I started writing this on my mother Lorayne’s 93rd birthday. She was never a “car person,” but she always preferred manual transmissions, which made her brilliant in my eyes. Her birthday has me reflecting on how wickedly difficult it was to get her to stop driving. And that, in turn, has me thinking about how we take the privilege of driving for granted.
Mom was doing great at 90. In 2022, her 2016 Honda Accord Sport still had less than 18,000 miles on its clock and was unscraped. She wasn’t taking long trips, but she was getting around Santa Barbara well and running her errands without supervision. The only problem ahead was that the elevator in her condo building was busted and the HOA didn’t have any interest in fixing it. It was only one flight up to her second-floor place, but at 90, every flight is a long flight.
As she turned 91, however, she hit something with the Accord. She swore that someone had hit-and-run her in the parking lot at Macy’s uptown, but there was more evidence that she had hit a truck in the public library parking lot downtown. It was the first time in my life that I had seen her befuddled.
There was, in fact, enough evidence of what truly had happened that the police became involved. In fact, she hit a city-owned truck. A police officer came to see her. Nice guy. He did a quick investigation and her license was suspended. She was apoplectic.
“I need my car,” she pleaded to me. “It’s the only way I have to get around. I’m not me without my car.”
Fortunately, the Accord was in the shop being mended and that lack of access is all that kept her from driving anyhow. So, I became her major source of transportation, with my wife and daughter also pitching in. Her travels were undemanding. Trips to Smart & Final or Trader Joe’s for groceries were about it. She was so eager to get back in her car.
To get her license back meant going to the DMV and taking both the written and driving test. My smart mom, who had worked in television during the 1950s, somehow got our fractured family through the 1960s and 1970s, and built a thriving real estate career in the 1980s that lasted until just a few years ago, couldn’t pass the written test. A simple multiple-choice quiz was now beyond her. She was bewildered and bereft. It was at that moment that I realized my mother was leaving us.
All of us live knowing that one day our bodies will betray us. If we’re lucky though, our minds won’t. It’s not something we control and has nothing to do with our character, intellect, or achievements. Some of us will be writing books at age 100. Some of us won’t be functional at 70. It is unjust.
I took her key to the Accord and held it at my house after it came back from the body shop. She asked for it regularly, but her mind would then quickly wander off to another subject. Whatever her condition, she was still an adult, and I was playing key keep away from her.
Taking her on a grocery run in an Acura Integra A-Spec test car, she began to beg me. “How can you be so mean?” she said weepily. “I’ve been driving so long. No tickets. No accidents. Nothing. I can still drive. It’s who I am.” I felt like a heel. The past, however, didn’t matter.
A few weeks later she was talking gibberish on the phone with my sister who lives in Connecticut. I drove over to my mom’s condo, almost forced her into my Tundra, and drove her to the hospital. She hasn’t been back home. It's been two years. She’s been in some form of residential memory care since then. I see her regularly, but she’s a shadow of herself.
My mom never asked about her beloved cat (we found her a new home), never inquired what became of her condominium, and doesn’t ask about money. But occasionally, she still expresses a desire to drive. I didn’t know—didn’t even suspect—how much driving meant to her.
I’m only a few decades behind her. I’m already entering that phase of life where many of the people who know me, know me as the old guy they see walking his dogs. But I’m someone whose professional life has been consumed with driving.
Driving is my happy place. When I’m stressed, I get in my truck or whatever test car is around and drive. When I’m elated, I drive. When I’m despondent, I drive. Sometimes I’ll listen to music or podcasts as I drive, and sometimes I simply listen to the sounds of wind rushing, tires on pavement, an intake slurping, and the exhaust note. As much as my mother loved driving, it means much more to me. And it’s not going to last.
I got my license back in 1978, which means I’ve been driving for 47 years. Most of my driving life is behind me. I know there will come a day when I’ll no longer be able to drive. I hope I get to drive as long as Mom did, but there are no guarantees.
My experience with Mom isn’t unique. When I talk with friends around my age, it seems almost everyone has similar stories dealing with parents. And it’s the end of the driving privilege that centers so many of them.
We are all lucky to live in the automotive age. Driving is a great pleasure of life, even if sometimes we’re frustrated by traffic or distraught at the expense. Don’t take it for granted. Because it doesn’t last forever.
I hope my kids will understand when I’m being irrational and fighting them for my keys. I doubt I’ll face my end of driving with any dignity or reason. I’d like to, but probably won’t. I am, after all, a lot like my mother.
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