat-up Rabbit 90cc step-thru scooter. Not at all glamorous. Nevertheless, I achieved some notoriety by being the first girl student to arrive at school on motorised 2-wheeled transport. (It's all so different today, where many senior high pupils arrive in their own brand new cars.)
Although my father insisted I wear a motorcycle helmet, I loved the feeling of the wind in my hair and often rode without it once I was out of his view. I wore goggles to keep the bugs out of my eyes, but no other specific safety clothing. 'Health & Safety' was not so legislated back then.
To my surprise - and delight - that little Japanese scooter could go quite fast. It was also very robust. I became a 'rebel without a pause' on that machine, always out and about on it. I attracted the attention of the police on a couple of occasions when speeding, but I managed to avoid receiving a ticket when I cried. It's a useful skill to be able to cry on demand. When I told the boys at school they thought I had a terribly unfair advantage.
It seemed my luck had run out one day, though. I was late for school because I'd been riding a track on a hillside, and when I got back on the main street and zoomed at speed towards school, a policeman intercepted me. The flashing lights of his car attracted attention and I could see kids and teachers hanging out of the school windows to watch what was going to happen. This was far too public for my liking, and very embarrassing, as I was a school prefect and supposed to be a role model! I thought I'd try a few tears on the cop, but then I saw that the Deputy Headmaster, Mr. Reid, had come out of the school office and was hurrying towards us.
Fear gripped my heart. Mr. Reid was notorious for being the school's disciplinarian, administering corporal punishment on miscreants. He had a permanent evil smile. I'd never heard of a girl getting caned by him, but misbehaving boys who came out of his office were noticeably chagrined by their experience, refusing to discuss what had happened. Whatever went on in there was very effective; none of the errant boys transgressed again.
When Mr. Reid, the smiling assassin, told the policeman that he would deal with me, I wet my pants. I felt sure I was going to be caned. The crying would come afterwards, not before.
I did the walk of shame into Mr. Reid's office. There was a row of canes in varying thicknesses leaning against the wall. He asked me to choose one. I wasn't sure which one would inflict the most damage, so I hesitated. Boys wore long trousers at our school, which hid any cuts or bruising that was caused, whereas I was wearing a skirt and had bare legs.
Smiling sadistically all the while, Mr. Reid took his time to choose a cane, flexing several before he decided on one. He told me to bend over with my hands on his desk.
Whack! Whack!... six times the cane hit, and my brain buzzed with shock at each impact. But I felt no pain. He had struck the desk instead. Was his aim really that bad? I laughed with relief and turned around. My laughter changed to hiccups under his steely gaze.
"You are to tell no-one about this. I have a reputation to maintain. But next time might be different. There won't be a next time, will there?"
I stammered my agreement.
Mr. Reid continued: "Slow down and always wear a helmet. Don't break your father's heart."
As he ushered me out the door, I don't know if it was my imagination, but for once Mr. Reid's smile seemed to have a touch of humanity about it, though I'm sure he enjoyed frightening the crap out of misbehaving students.
Author note: The illustration shows a Rabbit scooter of the 1960's. Mine was pale green. These days I own a Yamaha XJR1200 and a Kawasaki KLR650.
Footnote:
I went to a school reunion 25 years after we'd finished high school and a couple of the men who had been in trouble at school as boys said that Mr. Reid never caned them - it was the desk that got thrashed, and they were sworn to secrecy. They realised he was a good man but that he had to maintain his persona as the school disciplinarian.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. I went to a school reunion 25 years after we'd finished high school and a couple of the men who had been in trouble at school as boys said that Mr. Reid never caned them - it was the desk that got thrashed, and they were sworn to secrecy. They realised he was a good man but that he had to maintain his persona as the school disciplinarian.
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