My assertion that women were better drivers than men the other day caused a debate at the bar.
Not surprisingly, opinion was divided according to the sexes.
”You mean you’ve never known a bad woman driver?” Kev said. “Well, yes,” I said. “But that was my wife.”
Maria took our open topped sports car out when she was 21 to drive to the shops along quiet St Annes roads. She was a nervous motorist and, not wanting to venture onto a main highway, decided to do a three point turn in the side road so she would be facing back home. Only, when the car was broadside on, she couldn’t find reverse.
Traffic backed up in both directions until a chap in a Volvo approached and completed the manoeuvre for her. With a smile, I might add.
Probably the Mary Quant mini dress, long legs and white boots soothed his annoyance. Maria came home and never drove again.
The only other woman driver I could cite as being, not so much bad as breathtakingly audacious, was Mad Mary O’Neil, a lady I met in A merica many years ago. She could easily have been cast in the remake of Mad Max: Fury Road.
Mary was in her 80s, wore shorts, white tennis shoes and milk bottle glasses. She was a female Mr McGoo. She drove an ancient but powerful Cadillac Coupe de Ville with a V8 engine and a bonnet the length of a Polaris submarine, never checked her mirrors and had utter disregard for anyone else on the road.
As we joined the freeway at maximum velocity, with me gripping the passenger seat, and without any signal of intent, she muttered: “Move over, buddy, I’m coming through.”
People moved over. I mean, so would you if menaced by a rust tinted tank driven by a lady so small she had to look through the steering wheel.
Mary had probably been driving since Wells Fargo was a lad. A genuine character and a 30 mile journey along a freeway I’ll never forget. And quite a superb driver, as long as everyone else stayed out of her way.
