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DANVILLE, CALIFORNIA--The odd squawking sound wasn't coming from my radio. It was a motorcycle cop trying to get my attention. I spotted him in the rearview mirror and felt 15 again. My cheeks flushed hot and red. My checkered driving past had finally caught up with me.
Nowadays, teenagers are required to take both classroom and behind-the-wheel training. But in 1968, driving instruction requirements were vague at best, leaving it to parents to figure out what to do. My mom was an overworked housewife with eight other kids to worry about. I think she saw our brief driving sessions in the family station wagon as a chance to get in a smoke before the onslaught of dinner.
"Am I making you nervous, mom?"
She exhaled white puffs. "Of course not. Try to stay on the right side, honey."
If mom or my two older brothers couldn't take me, I settled for my dad, whose patience extended about as far as the length of the driveway. "For Christ's sake. What the hell are you doing?" was the closest he came to actual instruction.
How I ever passed the DMV test still baffles me.
Now the officer in the stiff leather boots tapped on my car window. I rolled it down. "I clocked you doing 41 in a 25, but I'll put it down as 38."