When you have a stroke you have to stop driving for at least a month. Fair enough! For the first month after my stroke I struggled to get into a car let alone drive it. You're also supposed to tell the DVLA, but, really, that was well down my agenda. There was no way I was getting behind a steering wheel until I was sure I could do the job safely anyway.
I don't have a car of my own but I often drive the van for the WCBS. Happily, at about the time I had my stroke we recruited several driving volunteers who took over charity shop deliveries, though organising moving anything for the boats proved to be more difficult.
After my disastrous attempt to ride a bike, I bought myself an electric trike. That gets me around, but its carrying capacity is limited, important now that we're into the fire lighting season and I need to bring in firewood.
Eventually, as my control of right side limbs started to return, I started to think about driving. The main issue, I thought, was my tendency to exhaustion. No long journeys.
The advice from the DVLA is, to say the least, confusing. You can probably drive after a month but it's probably best to ask a doctor and if it turns out that your assessment of your own driving ability is over optimistic, in other words, if you crash, then you're in trouble!
My physiotherapist ( note for Americans, provided free of charge by the NHS) applied for a driving assessment.
I emailed the bloke at the Inland Waterways Association who organises our van insurance. He said I couldn't drive the van until the DVLA said it was OK. I wrote to the DVLA. They sent me a confusing form and said that if it wasn't back by a certain date they'd revoke my licence. It included a bit to be filled in by a doctor. I arranged a doctor's appointment.
As soon as the appointment was arranged I heard, at last, about my driving assessment, but my form had to be back at DVLA before the date.
The doctor said that he couldn't assess my ability to drive, but he completed the form anyway. I posted it.
The driving assessment centre sent me a load of information, including how to find their place in Eccles. The date was Tuesday, 27th October. On the Monday evening I looked for the information sheet. I knew exactly where I'd put it, but it wasn't there. I thought, maybe it was an email. I interrogated my computer, but nothing showed up. I started to search online for driving assessments Eccles. I kept being directed to a place in Solihull instead. It was getting late and I was tired.
Eventually I found a map of the location for the driving assessment centre, but it was in a Rugby stadium. That seemed odd and I didn't trust it. I decided to set out ridiculously early for my 11.15 appointment to give me time to scour Eccles for the place if necessary.
I left the house at 7.30am and walked the quarter mile to the tram terminus.That was the longest distance I'd walked since my stroke and I was quite pleased with myself. It was before 9.30 so my old codger's card wouldn't work and I had to buy a ticket from the machine, which I confused by presenting my credit card in the wrong place.
I took a seat at the front, but the low early sun mostly blanked out the view forward. I got off at Picadilly station and had my first post stroke experience of escalators, which I negotiated without incident.
My plan was to get a train to Patricroft and then a taxi onwards. Outside the booking office were some ticket machines, so I decided to give one a try. I found the right place for my card this time, but it charged me £8.20 and gave me 2 identical tickets. I took them into the booking office and asked the single fare to Patricroft. £4.10 came the reply. "Your machine's charged me twice" I said. "It's always doing that" said the booking clerk, and she quickly organised me a refund.
My train was to leave from platform 14. One of a pair of platforms on the distant edge of the station. For the first ever time it was of concern to me that one of the moving walkways was out of action. To avoid overcrowding on what are busy but quite small platforms, passengers are now encouraged to sit watching a screen on the elevated concourse until they are called on to the platform for their train.
I elected to ignore this and head straight to the platform. This was partly because I was concerned about being caught up in a scrum, but mainly because I enjoy watching trains and people, which makes a station platform a good place to be for me.
Trains came and went. People came, went and had minor crises. I was quite happy, though I would have liked to be sitting down.
A two car diesel train came in and loaded its passengers. The doors closed, it moved to the end of the platform and stopped at a red signal. The computerised voice announced my train would be next, then, almost immediately, told us to stand clear as the next train wasn't scheduled to stop. A long electric train slowly approached over the viaduct but couldn't come too close because the diesel train was still waiting at the platform end. When that left the electric train moved forward and ground to a halt in the platform, unable to go further as the signal had gone red again.
Many people tried the doors, but they were firmly shut. The guard got out and some people nipped in through his door. He threw them out. All of a sudden, there was a change of plan. The door lights lit up and people started boarding. I joined them and heard the announcement that this was the 08.54 to Liverpool calling at blah blah. It stopped at Patricroft, which is what I wanted to hear.
