The Stick Shift Misadventure

Photo by Bobo_is_soft, Public Domain

There has never been a worse time to learn stick shift. Less than 1% of cars sold in 2025 had a manual transmission. Exotic cars are no exception: Ferrari has not sold a manual car in almost 15 years. Electric cars can provide maximum torque at all times; they don’t have a ‘transmission’ in the usual sense. I called Flatirons Subaru in Boulder to ask if I could trade in my automatic for a stick. They had zero stick-shifters in the lot.

My stick-shift interest comes from the sandy, mesquite-shrubbed canyonland of my soul. It’s the reason I write my own software, do my own oil changes, mail postcards, and make my own books on a 1960s typewriter. It’s why I have a bike repair stand in my garage, and why you can find me at the Waffle House at 1 AM. Ultimately, “that’s just the way things are done” is worth as much to me as — how shall I put this — a pair of porcine-posterior peccadilloes.

I posted an ad on Craigslist, saying I’d pay for stick-shift lessons. The response was instructive. Over a dozen people emailed me to say that the damage I could do to a car’s clutch was far greater than what I was offering. My best bet would be to find a beater car on Craigslist, and learn by doing.

The beater arrived at my house on a flatbed trailer towed by a minivan. It was a Volkswagen Jetta with a bumper sticker that read “S***box Edition.” The front bumper was in the back seat. The stereo had an anti-theft feature called “not existing.” I was informed that warning chimes would go off if the car went above 20 MPH. All that said, it was advertised as ‘drivable.’ Price: $600.

The owner was a mechanic in the Nebraska panhandle. Let’s call him Steve. Before I continue, I must stress that Steve is an honest, decent man. He showed more integrity than any customer service agent I’ve dealt with in the past year. Character is revealed when things get screwy. Things were about to get very screwy.

I told Steve about my plans to learn stick-shift. He offered to show me the basics before we completed the sale. This was, in hindsight, a very good choice.

Photo by Peter Anderson, licensed under CC BY-ND

I sat in the driver’s seat, and Steve rode shotgun. I put in the clutch and brake, and turned the key. Then, I began searching for the “bite point”. I stepped on the gas a little while letting my foot off the clutch. The car began moving. To its credit, the car handled this part well.

I live in a suburb of Broomfield with long, picturesque streets that curve through parks and farmland. In other words, an unwalkable food desert. Between remote workers and helicopter parents, there are no pedestrians to worry about. It’s the perfect proving ground for a student driver. The brown mounds of the Erie landfill rose up as I learned the gears.

Steve had a lot of helpful advice, like “Go go go go go!” and “Gas, now! Shift! Shift!” The quiet streets were a safe space to stall several times. I learned that driving stick means committing to the shifts. You can’t sort-of shift, or hesitate in the clutch-gear-gas movement. If the clutch is out and you let off the gas pedal, the RPM will drop to zero, and you’ll stall. Neutral gear is more than just Car Wash Mode in a manual: it has an actual purpose when the car is not moving. For stick shift to work, you have to be bold, and it wasn’t working. I made note of that.

We made our way through the suburb. The first time I successfully shifted into second, then third, Steve and I cheered.

Two miles into our loop, the Jetta lurched.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No,” said Steve, “you shifted fine. Hmm.”

Hearing a ‘hmm’ in the engine can be bad. Hearing a ‘Hmm’ from your driving teacher is worse.

The car stalled again. I went through the movements: brake and clutch, ignition, and the car started. We sat at a stop sign, and Steve listened.

“It shouldn’t sound like that…” muttered Steve. “Here, hop out.”

The car barely made it back. It died on the doorstep; not on *my* doorstep, but on my neighbor’s doorstep. Where his children like to play hopscotch. Steve opened the hood and unscrewed the radiator cap.

“Um, maybe we should wait–” I started. The cap popped off, and coolant started bubbling out like a witch’s cauldron brew. It flowed down the street in a green river–right in front of my neighbor’s house. I hooked up my garden hose and began spraying.

“Earth Week 1” by Nick Harris, licensed under Creative Commons BY-ND 2.0

Steve was mortified. He said this had never happened to him, and he felt embarrassed as a mechanic. I told him I expected some issues with the car, but to learn stick-shift it had to, you know, drive.

Before he drove down from Nebraska, I told Steve I would pay him for his time in case we didn’t go through on the sale. I reminded him of my commitment, but he refused my money.

Photo by David Day, licensed under Creative Commons BY 2.0

As Steve backed the S***box Edition onto the trailer, it started smoking. We shook hands and chatted about audiobook podcasts he listened to on long hauls. It was cloudy as he drove off in his minivan, car in tow. When the street was hosed off, I went over to my neighbor and explained how I owed him a favor now.

I am no closer to learning stick-shift, though my neighbor said he’d help teach me. For now, Broomfield’s streets are safe. The guy at Flatirons Subaru? Eh… he’ll get back with me if something rolls into the lot.

The next time I lurk on Craigslist, I’ll hope for a seller as honest as Steve. Why can’t we get a Steve at the state capitol? I’d take him over Jared Polis any day.

Until next time, I’ll practice keeping my foot on the gas.

Boldly.

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