Motormouth: Papa don't preach

"Drive slower!" was something I'd always heard from the passenger seat, courtesy of none other than my dad. 

As a rookie driver with a fresh driving licence, I felt like I'd been thrown back into driving school, with my dad as the new instructor. Now that his beloved car was in the trusty (or not-so-trusty) hands of his daughter, every drive became a masterclass from the passenger seat.

I often found myself wondering why he nitpicked about my speed when he would zoom down these same roads like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious. The irony wasn't lost on me, but I kept my right foot light on the accelerator and kept my thoughts to myself.

Even before I got my licence, I'd been observing my dad's driving, picking up dos-and-don'ts along the way. But apparently, I was still miles away from meeting his gold standard of road mastery.

According to him, this Mercedes-Benz GLB is the seventh car he's ever owned, following a lineup that included a Toyota Camry and a Toyota Harrier. The others? Lost to the mists of time before my existence. 

This man treats public transport like it's radioactive, only resorting to it when his car is in for maintenance. More often than so, he just hails for taxis. His car isn't just a vehicle - it's his shadow, never straying from his side.

Now that he had to entrust this precious piece of himself to me, it was only natural for him to get a little, let's say, particular. His fussiness about car care and his critiques of my driving skills reached new heights. 

Once, I asked him why he wouldn't let me drive his car alone. His answer was surprisingly candid: "It's not you I'm worried about, it's other drivers on the road." 

Clearly, his concern wasn't just about preventing me from getting into legal trouble. His four decades of driving experience have shaped him into a cautious and defensive driver. It's no wonder he boasts a spotless driving record.

For months after getting my licence, I received these "private lessons" as often as possible. 

Among all my driving mishaps, one stands out - when I accidentally reversed into a small tree at an outdoor carpark. My dad's warning came a split second before the small "bang". The result? A dent and some chipped paint. What I got in exchange was a lecture, and the subtle reminder of my parking mishap every time I see my accidental creation.

Despite the occasional mishaps, these "private lessons" really boosted my driving confidence. All those mounted-curbs in parking lots and his constant reminders to ease over speed bumps as he goes: “The car's suspension can be easily damaged!” (in Mandarin) - these slowly but surely moulded me into a more skilled driver.

It's funny how even after my four years as a qualified driver, my dad still eyes me behind the wheel like I'm a toddler operating heavy machinery. I guess, in his eyes, I'll always be the novice driver - one he's reluctantly allowed to take the wheel of his precious Mercedes mode of transport.

A father tends to view his daughter as a potential dummy behind the wheel.

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