I know, "the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step," but when you are young those are very small steps! My first set of wheels was a secondhand Schwinn bicycle my father bought from a neighbor in 1956 for $10 bucks. You know the kind—the big balloon tires with white sidewalls, one speed, with the seat that looked like it came from a tractor? That was mine, and it was great! Moreover, it gave me freedom.

For someone growing up in San Tomas, downtown Campbell seemed so far away. That 15-year-old bicycle transported me to the movie theaters in downtown Campbell and Los Gatos, and once to San Carlos Avenue and Bascom Avenue, a sojourn that would make Homer proud. My friends and I would attach playing cards, or a half-inflated balloon, to the spokes so we would have a "rumble" as we rode along. As the wheels turned my world got bigger and more complex. So did the wheels.

On our yearly trips to Kansas and Iowa to visit my grandparents, the highlight of the trip was driving the tractor! To anyone growing up in farmland America, a tractor is nothing special. But to a "citified" boy, a tractor is like a spaceship compared to a bicycle!

"I don't care if the north forty doesn't need plowing! It's getting plowed!"

When I was 12, my dad acquired a '51 Ford Flathead. It had a sun visor instead of tinted windows and a backseat that could hold four people comfortably. He told me I could drive it if I helped him work on it. I hated working on cars—still do. But I wanted to drive a real car so much I would work on this car. My dad and I would spend hours every night and weekends, too, working on this awful green machine. We pulled out the engine and tore it apart for reasons that are mysterious to me. The result was a perfectly running machine, and I still can't understand why.

The most important part was ... I got to drive it. And drive it I did! At 12, I couldn't exactly go to the market or anything, but I did have a big backyard! I couldn't wait to get home from school to get behind the wheel of my car.

Back in those days, state-of-the-art was the starter being a button on the floorboards you had to push to get the motor to turn over. "Three on the tree" was standard transmission. I wonder how many of us could use the old "three on the tree" mode today. Power steering and power brakes were far in the future—this was real driving. After driving for 20 minutes or so, you would have had a real workout.

I would climb into the car and start it up, then drop it into first gear and begin a figure eight around the house and garage. My mom would make sure the laundry was off the line before I got home from school. The front yard and backyard were no problem, but it got a little tight at the side of the house. For a 12-year-old, I did pretty well. But after a few "close calls" with the house—you can still see the patches today—my dad decided it would be best for the Ford to find a home elsewhere.

It was a long dry spell before I got behind the wheel again. In fact, it was driver's training at Campbell High four years later. These weren't real wheels either. The classroom had "mock-ups" of cars, more like a bad version of a soapbox derby car. The mock-ups had headlights and turn signals, but no radio or room for your girlfriend next to you. While a movie was shown on a screen at the front of the classroom, the teacher would walk around and observe if you were turning your wheel in the right direction, or if you were using your hand signal properly.

Driver's education was one class where you didn't try to get away with anything! Driver's ed teachers were the people who determined if you were going to drive on the street or not. There was some major sucking up to teachers in that class, and they knew it. We didn't realize how much danger they put themselves through every day for our benefit. This was years before seat belts and air bags.

After 1,000 miles in front of the movie screen, we were taken in groups of three, to drive. In the '60s Campbell wasn't a particularly affluent community, so our driver's education car was a two-tone Nash Rambler. Not exactly the kind of car you would see in the movie American Graffiti, but it was nevertheless a real car.

The cute girl drove first—she always did—while the other two sat in the back seat watching the clock. "Her 15 minutes are up; it's my turn," was a common refrain. The teacher would usually have the girl drive to some remote area, like Pollard Road, and then change drivers. The boys would get the chance to drive along Sobey Road or some other windy area with no cross traffic. The real battle was to see who got to drive back to school. My class was just about lunchtime and it was very important for your friends to see you drive!

Because of the importance of driving in our culture, I will continue on the topic in next week's column.

Jerry Baum is a longtime Campbell resident. Reach him at zinfindel@earthlink.net.