Why Am I Still Alive Pt. 19: Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road

In 1994, for the first time in my life, I had finally found my way to Great Britain other than stops at Heathrow. This visit was for a competition, the World Short Track Championships in Guildford, England which was scheduled shortly after the Winter Olympics in Norway. After a relatively poor performance at the event due to the soft, slow ice I decided I would explore an area that was geographically proximate and at the very top of my bucket list: Scotland.

I rented a car at the airport. When I found the car in the lot, I paused, and then counterintuitively walked around to the right side in order to sit down on the “wrong side.” Getting started I carefully merged my way on the left side of the sidestreets and out of the airport heading to highways to the west and north. My plan in the 72 hours I had on the ground was to immediately head North to Scotland to Edinburgh, and Glasgow, and then visit the Scottish Highlands and Loch Ness before dropping down for a short stint in Wales on my return day 3. 

Shifting the manual transmission using my left hand was odd, as was driving on the left side of the road. It was only the second time I had ever driven on the “wrong” side of the road, the first time being in Japan a few years prior. However, I was quickly able to invert muscle memory and mirror the activities required to follow the map up to Edinburgh, arriving six or seven hours later. There I ate some haggis, had some tea, and walked the walled city. I then turned around and headed west toward Glasgow to stay with the brother of the Canadian speedskating team doctor. The drive to Glasgow was in the post-sunset gloaming and I chose a somewhat slower but more interesting set of smaller roads vs. the main highway for my 2-hour trip.

The back roads had no traffic whatsoever and I was just enjoying the scenery in the dying light of day when I noticed a strange and scary phenomenon - there was a car headed directly at me in my lane! I jerked the steering wheel to the right, putting two wheels into the dirt apron of the road while honking the weak British horn of my rental car at the trespasser. We barely missed a head-on collision and we passed so closely that the other car clipped the left side rear-view mirror off my rental car, leaving it dangling by a cord after I stopped, heart pounding, to await the other driver’s return.

As I waited for the return of the other car that had nearly run me down it suddenly occurred to me… The car had clipped my LEFT mirror, which meant that I WAS THE ONE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD! In 90 minutes of traffic-less driving and multiple turns I had, at some point, resumed driving on the right side of the road out of habit. All my outrage disappeared into humiliation and I carefully made a U-turn to see if the other driver had stopped. However, no other vehicle was to be found and eventually I again turned back around and made my way to Glasgow uneventfully on the left (the right… er correct) side of the road.

As I was leaving the family homestead the next morning I said my goodbyes. I indicated that I was going to the Isle of Skye that day. They said, “Oh my! That’s so far! We’ve never been there!” (It was only 200 miles away!)

That day I drove from Glasgow north into the highlands past Ben Nevis (tallest mountain in Scotland), visited the famous Eilean Donan castle on the west coast, circled the Isle of Skye (one of the wildest places I have ever been) and then made my way at sunset along the length of Loch Ness to Inverness.

The next day I dropped to famous William Wallace landmarks of the walled city of Stirling and then Falkirk and then made my way to Liverpool, where I hoisted a few pints in the city of the Beatles. 

On my final day, I took a side trip to Wales driving a bit randomly looking for a small town to have lunch and soak in the local culture. I arrived in a small town where I had fish and chips. There, reading the walls of news clippings in the restaurant overlooking a shallow bay, I found that, prior to the bridge being built, that hundreds of people - over the years - had died trying to cross the sands of the bay at low tide. They had been sucked down into quicksand sinkholes on the route between the town and the one just across the bay - just 1/2 mile away, but 20 miles by solid land.  When the tides would recede people could (and still do - with a guide) walk the ½ mile stretch, but beneath the sand and mud were underground rivulets that would suck you through the sand and send you out to sea to drown. Sounded terrifying. I did not venture out.

I returned to Heathrow that evening. Unlike my Budget rental many years later in Houston, Avis immediately noticed the missing mirror and added a hefty charge to my rental bill for the damage. But I was just glad to be alive…