On driving and navigating
The vulnerability of switching seats, both off-road and on
“How do you feel?” Andy asked as we rolled down the road.
I was driving Walter, our big yellow truck. I admit I don’t sit in the driver’s seat often; I am quite comfortable with my role as the navigator.
Before that particular day, in fact, I hadn’t driven Walter for over a year. Granted, we hadn’t been traveling during that year of no driving—we were still parked in Montana then, working on the build. Those days, we only took Walter out for essential errands, like to the fabricator’s shop, or down the valley to the Motor Vehicle Division to take care of registration paperwork. Because the build was not finished then and the lights were not yet hooked up properly, I didn’t even ride inside Walter during these forays onto the roads; I drove close behind our truck in my little car so others on the road would be safer.
Once we gave my little car away and hit the road in mid-August for our initial two-month shakedown tour, Andy actually wanted to do all the driving at first. We were still getting used to our rig and how it performs in various conditions, and plus, if you recall my post back in August, we encountered numerous stressful car trouble issues at the outset.
Eventually, however, I knew I would need to start sharing the driving responsibilities. The problem was, the longer I went without driving Walter, the more attached I became to my seat, the passenger seat. The courage I initially felt on the day we first met Walter (captured in the second half of the video below) has dissipated.
It’s not that I don’t know how to drive, but Walter is a beast, especially on the narrow two-lane roads we frequented. Plus, I had heard Andy mention several times how physical it was to drive this big work truck, as compared to a cushy passenger vehicle. And although I’d been able to drive a manual transmission vehicle since my teen years, I noticed Andy seemed to wrestle with the gear shift in certain situations. Then there was the matter of how and when to use the brake assist feature; it sounded confusing. And I didn’t truly understand the high-low range options for the 4WD.
Logically, I knew the longer I put off taking a turn driving, the more intimidated I would feel, and yet I continued to find excuses. It wasn’t in my nature to be nervous about trying new things like this—at least it hadn’t been in my younger years— but as I’ve written about before, I’ve become a veritable chicken-butt as I’ve aged. It’s frustrating.
Finally, I had to just face it. I abandoned my cozy passenger seat and climbed up behind the wheel.
I had been driving for an hour through a scenic wilderness area, enjoying the views and trying to stay loose and relaxed when the terrain began to change. Dramatically. Before long, the road looked like it belonged in one of those fancy sports car commercials—the ones with the small print at the bottom of the screen:
“Professional driver on a closed course—do not attempt.”
But Walter is not an ultimate driving machine known for hugging the curves. Walter is eleven feet high and shaped like a toaster. He can get us anywhere we want to go—eventually—but his cornering abilities rank somewhere between a U-Haul and a ready-mix concrete delivery truck.
Our twisting ribbon of black top grew increasingly narrow and steep, traversing tight hairpin turns down to the bottom of a canyon, followed soon after by the equally arduous climb back out. Even as I tried to nonchalantly make small talk about the lovely scenery, I had to force myself to loosen my grip on the steering wheel every few minutes so my knuckles could regain their original color.
“How do you feel?” Andy asked.
“I feel very uncomfortable,” I admitted.
It was honest.
I continued. “But I fully expected to feel very uncomfortable driving Walter today, so I’m meeting my own expectations. And I suppose if I’m meeting expectations, then I’m right on track.”
I sacrificed one small corner of my peripheral vision to glance over at Andy’s face. His eyes remained focused on the serpentine road, but his mouth twisted into a smile.
On our recent final last day in little Stevensville, Montana, we met up at the local brewery with some other overlanding friends—Brett and Liz from Our Overland Life, and Aurthur and Dana from Green Dragon Overland. Let’s just say, Liz and Dana are far more hard-core than I am. Lizzy even competes in the annual Rebelle Rally, a grueling 8-day, 2500 km, wilderness off-roading challenge wherein two-person teams navigate intense, unforgiving terrain with only paper maps and compasses, running primarily on courage and caffeine.
With nothing to lose but my pride, I opened up to the women about my struggles with intimidation and lack of confidence when it comes to driving Walter, as well as other activities that I perceive as risky. I used to be a gutsy kid—climbing trees and jumping off swings and launching my bike off rickety ramps. Evil Knievel was my hero. But something shifted when I was the mom and my own kids were the daredevils and we had no health insurance or financial padding in our lives. My risk assessment pendulum swung hard in the other direction, and I developed a strong preference for keeping two feet solidly on level ground.
I told my two new friends about the day Andy and I went caving in Vietnam, how embarrassingly hard it was for me compared to him1.
“But you did it?” they asked.
“Of course, I did it. I wasn’t going to let my insecurities stop me from at least trying. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, though, especially jumping off the cliff at the end of the cave into the dark water below.”
“Wait. You jumped off a cliff into water in the dark? How high was it?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that high. Maybe 15-20 feet at the most.”
Two sets of overlanding adventure women’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I could never do that,” said the woman who holds her own with the top off-road drivers in the world.
Oh.
These two adventurous women who I found intimidating were impressed with my courage to do something they would back away from. Wait. What?
