I was about to set out on my senior-safe bike laps around my backstreet neighborhoodwhen a woman 10 years my senior got of a car to ask for help. Even though my neighborhood is a can’t-get-there-from-here circle to nowhere, very lost drivers occasionally end up here asking for directions to Route 2 or Cambridge. I approached the sedan eagerly, assuming I would score good Samaritan points by providing directions.
The white-haired lady was waving a car key and plaintively asking me if I could unlock the steering wheel. “It’s a keyless ignition and we don’t know what to do.“
I quickly scanned my street to see if I could subcontract this Samaritan task to a handier neighbor. Cars and I are a bad team. My driving career started inauspiciously when I stayed back in driver’s ed for about a dozen extra lessons. During my career as a family man and dad, it was eventually only my dog that would drive comfortably with me. The latest model dashboards are as sensory overloaded to me as the Vegas Strip. I am still scanning my 2017 Corolla’s dash for the switch to light up interior doors.
I thus was feeling this could be a bad Samaritan moment. Still I took over the driver’s seat next to the lady’s octogenarian husband. The couple quickly bemoaned the fact they had embarked on a test drive of this 2019 Subaru without a salesperson, who of course would have dispensed cheery knowledge of the car’s latest features. I said with true empathy “You’re right. you need a salesperson, especially with this keyless deal.”
The older gentleman handed me the owner’s manual which I perused like I knew what I was doing for a long five seconds. Then I remembered that my own struggles with a locked steering wheel ended with my foot on the brake. I hit the brake and presto! – the wheel unlocked and so did a smile on the white-haired lady. I could now right my bike off into sunset, and the silent-generation couple were free to lurch back towards the Subaru dealership.
But before I could remount my bike, the white-haired lady flagged me down. We can’t start the car,” she cried out. I could have just cycled away, avoiding what I felt would be a flailing around the 21st century dashboard like a civilian assuming the controls of a 747. I summoned my courage and my inner Triple AAA guy and went right back into the belly of the Subaru. The husband again handed over the confusing owners’ manual. “Maybe you can find an answer,” he said.
There was no smoking gun that said “CAR WON’T START, DO THIS.”
I deduced, though, that starting had something to do with the ignition so I pushed in the knob, and the Subaru made that revved-up sound. I pressed my luck and hit the gas, and the car moved forward. I had triumphed over my inadequacy as a car guy. The couple were very appreciative, and I breathed a sigh of relief when they made it off my street.
My day was made But I wasn’t in jubilation overdrive. I had – after over 50 years on the road – started up my first car as a Samaritan. I realized though, I had performed a meager feat. No good Samaritan van patrols the highway, handling just locked steering wheels.
Plus, if I wanted to be mystical, it may be that the really elderly drivers I had just encountered were visions of my driving future. Indeed, if my wife and I were still driving in 15 years or so, we will certainly be similar, overmatched, test drivers We will have no idea how to operate a 2034 model Toyota Alexa, with its self-driving switches, its voice commands and levitation levers. With a lot of foresight though, I entered in my smart phone a reminder for 2034 that we ask that the salesrobot to accompany us on the test drive.