High Life / A WEEKLY FORUM FOR HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS : A Trying First Time on Road : Driver’s training: Fullerton teen-ager braves and survives the trials of being behind the wheel during lessons.

I’m not normally a procrastinating person, especially when it comes to important steps in my life, yet, for some reason known only to God, I put off learning to drive for an astoundingly long time.

Though I had completed driver’s education during summer school at Sunny Hills High School and had reached the 15 1/2-year-old mark three months earlier, I didn’t get around to actually deciding to take the test until my impending March 16 birthday and behind-the-wheel test forced me into action.

After studying the three Department of Motor Vehicle tests given me by my Driver’s Ed teacher (no, his name is not Ed), I made the dreaded trek to the Fullerton DMV office.

I had heard stories about the DMV, of its lines of infinite length and its employees whose sole purposes in life were to confuse and intimidate.

Well, the lines weren’t that long, and the workers were as helpful as one can be after saying, “Welcome to the DMV. How may I help you?” at least 500 times a day for goodness knows how long.

By the time it was my turn to take the written exam, I was feeling pretty sure of myself. Pretty sure, that is, until I saw that the test I was handed wasn’t one of the three I had studied.

I tried not to panic, but all I could do was remember the stories told me of people freezing up on tests and not even being able to start, let alone finish them. Upon closer examination of my test, however, I realized why I was having trouble.

The test was in Spanish.

I politely returned the exam to the Official Hander-Out of Exams and requested a copy in a language in which I was fluent.

I passed that second test with ease, and as a reward for my efforts, I received my learner’s permit--a computer printout with my name on it and a note reading, “Permit not valid until driver’s training is begun.”

Thus began the second half of my saga.

My mother made reservations at a local driving school, and my lessons started the next day.

My understanding was that driver’s training consists of three things: two hours in a simulator, two hours in the back seat of a car at the mercy of other student drivers, and two hours piloting the car. In my case, however, it consisted of three times the last element.

At 6 p.m. the next day, my instructor, who I’ll call Al (not to protect him--I just don’t remember his full name) arrived at my house.

I handed him a check for $159, he handed me a receipt and we both got in the car.

The vehicle, an ’89 Nissan, was perhaps the only unmarked driver’s training car I had ever seen. The only thing that gave away its true function was the brake pedal retrofitted on the passenger’s side.

“It’s better if people think you’re drunk than if they know you’re just learning,” Al explained.

After a quick “warm-up” on a relatively straight street, I was directed onto an extremely curvy road through La Habra Heights. After navigating the rather sharp turns of the two-lane road, I was relieved to emerge again in the flatlands.

My relief, however, was momentary.

“Turn right,” Al said.

It wasn’t until halfway through my turn that I realized I was on a freeway entrance ramp.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “After you get used to driving on the freeway, surface streets seem easy.”

I was less than comforted.

That night, I made it all the way from Fullerton to Cucamonga on various freeways, interchanges and surface streets.

“Do you know where you are?” Al asked.

“No.”

“You’re in my car,” Al said.

“Thanks, that really clears things up.”

I arrived home exhausted but in one piece. I went to bed and, of course, had nightmares about driving.

After the third day, I came home with my pink “Certificate of Completion” slip in hand. In the course of my lessons, I had left the county once, driven in the rain, plowed through six-inch puddles in central Orange County and dropped by the houses of several of Al’s relatives.

I had also listened to blaring renditions of everything from the Beatles to mariachi music, both from the car’s radio and from my instructor, who kept encouraging me to sing along in Spanish.

If I had known about the singing part, I would have stuck with the first test the DMV gave me.

Nate Barksdale is a sophomore at Sunny Hills High School in Fullerton, where he is art editor of Accolade, the student newspaper.