Lizzy shared her concerns for next year’s Rebelle Rally. The two-person team format designates a driver and a navigator. While switching positions is not against the rules of the event, the teams are intentionally formed around each member’s strengths. Liz has always been the driver.
This year she and her navigator, with only a few years of experience between them, finished a respectable 18th of 58 entries. But next year she plans to partner with someone new, one of her best friends who is also a skilled driver. Together, they’ve decided Liz will move to the passenger seat for the 2025 event. She is a very good driver, but her new partner is an even better one.
Liz is nervous about being the primary navigator. She is inexperienced. She is not quick with math. The technical skills required are intimidating for her and will require intensive studying and practicing. The driver’s seat—not the passenger seat—is her comfort zone.
Reflecting on that conversation, I realize four things:
I am not a total and complete chicken-butt. I have done some hard things, even as a middle-aged adult.
Being afraid of some things but not others is normal.
We can push ourselves to conquer fears, or we can at least face and manage our fears to the point that they don’t paralyze us.
It’s ok to admit our fears, being vulnerable with people who might be better at some things than we are.
Fear unchecked builds more fear.
Courage unlocked builds more courage.
Vulnerability with others encourages them to reciprocate.
I’m so very glad we are out of the storage unit. Living in that cramped, dark space is not something I ever thought I would do. And although I am grateful for the last month’s safe, dry, and warm-ish shelter; I certainly hope we will never be in a place to live like that again.
I am so very grateful for the friends—old, new, and very new—who have supported us along our journey thus far, especially those who have cared for us during this past crazy month.
But we are moving on.
I am committing here, in this forum, that despite my trepidation, I will continue to face and hopefully overcome this fear of mine. If Lizzy can move to the passenger seat for next year’s Rebelle, I can move to the driver seat—at least part of the time—as Andy and I wander the world in Walter.
What personal difficulty sits across the cab from you YOU, friend? Are you ready to face the task of switching seats, even if you are intimidated? Would you like to name it here in the comments so you can see it in print? It just might be the push you need to take action.
Until next week,
Sherry
P.S. I’ve been so encouraged the past few weeks that some of you have shared my blog, Diesel & Dignity, with others. I love finding new readers and adding them to this little community. Who among your friends and family would enjoy reading of our adventures? Click below to share this journey with them.
Here’s the Facebook write-up from that caving day in Vietnam, February 17, 2024:
NOMADIC MIDLIFE, END OF DAY 79:
Sometimes you do something because you love it.
Sometimes you do something because you love someone.
Today was one of the latter.
I knew that going caving--actual caving with helmets and headlamps and climbing harnesses, rather than just riding a boat or walking on a pretty little boardwalk with spotlights--was Andy's idea of a good time. He has been looking forward to exploring one of Vietnam's largest caves for the whole trip.
I could have stayed behind and given him my blessing to have fun on his own. But I claim to be comfortable being uncomfortable. I say that I want to confront my fears head-on. These things are easy to say, but harder to do. Rather than sitting the caving adventure out, I decided to push myself to do it with him, instead.
It's not that I am afraid of heights or enclosed spaces or the dark. It's just that I get dizzying vertigo when there is too much visible space above my head and below my feet. I lose my balance entirely, which makes me cling to whatever stable surface I can find. Frequently, I just freeze. My body won't move. I'm not actually afraid of the activity itself--especially if I am strapped securely into a climbing harness. I just freeze up when I feel the vertigo, the lack of a proper center of gravity that I can manage, the sensation of having zero sense of balance, so bad that simply turning my head may send me catapulting backwards into the abyss.
Our tour group consisted of us and eight young people, ages 20-30. One of them--not our guide--was literally a certified caving instructor. For this group, this activity was just a fun way to spend a day. For me, however, it was much bigger. It was a chance to face a terrifying challenge.
The very last activity of the day was to jump about 15-20 feet from a metal platform anchored into the side of the cave down into the cold water below, lit only by the headlamps of others.
Six people, including Andy, made the leap without much hesitation. Their whoops and hollers echoed off the cave walls. Two others announced that they "don't like to jump from high places" and they climbed down a ladder instead. That left me and one other woman to stand around at the top awkwardly, trying to gather our courage.
But I finally decided there was no way I was going to come halfway around the world, climb up the ridiculously steep side of a karst, spelunk through a cave that was in no way safe or reasonable for a person with my abilities and stress level, and then not jump at the end.
I didn't count down. I just leaned forward until I knew there was no hope of recovery, then jumped. It wasn't graceful, but it got the job done. Soon enough, it was over, and the cool water rinsed away the tension I'd been carrying for the past few hours.
So yeah. I did it. And I didn't die.
Goodnight from Phong Nha, Vietnam. If you are standing on the platform of something important and big and scary, friend, may you find the courage to lean into the process until you can't turn back. Your leap doesn't have to be a thing of beauty.
One personal challenge I’m embarking on: trying to get a writing career going 😅😅
As always, I enjoy reading about your adventures. As a co-worker used to say, if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.