The fact that teenagers can legally drive proves one of three things: (1) Your state legislators hate you; or (2) Your state legislators smoke crack; or (3) Your legislators smoke crack and hate you.

 

What other explanation is there? How could any benevolent group of lawmakers decide, "Hey! Let's allow teenagers to operate what is basically a 2,000-pound bomb on wheels."

These elected officials are NUTS.

 

I think the minimum driving age should be 32. Wouldn't you feel much safer if you knew that every driver was alive while Richard Nixon was president? I certainly would.

 

In my state, the vehicle code not only permits mere children to get a "learner's permit," but the law also specifically states that these youthful drivers must practice with a "responsible adult," which is nothing more than a thinly veiled euphemism for "Dad."

 

Don't harbor any pitiful hope that your child is in the dark about his auto-related legal rights. Even if your child flunks a history quiz because he thought the War of 1812 began in 1942, he can quote verbatim the entire section of the state code that allows him to drive.

 

And so I found myself swallowing hard as I buckled up and handed the keys to my son Mark.

 

"OK, recite the rules before you start the car."

 

Mark took a deep breath.

 

"I buckle my seatbelt and adjust the mirrors before I start the car. I always look in my rearview mirrors before I back up. I always use my turn signals." Mark recited.

 

"And what else?"

 

Mark frowned.

 

"I don't remember any other rules," he said.

 

"The big one: Thou shalt not race the car in an irresponsible teenagerly manner and crash and thereby envelop your beloved father in a raging fireball of exploding debris, or you are grounded for a month. Repeat it!"

 

"I will obey the speed limits," he said.

 

"Close enough," I replied.

 

We began our lesson in a large, empty parking lot in order to let Mark just get a feel for the car.

 

"Just slowly step on the gas as you ease your foot off the clutch," I instructed.

 

The car lurched forward a couple feet and died.

 

"Sorry!" Mark said.

 

"No sweat. You didn't hurt anything. Just give it a little more gas next time," I advised.

 

The main trouble with the phrase "a little more gas" is that it is somewhat imprecise.

The engine screamed as the RPM needle kissed the red line. The steel-belted Michelin radials spun like twin buzz saws, carving deep ruts into the asphalt. We rocketed through the parking lot as the G-forces flattened my corpuscles into tiny little bio-pancakes.

 

"BRRRRRRAAAAKE!" I shrieked, nearly committing a hygienic lapse.

 

Mark stood on the brake pedal with both feet, laying out a skid trail longer than a regulation basketball court.

 

Our first lesson, while brief, was nevertheless a success (with "success" defined as "we lived").

 

In each succeeding lesson, Mark got better and more confident. The day finally came for him to take his driver's test and obtain a real license.

 

As he walked into the motor vehicle office, I mentally bid farewell to his childhood. The child God gave me was becoming a man. It had all happened so fast. Another Dad, in the same boat, stood next to me with misty eyes.

 

"Hard to have them grow up," I gulped.

 

He choked.

 

"The insurance is 2,000 bucks a year," he said.

 

Suddenly, we were both weeping.

 

By Dave Meurer, New Man's award-wining humorist and the author of Mistake It Like a Man (Multnomah). Visit him online at davemeurer.net.