My dad, once a driver’s ed instructor, taught me to drive on the backroads of Illinois and Wisconsin. I’ve never had an a collision as a driver, but as a passenger, I have been in major accidents, one for each time period of my life from adolescence, to college, to the pro’s, to living abroad.
I thought passing my driver’s license in Paris France a decade after my career ending in a car accident was the scariest thing I’d ever done. But getting behind the wheel after a major brain surgery in Switzerland takes balls.
Four decades later, I had to learn how to drive again after a traumatic brain injury. Never one to shy from a challenge, my driving lessons take place in the Jura Mountains since we had moved to St. Cergue.
The drive from Nyon, down by the lake, is a six and a half mile climb on a treacherous road with sixty curves, six of which are hairpin turns.
73 injured and 4 dead
marks one accident's location
Before we begin the ascent, a sign warns that 73 were injured and 4 people died in the last decade. At every sharp turn, road markers remind driver’s where an accident or death occurred on the Route Blanche aka. the corkscrew.
On weekends youth play motorcycle madness, a type of Russian roulette where they attempt to see who can beat the record for the fastest up or down.
If that isn’t challenging enough for other vehicles, the rugged route is also a favorite for hardcore bicyclists.
Luckily, I can practice my skills on the route d'Arzier, the other road from town that has wider turns and loops through villages.
“Allez, allez … faster!" Gerald insists.
“I know,” I answer, “I am going at a speed where I feel in control.”
“Okay, Pat, but we are haven’t left the parking lot yet!”
When I turn onto the highway, clutching the steering wheel, Gerald insists that I loosen up and use finger tip control. I hit the brakes before every curve, lean into every corner.
“Focus 
straight ahead. Don’t look at cars coming the opposite direction!” Gerald barks. “If you keep swerving into the field, you’ll hit a cow!”
Invariably as soon as I see another vehicle approaching, I jerk the wheel and hit the breaks, as if I am on Mr. Toad’s wild ride at a Disney park.
“Don’t cross your hands when turning the wheel, you could lose control,”
he reminds me,“If you squeeze the steering wheel any harder, you’ll break it. Besides, it's is illegal in this country and could cost you CHF 120 ($135)”.
“Relax. Lean back. You’re sitting on the dashboard!”
Arrhhh.
As I swerve around curves, cling to the mountain side and try to maintain the 50 mile an hour speed limit, I scream, “Wheeee, I feel like a race car driver!”
Obstacles abound: logging trucks, farm vehicles, train crossroads, pedestrian crosswalks, motorcycles, buses, cars, campers and bicycles.
But the greatest distraction is the incredible view. The spectacular Swiss panorama makes it difficult to focus on the highway. To my right the snow-covered Alps rise above Lake Geneva. Mont-Blanc, the majestic crowned jewel, reigns over the land. If I look to my left cows graze in green pastures and golden rapeseed fields wave in the wind.
Honestly, I don’t think I will ever master driving in Europe.
I’ll keep practicing, but the world will be safer, if I just ride shotgun daydreaming, window gazing, writing stories about my sublime Switzerland.
