The first driving lesson: 'Which one is the gas pedal?'
BURIEN — Bounding out of John F. Kennedy High School and into a Toyota with the tell-tale "ID Driving School" sign on the roof, Asami Takeda is either fibbing or stunningly brave before her first driving lesson.
Nervous?
"No, I am happy to do it," says Takeda, 18, an exchange student who is nine months removed from her native Japan. Hair shimmering a trendy red, T-shirt cropped and pink, cellphone connected like a lifeline to friends, Takeda's initial expression of confidence will be her last for the next 90 minutes.
Her instructor, Jia Zeng, so neatly dressed in gray he blends in with the Toyota Corolla's interior, drives Takeda to a quiet neighborhood and puts her behind the wheel.
Takeda has read a driving instruction booklet — and has even taken an earlier lesson from a different company that didn't work out (she spares the gory details). Nonetheless, Zeng begins at the beginning, the dash panel, and it's soon clear why:
"Which one is the gas pedal?" Takeda asks.
Important lessons
Zeng, 28, has been teaching new drivers for five years in what is a growing commercial field. More than 5,000 new drivers get their licenses in Washington each month, the vast majority under age 18. Budget cuts have killed many public-school instruction programs.
Takeda, a junior at JFK, will get five lessons for a little over $300, much cheaper than she would pay in Japan, where she'll return for the summer.
Zeng's first move is to disappear. "Blind spot," he tells her as he walks around the car. See how easy it is to miss something if you trust the mirrors?
"Yes."
"Turn your head and look behind you."
One dozen yes's and a "which one is the gas pedal?" later, and Takeda is off, moving the car forward — right out there in real life.
Check the overhead mirror, Zeng tells her. Check the side mirror. Look back. Signal left. Takeda accomplishes almost none of that on the first try, but she eases the car onto the road anyway, bucking only slightly.
"Quick scan," Zeng says at the intersection. "Signal left. Signal left."
Zeng's words are a gentle brook. He chews gum calmly.
"Slow the car down. Brake. Ease the car into the center of the road. Go a little bit farther. Look where the center of the new road is, and stay to the right. Cutting-it-a-little-bit-close."
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Braving the arterial
Round and round she goes for the next 30 minutes, past the woman working in her garden, past the man in the street with an electric edge trimmer — past the parked Saab with nearly an inch to spare.
Takeda's cellphone rings for the second time, and she ignores it. It rings again, and Zeng tells her to pull to the curb.
"When you pull over, check your mirror, signal right, check your side mirror, quick glance back, right blinker on, right, and ease on over," he says.
Takeda speaks into her phone, using English only for "driving lesson," and then shuts the phone off with an air of finality. "Sorry."
On her next pull-over ("check blind spot"), Zeng takes out a tiny notebook that contains his own drawing of an arterial. Arterial? Today? Surely not!
Cars on the arterial don't need to stop unless they have a stop sign or a stoplight, Zeng points out, but the cars approaching the arterial must stop.
"Oh."
"So these cars just keep going at 35 miles per hour."
Thirty-five!
Less than an hour after getting behind the wheel, Takeda pulls out with the big fish, though only on a 25-miles-per-hour arterial. Is that student driver sign big enough?
"Watch the kids on the right." Zeng reaches over and puts two fingers on the wheel.
Takeda stops for red lights. She hears "quick glance" as she goes by parked cars, "quick scan" as she goes through intersections.
School zone. Downhill. Uphill.
Picking up speed
She's doing fine, but there's no time to celebrate. One right turn and she's on Ambaum Boulevard, which Zeng seems to believe is the White Center Autobahn.
"Gradually increase your speed. Go faster. A little faster. Faster. A little faster. Foot on the gas pedal. Go up to 35 miles an hour."
Why not 80 or 90?
"Watch out for the cars on the right side."
Zeng grabs the wheel from his side to keep from bouncing into a concrete curb. He grabs the wheel again. Grabs it again.
"That's good," Zeng tells his driver.
Takeda shows no fear, and neither does Zeng. But his gum-chewing pace rises with the speedometer, and his foot hovers over his own brake pedal.
"Watch your speed. Thirty-five mph. Ease up. You're going a little too fast. Ease up. Cover your brake. Cover your brake. Slow the car down. SLOW."
In his five years of teaching, Zeng says he's never had an accident with a student. Some students don't make it off the quiet street at the end of five lessons, and others could drive home after the first lesson.
Takeda, turning into Kennedy High School's parking lot now like a pro, is exceptional, Zeng says.
How did she feel?
"Kind of afraid," she admits. "Before driving I was excited, but it was difficult, so many cars coming."
Zeng predicts she will be ready to get her license by the end of the fifth lesson. Most people use public transportation in Tokyo, Takeda says, but her father has a car, and he's in the insurance business.
No potholes ahead for her — or are there?
"They drive on the other side of the road there."
Sherry Stripling: sstripling@seattletimes.com
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