From the time I was old enough to push a Matchbox car across the
rutted concrete retaining wall that held our backyard in check, I knew
this: I wanted to learn to drive. By age 16, having mastered tricycles,
bicycles, minibikes and even two-stroke motorcycles, I was ready to
advance to automobiles. First came cars with an automatic transmission
and later, at my urging, my father patiently taught me the first steps
of the three-pedal shuffle in our four-speed 1967 VW Beetle.
Though
I never became fast enough to make a living (or even support a hobby)
racing cars, I practiced technique as often as I could, on road and
track. While still no Zen master of the five speed, I could rev-match on
the downshift with the best of them, even if my heel-toe skills lacked
polish and precision. Over the years I taught several friends to drive a
manual transmission, but one sticks out in my mind.
Teaching others to love the manual transmission, on Hemmings.
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