Parallel Parking

My father used to take me to downtown Kent to practice parallel parking. It is typically one of the hardest “driving test” requirements. Many people fail this part of the test – and I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Saturdays were usually the day of choice. Dad could take me - and traffic was usually light. Why is it that most mothers want fathers or an older brother to teach driving? Do kids really make mothers that nervous?

I don’t know if dad was ever really nervous with our driving. It just seems that fathers take their children parallel parking, on their first freeway “merge.” The problem with this line of thinking is the father or older brother is usually the one to show the “learner” how fast the car really goes, how to spot the cops with their noses sticking out from behind the trees up ahead, and what to say when you get pulled over. Sometimes I will let out a "shriek" and jam my foot to the floor. I might even say “what the hell are you thinking?!” When either or both of my kids go “What? WHAT!!?” (with panic in their voices). I say “oh – did I say that out loud? I was thinking about what your mother might do right then… just keep driving – you are doing fine.” I get varied responses between Amanda and Chad – everything from “don’t do that you scared the crap out of me” to “a-hole!” No kidding – I got the exact reaction I was looking for. It was exactly the point of me doing it. It keeps their awareness level high – shock therapy. One of the lessons a father might teach their kids is how their mothers might react the first time Mom is in the passenger seat.

I have taken lots of rides with my children behind the wheel. We start off slow. I hand them the keys, or flip them to them. At this point I say “think about what you are about to do.” They look at me for a second, and I follow up with “that’s your first lesson, tomorrow we can go sit in the car.” I try not to laugh, and then I let them off the hook.

I grew up near SeaTac airport. At one time, the city of Kent was a valley community isolated by the farm lands of vegetables, flowers and the occasional Boeing Aerospace center. Really! Mostly the valley was small family owned farms – and yes, Boeing had a fairly large plant on the way to Kent from our house. Of course over time, the valley filled with light industrial, warehouses and distribution centers sparsely interspersed with the occasional lunchtime only deli, quickie mart or gas station.

Kent was the target for parallel parking. Over the course of several Saturdays and the rare Sunday afternoon – combined with my father’s patience – I became an expert in parallel parking. I still couldn’t drive a stick worth crap (the Capri), but I could squeeze the station wagon into space only a VW bug would tackle – at least that’s the way I would like to remember it.

I took my driving test in the red ’64 Dodge Dart station wagon. It had the push button transmission on the left side of the steering wheel. Push “D” or “R” to move; “P” to park and it had a slide lever you pulled down to lock the buttons. It also had “1,” “2,” and “N”. I have them on my Acura as well plus 3, 4, and 5, but I have relabeled them with the maximum downshift speed at which I can use those gears “62” and “88” have replace the “2” and “3” from the old transmissions. I never have found a need to re-label “fourth” to 105. It seems like I never have to downshift to pass at that speed.

But the old red Dart was reliable and easy to drive. I took my test at the “Renton DMV” located on the backside of Highlands Elementary on Edmonds Ave. The first part of the drive consisted of backing around a corner keeping the car within 12 or 18 inches from the curb – passed! No sweat!

“Pull around to the back side of the facility and we will parallel park” barked the DMV “officer” intent on failing his third student of day. I honestly think they enjoy seeing "tears." Cool – I thought I would have to hunt for a spot! Nope! They have one all set up!

“What’s that?” I said to myself… I hope I don’t have to park there!

Much to my horror there were no cars – just four 4-foot high fluorescent orange tubes on stands! “Ready?” the officer questioned. “Yup.” This was easily twice as big as the “bug sized” spots my father had taught me with in Kent.

My first attempt was “curbed.” Out of the corner of the eye I see him write something on the clipboard. He said “wanna try again?” “Hell yes!" was the reply.

I hit the curb again, and he jotted quickly on the clipboard again “How many points did you take off?” I asked. He said “four points each time you missed – eight total.”

"What?" “Wanna try again?” he asked. “Nope.”

Failed parallel parking, but passed with an 82.

- Craig