I could tell you somewhere our young and/or restless souls led us for an adventure on the weekend, but we didn’t move because those very souls have been somewhat crushed by the state of the world.
Hold tight - we’re checking permissions before loading more content
I could recommend a nice day drive somewhere interesting, but suggesting you drive anywhere non-essential right now might be bad advice.
So, instead, I’m just going to do what everyone who drives a vehicle fuelled by an oil-based product is currently doing: whinge about petrol prices.
I drive a diesel, so I might even whinge a little louder.
I was wandering past the bikes in Kmart the other night, when I doubled back and mindlessly found myself sitting in the saddle of one, trying it out for size.
My far better quality (and dustier) bike in the garage at home, had it a brain and a heart, would’ve been appalled and hurt that I was even considering replacing it when it’s sat neglected and unloved for years.
I quickly dismissed the urge to impulsively buy the pretty pink cruiser when common sense entered the chat inside my head anyway.
Sure, I could ride to work given my kids get to their schools without my help at the beginning of the day.
But what do I do at pick-up? Leave work half an hour earlier (with pay docked accordingly) to make it on time and stick a child taller than me on the parcel rack? Stuff him in the basket? Dink him on the handlebars?
Nah, not ideal.
There are some things families just need a car for.
And before you argue that kids could also catch the bus for their return trip, let it be known, I have an L-plater.
An L-plater who will be sitting his test to become a P-plater in about a year.
But he can only sit that test if he has 120 hours of driving hours clocked up.
My firstborn had racked up his required hours in the first of his two-year learner period.
My middle child wasn’t as keen, waiting six months after he was 16 to obtain his permit and then still not too enthusiastic about getting started.
If he’d kept pace with his big brother, his hours would be locked away by now.
Alas, he’s only found his drive — pun fully intended — recently, at a time that just so happens to coincide with the most ridiculous prices I’ve ever paid for fuel in my entire driving life.
Fifty litres cost me 140 bucks last week.
Today it was more than 40 cents dearer per litre again, at $3.21/litre.
I’m almost certain it will be higher by the time you’re reading this.
Currently my son has 30 of his 120 hours. He’s got 12 months to get another 90.
That’s around two hours a week.
Now, maths isn’t my strong point, and of course there are variables like open-road driving versus in-town driving that dictate exact consumption, but I reckon it probably equates to at least 50 bucks in fuel if you’re setting out for the sole purpose of getting hours under one’s learner belt.
Fifty bucks extra every week for 52 weeks.
When my son says to me at school pick-up — where I arrive in a diesel-guzzling ute instead of a pretty pink pedal-powered cruiser with a hard parcel rack that would be far less comfortable on his tooshie — that he doesn’t feel like driving home today, I glare at him, urging him to provide a damn good reason why he’s not taking incidental driving opportunities in this current financial climate.
As someone now watching the news and taking an interest in current affairs, particularly things that affect him personally, he picks up what my glower is putting down.
“Oh, maybe I should,” he says with a slight smirk, as he slaps a magnetic yellow square on the tailgate.
“Mum, I heard fuel prices could stay elevated for up to three years,” he says.
“Right when I’m going to buy a car and start driving and having to pay for petrol.”
I feel sad for him.
These kids haven’t caught much of a break in the past few years.
From growing up in a single parent household, to remote learning and isolation throughout the pandemic, to floods that climbed the outer walls of their home.
Of course, we know it could be worse. We could be positioned where the war is raging. We might not even have the luxury of owning vehicles, among many other scenarios we could find ourselves much worse off in than we are.
Nevertheless, our privileged pain is still felt.
“Who knows, son, but I’m sure the effects will linger at least until you’re an adult next year,” I say.
And then, I wonder, will he even want all that now?
You know how it’s only really when you get used to having something that you feel its absence when it’s taken away?
If you’ve not yet tasted the independence of being licensed, owning a car and experiencing that freedom, you can’t possibly miss it.
Sure, I won’t be as willing to drive my adult children around when realistically they are old enough and eligible to do it for themselves.
But is that even realistic anymore anyway?
Maybe these driving lessons are in vain.
And maybe I’m the one wasting fuel and money on it.
The powers that be may or may not be able to do anything about fuel prices, but for one more catch 22, I’d beg of them to at least decrease the required learner hours to reduce the risk of further financial strain on families.
But that only increases our young drivers’ risk of danger.
What a time to be alive.