The last one #7 — The Instructor Who Quit

 

People sometimes assume driving instructors were born with a steering wheel in one hand and a copy of the Highway Code in the other.

 

I can assure you that's not true.

 

In fact, my own learning journey was a complete mess.

 

It started on my seventeenth birthday.

A present from my dad.

 

Driving lessons.

 

What I remember most isn't excitement…….It's fear.

 

I was terrified of crashing the car.

 

Funny really.

 

After thousands of lessons taught and countless miles driven, I still hear learners saying exactly the same thing today.

 

Turns out I wasn't any different.

 

I don't remember much about the lessons themselves.

But I remember my first driving test.

 

Or more accurately...

My eyesight test.

 

Fail.

 

At seventeen years old I simply refused to accept that I needed glasses.

Apparently reality had other ideas.

 

So after reluctantly sorting that out, attempt number two arrived.

 

Again, I don't remember much about the drive itself.

I do remember the reason for the fail.

 

Because it is probably the oldest driving test story in existence.

 

I approached a roundabout.

Didn't look properly.

Sailed straight through.

 

Fail.

 

Game over.

 

Simple mistake.

Simple lesson.

 

Except I didn't learn the lesson.

 

I got angry.

Very angry.

 

I blamed everything and everyone.

 

The examiner.
The test.
The system.
……bad luck.

 

Everybody except the person sitting behind the wheel.

 

Me.

 

And eventually I made a decision.

 

I quit.

That's it.

 

Finished.

Never going to happen.

 

I was seventeen, maybe eighteen by this point, and I'd already convinced myself that driving simply wasn't for me.

 

So I accepted my fate.

 

Buses.

Trains.

Taxis.

Friends.

Family lifts.

 

That would be my transport strategy forever.

Looking back now, it sounds ridiculous.

 

At the time, it felt like fact.

 

After all, if I'd failed twice, clearly I wasn't capable of driving.

Right?

 

Wrong.

 

A couple of years later my uncle quietly changed everything.

 

He had a small white van.

We went fishing regularly.

 

One day he casually said:

"Why don't we get some L plates and you drive?"

 

So I did.

And then I did it again.

And again.

And again.

 

Weekend after weekend.

 

Fishing trips.

Work trips.

Errands.

Miles accumulated.

Experience accumulated.

Confidence accumulated.

 

Without really noticing it, I was becoming a driver.

 

The strange thing was that I'd already built the skill.

I just hadn't built the belief.

 

Years passed.

Then reality arrived again.

 

I was twenty-four.

Working.

Commuting from Bradford to Leeds every day.

 

Train.

Bus.

Taxi.

Repeat.

 

The company I worked for offered opportunities.

 

Promotion opportunities.

Career opportunities.

Life-changing opportunities.

 

There was only one problem.

 

To reach many of them...

I needed a driving licence.

 

And for the first time, the question changed.

 

Instead of asking:

"What if I fail?"

 

I started asking:

"What if I succeed?"

 

So I found a new instructor.

Bob.

 

An ex-policeman.

Part-time driving instructor.

Aspiring novelist.

 

The sort of person who could see straight through excuses.

 

After watching me drive, he delivered a verdict that completely changed my life.

 

"You can drive."

Simple as that.

 

Not:

"You might."

 

Not:

"One day."

 

Not:

"Keep trying."

 

Just:

"You can drive."

 

And he was right.

Shortly afterwards I passed my driving test.

 

Third attempt.

 

A small piece of pink plastic arrived through the post.

 

And suddenly my world became much bigger.

 

The opportunities opened up.

 

The promotions came.

 

The confidence grew.

 

Then, before I knew it, I was living in Dubai, driving around in a shiny 4x4, experiencing a life that would have been completely inaccessible to the angry teenager who'd quit after failing a couple of tests.

 

Which is why this story matters.

 

Because every now and then I meet a learner who tells me:

"Maybe driving just isn't for me."

 

And every time, I think back to that seventeen-year-old version of myself.

 

The one who failed an eyesight test.

 

The one who blasted across a roundabout.

 

The one who quit.

 

The one who was absolutely convinced he'd never drive.

 

If he'd been right...

None of the rest would have happened.

 

And all because of a simple little piece of pink card.