Another announcement was less welcome. The train was faulty and so would be terminating at Oxford Road! We would all have to get off at Oxford Road and the train would run empty to Liverpool for repair!
I'm not sure what was faulty as it was clearly capable of running to Liverpool. Why, I wondered, couldn't it just stop at the scheduled stations en route and let the passengers off.
Ours is not to reason why!
Oxford Road is a pleasant station to wait an hour on. It was rebuilt in the 1950s, largely of laminated wood, just before the cost cutting run down of the railways got into it's stride and new stations were built as cheaply as possible. For an example, get a train to Leeds.
At 9.30 my Greater Manchester old person's travel card clicked in, so I needn't have bothered paying. I rang the assessment centre and confirmed that it was in the Rugby stadium. Just before 10 my train came. As I rode high above the Rochdale Canal I rang a taxi firm and asked to be met at Patricroft station at 10.08 when my train was due there. As we left Deansgate I got a message that my taxi was waiting for me. As the train ran into Patricroft I got a reminder about the taxi.
I jerkily descended the steps and approached the taxi. "I could have grown a beard waiting for you" said the driver. I explained and he seemed OK about it. As we travelled he told me the history of the stadium, how one Rugby club had gone bust and it had been taken over by high flying Sale Sharks. We chatted about boats and strokes etc, then he deposited me outside the stadium.
The driving centre occupies a glass fronted office next to the stadium entrance and ticket office. I rang the bell and was shown into a waiting area with armchairs. A couple in their 50s were there and we engaged in desultory conversation. I had taken my coat off and laid it on an empty chair.
I planned what to do when I was called. I would pick up my coat and carry it under my right (weak) arm. take my stick in my left (good) hand, then walk in a stately and confident way to wherever they wanted me.
After a while a pleasant looking black woman in her thirties came and asked me to follow her to the office. She reminded me rather of Trisha Goddard who used to host a TV talk show many years ago.
I grabbed my coat and somehow got it wrapped chaotically round both arms, picked up my stick with my right hand and staggered like a drunk disturbed in a doorway towards the office. Not a good entrance!
In the office was a thick set man in his late fifties. She was the physiotherapist and he a driving examiner. I showed my driving licence, handed over evidence of my current medication and told them my NI number, which I know by heart. They told me their names, but I forgot them instantly, so I'll call her Tricia. She asked me to move various bits of myself, like turning my head so that I could get an all round view. She gave me some cognitive tests that were so simple that, if you couldn't do them. you shouldn't be let out on your own never mind drive.
The time came to get into a car. The man sat in the front with his dual controls and Tricia sat in the back taking notes. After 53 years of mostly incident free driving I tried to remember the proper way of doing things, mirror, signal maneuver etc. After the Transit van that I was used to, albeit 9 months since I had driven, the little car seemed like a toy. Things didn't start well, setting off in third gear, but the car never juddered, such was the torque from the engine. We drove round a little roundabout then back round the car park, where I had to demonstrate an emergency stop. Good job we were wearing seatbelts.
Next we were off on to the open road. It took me a little while to get used to the gearbox as the car seemed quite happy in almost any gear, of which there were 6. We drove around Trafford Park, with lots of junctions, roundabouts, traffic lights etc to deal with. I soon got the hang of using the right gear for the circumstances, though that engine was very forgiving. My only problem was getting the right pressure on the brake for a smooth stop. This is not surprising. After 9 months of not driving I was in charge of an unfamiliar roller skate instead of a big van. As a result there were 3 juddery stops at lights etc, and many more smooth ones.
We returned to the stadium and I stopped, smoothly, in the indicated place. I was asked to wait while Tricia and the man went into the office to discuss me. When they called me in it was bad news. They thought that the 3 juddery stops meant that I didn't have sufficient control of my right foot, not that I was just unfamiliar with that car. I could come back and try again in 3 months, but if I failed then I'd have to drive an automatic. I've never driven an automatic but I would imagine that your right foot does everything. It's no use to me anyway as I doubt if the WCBS will buy an automatic van just so that I can drive it.
