If you’re over 50,
every day is the 50th anniversary of something personal, but of
course some of those days are more memorable than others. For no obvious
reason, it occurred to me while on the road this morning that I got my driver’s
license 50 Januaries ago. US states vary in the minimum age for a license,
being as low as 14 in South Dakota to as high as 17 in my own state of New Jersey.
(There currently is a “probationary license” for 17-year-olds in NJ with
various time and passenger restrictions, but in 1970 a license was a license
was a license.) My 17th birthday was at the end of November in 1969,
but because of the holidays I wasn’t able to schedule the Driver’s Test before
January 1970. I passed. So, one morning during this month 50 years ago instead of
getting on the school bus or cadging a ride from mom, I slipped behind the
wheel of my dad’s car (with his permission) and drove off alone for the first
time. Except for the destination (school), it was a liberating experience. It was another five years before the open road tempted me to
follow it to the Pacific and back, but that morning’s seven miles to school were a first taste of mobile freedom. There are other personally notable 50th
anniversaries coming up this year– high school graduation, for instance – but as
a rite of passage getting a driver’s license in many ways mattered to me more.
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| 1970 Jeepster |
My mom had sold
her 1967 GTO (400 cu.in. 360 hp) a couple of months earlier. I’m sure there was
a connection between that decision and my upcoming license. In its place she
bought a 1970 Pontiac Grand Prix, an enormous coupe with a hood large enough to
subdivide into plots for single family houses. It wasn’t a vehicle I ever would
ask to drive. Sometimes my dad would let me borrow his 1968 Mercedes Benz 230,
which he had bought two years earlier; with only 8000 miles on it; it was a
bargain sale by a musician who had just lost an argument with the IRS. Most
commonly, though, for the next three years I drove the 1970 Jeepster on which
(for the most part) I had learned to drive. The
Jeepster was an excellent vehicle for a newbie precisely because it was
difficult: a 4-speed stick shift V6 with no power steering, no power brakes,
and a clutch with scarcely any slippage so the slightest error in foot pressure
would stall the engine. The ignition was twitchy, too, so I habitually parked
it on an incline so I could let it roll forward, turn the key, and engage
second gear: it started every time that way. Every vehicle I’ve driven since
has seemed easy.
The peculiar geography of New Jersey also makes it ideal
(which is to say challenging) for new drivers. I know people who grew up in
cities and who consequently find dark winding country roads scary. Conversely,
I know drivers from the farmlands who are overwhelmed by urban traffic. NJ is a
weird mix of urban, suburban, and rural: often in the same short trip. Perhaps
something about that multiple experience contributes to a characteristic
driving style responsible for NJ drivers being widely regarded as second only
to Massachusetts drivers as people you don’t want on the same road as you.
Oddly, despite their reputations for rude aggressive driving, your chances (according
to the Centers for Disease Control and
Prevention) of dying in an automobile (1.3% in the USA overall over a lifetime,
10.7 per 100,000 in any one year) are lowest in Massachusetts (5.6 per 100,000)
and second lowest in New Jersey (6.3 per 100,000). I guess we’re more likely to
cause accidents than have them. Montana, of all places, has the highest fatality
risk at a whopping 23.3 per 100,000, though Montanan drivers do score high (3rd
place) on the politeness scale.
My dad had been in the passenger seat in the previous months
in 1969 when I was learning to drive – other than during formal Drivers Ed
classes at school. I don’t recall anyone else ever being there. I’m sure that
took steely nerves on his part as I lurched, stalled, over-braked, and
oversteered in a vehicle that could be easily rolled due to a short wheelbase.
I had my own experience attempting to impart lessons from a passenger seat
several years later (see The
Driving Lesson) and the results were not good, so I appreciate his
daring. My dad managed to contain all but a few expressions of alarm during all
that time.
Millennials and iGens (aka GenZ) are a puzzle to many of my
generation and of GenX in regard to licenses, as in regard to so many other
things. In large numbers they, of their own accord, are delaying or forgoing
licenses. Only 77% of 20-24 year-olds currently have driver’s licenses. In 1983
92% did. Among teens the drop-off is steeper yet. Most states issue licenses at
age 16, but only 25% of US 16-year-olds have them. 46% did in 1983. I don’t
pretend to understand this. Apparently they don’t mind being chauffeured by mom
and dad, an idea that was anathema (even when unavoidable) to my generation. Parental
chauffeurs were a deal-killer when dating, for one thing, but then dating is
also as old-fashioned as Blockbuster. Teens today more commonly hang out in
groups rather than pair off for a burger (non-vegan back then) and a movie. Parents
don’t seem to mind the extended chauffeur duty either.
Driver’s licenses in the US are almost as old as automobiles,
New York in 1901 being the first state to issue them. There was no exam of any
kind: just a fee. Not until the 1950s did the majority of states require driving
tests. (All have since 1959.) The license was something that could be revoked,
however, so it did serve a law-enforcement purpose. For the first 15 years of
the 20th century, two types of passenger car drivers dominated the
roads, such as they were. There were the early-adopter auto enthusiasts, who
were likely to have a mechanical bent. Then there were chauffeurs, who doubled
as mechanics. (A great period depiction of chauffeurs is in GB Shaw’s 1905 Man and Superman.) The reason was that
the vehicles were unreliable. If you didn’t have the skills to repair your car
yourself when it stopped for some reason (as it very likely would), it was best
to have someone along who did. Chauffeurs were expensive (as they still are
when they’re not your parents), but wealthy people overwhelmingly were the
customers for cars anyway. ‘Chauffeur’ originally meant ‘stoker,’ so the word contains
the notion of someone who keeps the engine running; this meaning was lost as
reliability improved and chauffeurs became simply drivers.
Automobile reliability more than affordability (though both were
important) was key to letting ordinary people be their own drivers; they could
drive to town and back alone without a serious risk of being stranded on the
way. Historically, this level of reliability and affordability had been
achieved by 1920 and it transformed American life. For me personally, the year I
became my own chauffeur was 1970, and, strange as it may seem to iGens happy to
be passengers, it was a joyful moment.
Maria
Muldaur - Me and My Chauffeur Blues
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