Skip to content
Join our Newsletter

Pique n' your interest

Testing my manhood

There are a lot of things that men are expected to be – self-reliant, handy, strong enough to open pickle jars, laid back when it comes to dressing and grooming, and unafraid of the dark, night noises, large insects, and other men. All in all, it’s not that hard a gig. Just watch a lot of sports, drink a lot of beer, and try your best not to cry during movies and weddings.

We’re also supposed to be into the whole red meat and barbecue thing, although I’ll let you in on a little secret – the barbecue thing is a front for another supreme manly trait: Laziness.

Women think men barbecue because it’s in our DNA, something that goes back to the caveman days. In truth, I think we choose to barbecue because it’s a hell of a lot easier than making potato salad. As a bonus, you get to be outside, and you can easily grill with a beer in one hand and a spatula or set of tongs in the other. You get to look busy while the propane does most of the work.

I’ve gone through the manhood motions all my life, walking the walk, talking the talk, and shaving as rarely as I can get away with. I’ve played contact sports with the best of them, piling up a respectable list of concussions, broken bones and soft tissue injuries in the process.

My resume is also respectable for a guy. Before I got into journalism I was a gas station attendant, a landscaper, house painter, a tree planter, a short order cook, and – my favourite – a caddy.

But there’s one area where my male resume is lacking. My secret shame, if you will. I can cover it up for the most part, but sooner or later I’m always exposed.

You see, I can’t drive stick.

It’s not my fault. Really.

My family always had automatic cars, and so did most of my friends when I was growing up – standard cars are a pain in the ass in a stop-and-go city like Toronto, so almost nobody drives them. I’ve never owned a car of my own (another sore point), and only one of the cars I’ve rented over the years has had a stick shift.

I have had a few opportunities to drive standard cars here and there, but almost always on road trips where we seldom got off the highway – once you’re in fifth you stay there.

While travelling on the island of Crete a few years back some friends spent an afternoon trying to teach me to drive a little rented 4X4 minivan. I was starting to get the hang of it when I stalled out on a rocky, mountain road and we almost drifted backwards into a 1,000 foot gorge. Although all of the passengers were willing to take a gamble and give me another chance, I was the first to call "shotgun" for the rest of the trip. I tried and I failed.

That was seven years ago and I’ve had maybe three other opportunities to drive standard vehicles since then. That is, until about a month ago.

That’s when my girlfriend purchased a new 2004 Ford Focus wagon. As you’ve probably guessed, it’s a standard.

After more than 10 years of dodging the issue (I didn’t get my license until I was 19 – another Toronto thing) it was time for me to finally learn to drive a standard vehicle.

For my first lesson I went out to the nearby parking lot at Spruce Grove with my girlfriend giving me advice from the passenger seat. I actually managed to get the car into first gear five times in a row and was feeling pretty good about myself until I proceeded to stall out the next five times, getting more flustered each time the engine shut off.

I was hating life. I thought standard cars were stupid. I hated the fact that I had the potential to stall the car every time I stopped or slowed down, and that I was drifting backwards on my hill starts – not a good thing to do when you live in the mountains. I pictured myself trying to drive in downtown Vancouver, rolling backwards into a very expensive vehicle as I tried to pull forward. I had no idea how I was going to even attempt a parallel park.

The clutch was uncomfortable. First gear was incredibly touchy and took too long to engage. There’s no inhibitor to prevent me throwing the engine from fifth into reverse on the highway. And I was concentrating so hard on not stalling that I wasn’t paying as much attention to my surroundings as I should have been, which scared me a little.

Which brings me to yet another un-manly trait – I’m a total wimp when it comes to driving, standard or automatic. I never speed, never tailgate, check my mirror every three-to-five seconds, always check blind spots, and keep my hands securely at ten and two. I’m a textbook defensive driver because deep down I don’t trust anybody else on the road and I can’t think of a more pointless way to get injured or die than a car accident. The idea of killing or injuring someone else also makes me ill.

I’ve never seen cars as anything more than a mode of transportation, a tool to get you from A to B. Size, speed, comfort, expense, the number of cylinders, the size of the engine block – none of those things has ever mattered to me. All that matters is that you get to ‘B’ in one piece.

I’ve never been in an accident and have gotten exactly one ticket for going 65 in a 50 zone – exactly one week after they changed the speed limits from 60 to 50 in that particular area.

Now suddenly I have to learn to drive all over again. And instead of worrying about other cars on the road, I’m worried about what gear I’m in, when I should gear up or down, and what to do if I have to slow down or stop suddenly. When another car gets behind me I panic a little, afraid that I’ll stall out at the next stop sign. I don’t want anybody to honk because I’m moving too slowly.

After a few frustrating weeks I’m finally getting better, which is a relief, but I’m still a few weeks away from driving around town comfortably. It will be months before it starts to feel natural, and even then I don’t think I’ll ever be 100 per cent comfortable with it.

My girlfriend has been very patient with me so far, and as far as I know she doesn’t find me any less attractive or manly when I’m grinding her gears or squealing her tires pulling away from stop signs. Still, I can’t help thinking that I would look a lot more masculine if I was a natural at the stick shift, and didn’t throw an un-manly fit every time I jumped or someone pulled up behind me at an uphill stop sign.

I’d try to compensate by barbecuing up a couple of steaks, but I’ve been a vegetarian for the past 10 years.