Still Running

The traffic light turned red on a hill, and I stopped. A car pulled up behind me, much closer than I would have preferred. I looked in the mirror, then at the gear, and prepared for the kind of moment in which my driving skills usually became public entertainment.

My left foot was on the clutch, my right foot was ready, and the light changed. I released the clutch carefully. The car moved forward without rolling backward, shaking, or dying.

That small success felt ridiculous and important at the same time. Before buying this car, I had developed a special talent for stalling almost every manual car I drove. Different cars, different roads, same result.

I would start, move a little, stall, restart, and try again. Sometimes the engine would die twice before I had travelled far enough to feel confident. So when this car simply kept running, I became suspicious.

Maybe the clutch was forgiving. Maybe the engine helped. Maybe I had finally improved. I did not care which explanation was correct because the result was the same: I could leave an intersection without creating a small crisis.

A few days later, I discovered another feature that impressed me for entirely beginner-level reasons. I could stay in third gear longer than expected. My reaction was not technical admiration; it was relief. Fewer gear changes meant fewer opportunities to do something wrong.

At that time, every gear change still required a small meeting inside my head. Clutch, gear, release, gas, do not panic. Driving was not yet automatic; it was a list of instructions performed at speed.

The car slowly shortened that list. I learned where the clutch engaged, how large the car felt, how the mirrors behaved, and what the engine sounded like when everything was normal. Small actions began disappearing from conscious thought.

Someone asked whether I was happy with the purchase. I tried to sound calm and said it was good value for the money. Then I added that, in another month, I would probably start saying the car could fly.

I already knew attachment was coming.

One evening, I reached home, parked, and switched off the engine. Only then did I realize that I had driven the whole way without thinking once about how not to stall. I had simply driven home.

For the first time, the car had stopped feeling like a machine I was negotiating with. It had become transportation.

I sat there for a few seconds in the quiet cabin and smiled. Still running, right up until I turned it off myself.