53 ChevyI learned to drive a stick shift with my best friend, Randy, on a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1965. His dad’s ’53 Chevy had a push button starter, a three-speed manual transmission (“three on the tree”), and a weak battery. It was a spare car from Randy’s grandmother who no longer drove. The old blue and white four-door didn’t see much action, was long past its prime, the clutch slipped a bit, so I guess his dad figured a little more wear and tear wouldn’t hurt.

Randy and I knew the basics of driving a stick shift. We’d seen our parents do it many times. We knew the basics of letting out the clutch as you pressed on the accelerator, how to go from first to second to third gears, we knew about using the clutch to shift and when stopping. We had practiced the sequence numerous times sitting still in the driveway. We were ready. But like so many things in life, know how to do something wasn’t the same as doing it.

We took turns behind the wheel, talking each other through the lurching and bucking that went with our inexperienced coordination of clutch, accelerator, gear shifting, and steering. We had no idea how complicated and nerve-wracking it was once we started trying to put all those actions together.

Many of my starts involved revving of the engine while easing the clutch out slowly. Oh that poor clutch plate. On other starts, the failed ones, I’d let the clutch out too quickly. The car would buck forward and the engine would die.

We had lots of motivation for making each takeoff count. Because the battery was weak, we never knew if there would be enough voltage to start the engine. If all we got from the battery was a growl, we had to push the car fast enough to be able to pop the clutch to start it. The neighborhood where we were putting people’s lives at risk was fairly flat, but we began to notice any slight incline. We used those slight hills to do most of our starts and stops and trading places. At least if we killed the engine, we had gravity to help us get it started.

Another thing we noticed about the neighborhood was how foreign it looked while driving. Streets that I’d been on hundreds of times as a passenger were now strange and confusing. They seemed narrower. Familiar intersections with stop signs brought on a little panic. I gripped the steering wheel tighter knowing I would have to stop, go back to first gear, and start again. I prayed no one would drive up behind me. And cars coming at me seemed to be taking up the whole road! My perception changed from casual observer to nervous and excited driver.

We each got better that afternoon. Working the clutch with the accelerator got easier and more fluid. We shrieked and cheered with each successful takeoff and run through the gears. Moans and “Oh craps” got fewer and fewer. By the end of the afternoon we each had several rounds of taking off and going through the gears without a single stall. High fives were not a thing back then, but I’m sure we did whatever was the thing.

Shifting gears is hard at first. The attention and energy needed to go from a dead stop is always the hardest part, whether it’s driving or writing or changing careers. With a little momentum, moving to the next gear gets easier.