5 stalls and 1 breakdown

I loaded up the Pumpkin yesterday, shifted into first gear, and bumped and rumbled onto the highway. The Pumpkin is J's old Mercedes, a burnt orange beauty that merely sips diesel, and up until a month ago, I have refused to drive it. Or it has refused to let me learn. Or I have refused to learn how to shift into first, ease the clutch, press the gas, look forward, try not to skip her on past the stop sign. The first couple of times I attempted to drive down the empty street, I stalled and ground the gears and shook the car so badly I jumped out of the drivers seat in frustration and nearly threw the keys at J.

It was my idea to try again a month ago. I owe it to school. I once again feel brave, feel like a challenge, feel like myself. Funny how writing can make you (me?) fearless. I'd been revising drafts of my writing, something I'm often not brave enough to do, but I'm doing it.
I felt like I needed to revise my perceptions about manual transmissions.

I took the keys and let the glow plugs work their magic, the car wheezing and growling to life with me behind the leather bound wheel. I stalled a couple of times, but this time instead of throwing the keys, I turned them in the ignition one more time. Then one more time again. And soon I wasn't hiccuping through first gear or revving too high into third and I dared to approach busy intersections on slightly sloping streets. I drove all the way to Baltimore from the Eastern Shore in the predawn of a late October day. Unthinkable months before.

This trip was entirely different. It is a month later and I drove from Oxford, Maryland to Portland, Maine in post-Thanksgiving madness coupled with sleety rain with a stop in New York City on a Saturday night. Um, crazy. I left yesterday afternoon as the sun was drifting lazily towards the bare trees on the horizon. The light on the open fields and empty barns distracted me from my task. I navigated through stoplights and gas stations, only occasionally jerking into motion from a dead stop. I was anxious; my stomach dropped every time a light blinked from yellow to red down the road. I tried to coast to a crawl, tried not to stop. I made it to the highway. The sun disappeared, the headlights grew crowded and bright as I white knuckled my way up I-95. My glasses slipped down on my nose as I swallowed hard- brake lights ahead. Bumper to bumper traffic for miles, my foot constantly on the clutch, trying not to let the car stop. Will it stall out? Will I get rear ended when I stall out? Do I have enough gas? Where is the next rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike for gods sake!

The traffic slowed to a stop. I stalled.
Turn the key.
Restart the engine.
Foot slowly off the clutch, down on the gas.
I stalled again.
Turn.
Restart.
Foot off the clutch.. STALL.
My breathing increases, catching in my throat, and tears form as I glance in the rear view mirror, hoping the truck behind notices that I'm stopped. Finally I get the car moving again, but I'm wondering if I'm sinking into a panic attack. I contemplate pulling over to the shoulder, but the cheaters zip past in the emergency lane and what the hell would I do on the side of the turnpike anyway? Read? I keep going, up and down hills, under bridges, past blackness and mini malls. Finally a rest stop.
I pull into a parking space and sob.

I cry because I am exhausted from remembering what gear I'm in.
3 shift to 2 shift to 1 shift to 2 shift to 1.
I call J, crying and sniffling, wishing he was with me so I could hand over the goddamn wheel.
I contemplate sleeping in the parking lot.
I cry because I am disappointed in myself for trying to give up.
I step outside the Pumpkin and breathe in the crisp air, wondering how everyone else sliding out of their cars (probably automatics) can be so calm.

I turn the key, restart the engine, shift to reverse, then first, then second, and get back on the turnpike, and everything is fine. I am fine. Really fine. I am shifting like a pro, weaving through traffic, slowing to a stop and revving forward like its nothing. On the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, tricked out cars with spoilers try to cut in front of me as we merge, crawling along at 5mph. And I can creep up to the bumper in front of me to block him out with no problem.

Stalling is no longer an option.

Once when we were cruising on Gitane we met a single-hander named Allen. I asked him if he ever freaked out when he was in a storm and all hell was breaking loose. He said something like "No, there's no one to see me freak out, so what's the point? I just do what needs to be done."

The Mercedes needed to get from Maryland to Maine, and I had to do it. Alone.

I just did what needed to be done, with only a few hiccups along the way.