I don't remember the names of my two driver's training instructors from the week-long, privately-run course I took when I was 15. That said, I'm just going to admit that I don't remember a single piece of advice they gave me. In fact, I don't recall much of anything that was discussed in class or on the road.

However, I remember the musty smell and the warped wood paneling of the church basement where the classes were held, where we were told to memorize dozens of questions and their respective answers. I remember the fear of sliding into the driver's seat for the first time, the way my shaky hands finally gripped the wheel like it was a long-awaited baton in the world's most important race. I remember driving at a snail's pace (at the instructor's command, of course) and how I sheepishly shrugged off the annoyed looks I received as other drivers sped past. But the two things I remember the most were my instructor's overgrown, outdated brown mustache and his knee-high yellow-striped athletic socks that were straight out of 1978.

Oh, and that his wife worked at McDonald's and could get him free hamburgers.

The instructors lectured us on parallel parking, on merging, on right-of-way. We, the students, just pretended to listen while smirking at each other - knowing that with our $100 fee paid and a handful of memorized test answers, we'd be soon driving to the next football game or shuttling friends to the mall.

I passed my written driver's test having logged only a total of two hours behind the wheel. Two hours, most of which were spent perfecting stops and turns in empty subdivisions and quiet suburban side streets. Ten minutes of that time, if I recall correctly, were spent waiting in the McDonald's parking lot while my instructor hopped out for a free cheeseburger.

The instructors hardly broached the subject of emergency maneuvers - the closest thing we got was an offhand, "Always wear your seat belt. Don't speed. Oh, and don't drink and drive."

As my fifteen-year-old self would've said, "Um, like, duh?"

So, ten years later, when I was asked to cover a free teen driving program called Driver's Edge - taught by professional race car drivers - I jumped at the chance. Mostly because I wanted to see if I could pass for a seventeen-year-old.

(CONTINUE...)