My First Big REAL Driving Test

This will recount an adventure which was not intended as an adventure, and of which there was nothing fun, nothing pleasant, nothing good, except the result and the experience gained.

I obtained a learner's permit at age 15 1/2, scored above 90 on the written test, then failed the driving test shortly after my sixteenth birthday. After about two and a half additional months, I passed and was officially licensed to drive solo in December of 1963.

In February, 1964, I needed to go to OU on a Saturday for All-State band and orchestra auditions. Dad and Mom had said that I could take the family car. When I awoke before sunrise, I looked out the window and saw that ice was on the yard and street. With all the bravado and ignorance of a sixteen year old, I very, very, very quietly dressed, opened, and closed the door. This was my first big chance to drive by myself further than to the store, but if my parents saw the road conditions, it would not happen. I made my great escape, only to learn later that the ice was not confined to Tulsa. Rather, a sheet covered the whole state. It must have been a complete meteorological surprise, because Dad watched weather reports religiously.

I crept along ever so slowly and got to the turnpike thinking that it would be in better shape, but, alas, twas not so. Back then, the shoulder on the turnpike was composed of chat [extremely small gravel]. The ice was solid, but thin. So I drove with the passenger-side tires on the shoulder, hoping to get a modicum of traction. Still, the maximum speed at which I felt somewhat comfortable was about 15-20 mph, and that required my full concentration. I got so irritated when cars with Ohio or Michigan tags would pass me, going along in the middle of the road, traveling, probably, 35-50 mph, without any slipping or sliding. It wasn't until later that I realized there were a number of factors involved: many more years of driving experience; experience driving in icy conditions; tires more suited for driving on ice; full sized, heavier cars. Our car was a Ford Falcon; one of the first compact cars. Nevertheless, I lost control only once during the entire trip. I was going downhill and did about a 210 degree spin, coming to rest with the rear bumper against a guard rail. Thankfully, there was no damage to the car [nor to the guard rail].

About a quarter of the way along on the trip, the radio antenna snapped off. That was a major catastrophe; not to the car, but, potentially, to my sanity. So for the balance of the journey, I was forced to entertain myself by making up melodies and using stream of consciousness to supply the lyrics; e.g., "Hello, Mr. cow. You sure look cold. How do you like your iced grass? Burma Shave signs, where are you when I need you? Mr. man from Ohio, that is one fine looking Oldsmobile. Hey, ho, solid ice, you have my hands gripping the wheel like a vise."

Due to the warming of the day and increased traffic flow, the ice finally changed to slush just south of Oklahoma City, and I ultimately got to Norman, and was awarded the slot of tuba player in the 1964 Oklahoma All-State Orchestra. What should have been about a two hour drive took well over five hours. It was a harrowing experience, but it did serve me well later in life.