that time I drove 250 miles on the “wrong side” of the road

Last month over Thanksgiving I went to Europe for 10 days. You can read what I posted before I left here. 

I spent some time with a great friend of mine in the UK then spent 5 days in Italy on my own. 

Trying my hand at traveling abroad alone was really important to me, I’ll share more about that another time, but even when I wasn’t alone there were some things I felt were really important for me to try on this trip. Some were specifically meant to challenge me. Not because anyone put me up to it or ever doubted me or but simply because I wanted to challenge myself.

One of these little adventures was driving a car in the UK. 

My friend Marie who’s studying in London and I decided to getaway from the city the day after my arrival. Some friends of hers joined in on the fun and the 2 of us (3 Americans, 1 Britt) rented a car, drove out to Stonehenge, then to Bath, returning to London late the next evening. 

Easy enough... In theory. And it was... In retrospect. But I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit to realizing only when I was behind the wheel, about to turn into traffic on a Saturday afternoon in central London, that this adventure was a little ambitious.

I wouldn’t call it one of my bucket list items, I’ve just always thought it’d be fun, just a different sensation, to drive “on the other side of the road” in England. 

I was confident while planning the trip with Marie, it was actually my idea; and I kept reiterating my confidence while she relayed the plans to her friends. But again I’d be lying if I said that deep within me (maybe not even all that deep) there was a twang of anxiety. 

But the girls trusted me, the rental car company trusted me (I am 27-- well beyond the minimum age to be eligible to rent a car!), and I trusted me. Which is why the moment I drove barely 10 feet in the parking garage and realized, “Okay, this would have been enough of a British driving experience for me” I knew my confidence and I were in for an interesting next 36 hours. 

But I felt good. I still held a majority of my confidence. I also had a hotel booked, dinner and brunch reservations made, and had the 3 young women I had sold on this trip in the car with me. I was stuck. 

I took a deep breath, told myself and the girls that I was ready, and pulled out onto the street. 

I drove nearly 100 miles from central London to Stonehenge (including about 20 minutes through the heart of London) without issue. I navigated the car through round-about after round-about with the help of my patient passengers. We missed exits and re-found our way. 

But as it became dark I grew tired and the rural roads between Stonehenge and Bath had no (and I mean no) street lights. On top of this the road we were driving along was literally on the edge of a cliff; fortunately I had to really focus straight ahead so only learned this after the fact.

I kept reminding myself that this was an adventure; that this was a challenge I had wanted to undertake. And that there was literally no way to stop. 

I only realized my own exhaustion and desire for the journey to be over when I started to mentally calculate how much longer we had before we reached Bath. We had been on the road for nearly an hour and a half since leaving Stonehenge. I expected there to be about 15 minutes remaining but when I learned that my cautious driving put us 35 minutes away from Bath my stomach sank. Everyone in the car could feel it. 

It was then I realized that I had a choice. I could let my stomach stay dropped and spread my anxiety I was in or I could be positive and tell myself, and the girls in the car -- who had entrusted their safety to me on this trip that I had planned to push myself -- that we’d get there soon enough! I went with the latter. 

We made it to Bath probably 40 or 45 minutes after that estimation. 

Bath was well worth the at times stressful journey. And the drive back to London, while riddled with traffic and a slight rush to return the rental car before the office closed, was relatively easy.

I had certainly gotten the hang of driving in London. So much so that looking back on the trip now, a month later, the drive seems so easy.

What’s also funny to think back on is that when Marie and I got back to her flat on Sunday night I exhaled deeply, she once again told me what a good job I did, and I admitted to her the thought I had the moment before driving out onto the busy street of central London. She looked at me, her mouth slightly open with a look of disbelief, regret, annoyance, relief, and maybe a little proud of me and said, "Ohh Scudds. I’m really glad you didn’t tell me that right then. Maybe don’t tell the others." 
  Adventure/challenge #1 of my trip down fueled by British diesel gas and positive energy; adventure #2 was up.