A Good Driver

A memory from when I was around 17 or 18:

I'm smoothly driving the Camaro through the curves of Laguna Canyon. My dad's in the passenger seat.

Me: See, I'm as good a driver as you are now.

Dad: You're not as good a driver as me.

Me: I'm not?

Dad: Nope.

Me: How do you know?

Dad: Because if a squirrel ran out in the middle of the road right now, you'd kill us both. You'd swerve to miss it. You'd either hit the car next to us, or you'd hit a car coming the other way, or you'd run yourself off the road. But me, I'd just hit the squirrel.

Me: (silent, beaten)


Flash forward to Wednesday this week, as I'm driving to school. It's 6:45 and I'm on a moderately busy 605 North going 75 MPH when I see a little black kitten inbetween my lane and the lane to the left of me. It's hunkered down, clearly scared out of its mind. It darts left, then darts right again, narrowly missing getting hit by a car a couple seconds ahead of me. He's now squarely in line with where my left tires will shortly be arriving--my left tires of death.

My three thoughts, three thoughts over and over again: Oh no!, Please get out of my lane!, and What do I do?

The memory of my dad and me driving through the canyon pops into my head.

My hand stays firmly attached to the wheel. I'm not going to swerve. I tense, bracing for the sound more than anything.

But the kitten, perhaps sensing my resolve, darted away from me with what must have been a half second to go. In my rearview mirror, he was still there, crouching inbetween lanes.

I don't now if that kitten made it or not. But I do know that I heard some squealing tires behind me, and I think I'm a better driver than that person. Maybe even as good as my dad.