Disconsolate, I donned my coat and left the building with directions to the 'bus stop. Outside, I began to panic about where I'd put my driving licence, always useful for ID if nothing else. As I was fumbling about in pockets the man came out and offered a lift to the 'bus stop.
I have a problem with people offering help. I usually don't want it, but generally accept as it's churlish to refuse. If I actually need help I'll ask. Struggling to do things helps me to educate my brain to take control of my limbs and digits again, but I don't wish to seem ungrateful. Sometimes people are thoughtless though. Our local corner shop has a very strong spring on its door. I can get through it easily now, but a while ago it was a challenge. Usually, when I leave, the shop staff open it for me, which is nice, but unnecessary. Recently I went there to send off some parcels. As I approached the door a man barged in front, then let the door slam in my face. That's thoughtless.
Many blind people have stories of being helped across a road they didn't want to cross. Sadly, many blind women tell stories of being groped on the pretext of assistance.
I could easily have walked to the 'bus stop, but I accepted the lift. I think Tricia and the man got an impression of me being less able than I actually am, possibly because of my bungled walk to the office.
At the 'bus stop I continued to search for my licence. With that found, I dug out my 'bus pass, just in time for the 'bus to arrive. I hobbled on, went back for my stick, boarded again, scanned my pass then sat down in the priority seats.
Although the number 67 'bus goes into Manchester, my plan was to change on to a tram at Eccles. I got off at the interchange, only to find that the line to Eccles was closed for repairs.
I was getting tired and hungry. Across the road was a chip shop with sit down cafe attached. I entered and sat down at a table. A tall, polite, grey haired man of Indian heritage brought me a menu. I thought the prices a bit high, especially for fish, so I ordered chips, peas and gravy. The tall man soon brought me a plate piled high with these foodstuffs. Perhaps if I ordered fish I'd have been served a whale!
The only other customers were two old ladies, clearly regulars, who were enjoying a good natter. It was half term holiday and at the back tables were two girls, about 9 ish, all pink and rosy cheeked, jabbering away to each other. I got the impression that the tall waiter was the grandad of one of them. That particular girl got on her mobile 'phone to her dad to beg for money for getting her nails done. He said no, but soon a mixed race woman, her mum, called in to collect her and promised that they would go together to the nail bar in a couple of days. I don't recall little girls getting their nails done when I was 9. How childhood has changed!
The 67 'bus made it's way haltingly towards Manchester. I had intended to stay on to Victoria, where I could get a train to Ashton. I had another pressing ticket office task, getting a new Senior Railcard.
Modern 'buses have, somewhere in their structure, a little woman hidden who announces each stop in advance. This is very handy for passengers on an unfamiliar route. When she announced that the next stop would be Salford Crescent Station, I changed my plan. Trains for Ashton stop at Salford Crescent and getting on there would save me a longish walk at Victoria. I could also buy my railcard, or so I thought.
The booking clerk was getting on in years, but didn't seem to be an expert at his craft. He looked doubtful about my request and said he'd never issued a railcard before, I filled in a form, showed my driving licence and handed over money. After a bit of messing about with the ticket machine he admitted defeat and handed me my money back. He said they'd just installed a new ticket machine and he was having a lot of trouble with it.
My train was a two car class 150 diesel. As it rumbled in I mused on how, though I regarded it as a modern train, it was actually now about 40 years old and probably destined for the scrapyard soon. I like the 150s. They're quiet, unpretentious trains. If I had unlimited funds I think I might buy a 150 and an abandoned railway track to run it on. I could live on it and move it often for a different view.
At Victoria passengers got off and passengers got on, then we set off up the steep Miles Platting bank. The day was sunny, but in the distance lay a blanket of black cloud. Against this cloud, standing out vividly, was about one third of a rainbow, with a ghostly bow above it. As we cantered across Clayton viaduct I noticed that the cloud was covering more of the sky and the rainbow was growing with it. Beyond Droylsden and over Ashton Moss the black cloud dominated, cut into a semicircle by the bright bow.
Detraining at Ashton, I went to the ticket office to try again for my railcard. It was closed. I walked down the slope to road level and there met a railwaywoman. I asked about booking office opening times. "It's open now" she said. I assured her that it wasn't. "Oh" she said, "that'll be because of the new ticket machine, they're having trouble getting it to work".
It was a short walk on the wet pavement to our door, Emuna, coffee and a well earned lie down.
