Ten Centimeters from the Curb

During a driving test, an unexpected movement made the teacher realize that we are not always in control of the wheel—or of our lives.

The thirty-seat bus slowly reversed into the practice yard. The engine hummed steadily, deep and heavy, blending with the soft grinding of tires on the pavement. In the driver's seat, the teacher held the wheel, his eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror to gauge the distance between the tires and the curb. This was one of the most difficult maneuvers of the graduation test: reversing the bus and pulling in close to the road so that both the front and rear tires landed exactly in the required position.

The teacher had not learned to drive carelessly, nor had he ever sought to buy a license. From the very first day of the course, he had attended every practice session, patiently rehearsing each movement. For this parking exercise, the rules allowed a distance of fifteen centimeters from the tire to the curb. Any farther, and the test taker could lose points or fail that portion of the exam. So throughout his training, the teacher always chose the safest approach: aiming for exactly fifteen centimeters, neither closer nor farther.

After many practice sessions, the movement became second nature. He knew when to turn the wheel, which marker to watch in the mirror, when to straighten the wheel, and when to stop. Each time the bus settled beside the curb, the distance was a steady fifteen centimeters. He had no wish to show off his skill; he only hoped to complete the test exactly as he had learned.

On graduation day, the atmosphere in the test yard grew noticeably more tense. Those waiting for their turn stood outside watching, while the instructor observed every movement. The teacher sat behind the wheel, his hands resting firmly on the steering wheel. Though calm, he reminded himself not to be overconfident.

"Just do it like during practice. Aim for exactly fifteen centimeters and that's it."

As the bus began to reverse, someone standing nearby called out:

"Teacher, watch the rear tire carefully."

The teacher kept his eyes on the rearview mirror and replied briefly:

"I'm watching the exact marker I practiced with."

The other person watched as the body of the bus slowly drew toward the curb:

"Good, keep your hands steady like that."

The bus continued to reverse. Every movement was just as it had been in dozens of previous attempts. The rear of the bus had entered the space, the rear tire was nearly at fifteen centimeters, and only a little more remained before he could straighten the wheel and bring the bus parallel to the curb. The teacher could see clearly the position he had marked out. In his mind, every calculation was complete.

But just as he was about to take hold of the wheel again, the teacher suddenly felt his hand shift a little further. The movement happened very quickly—just enough to change the direction of the bus. He froze. It was not a movement he had planned, nor was it part of the technique he had practiced throughout the course.

"Why did my hand move further?"

The thought flashed by, but the bus was still moving. There was no time to sit and analyze; he had to adjust immediately to the new position. The rear tire had moved about five centimeters closer to the curb, meaning the distance was now only ten centimeters. If the front tire stayed at fifteen centimeters, the bus would not be straight. He focused his entire gaze on the mirror, gently bringing the front tire in line, striving to keep the bus parallel.

The engine continued its steady roar. His hands turned the wheel bit by bit, without haste. The long, heavy bus gradually settled neatly beside the curb. When it came to a complete stop, both the front and rear tires were exactly ten centimeters from the curb, perfectly straight, as if measured in advance.

The onlookers stepped forward, bending down to check the distance, then looking at one another in astonishment. One of them could not hide his admiration:

"You drive wonderfully, teacher! Both the front and back of the bus are exactly ten centimeters from the curb."

Another nodded:

"Parking a thirty-seat bus this close and this evenly is truly difficult."

The teacher was praised, but he felt no pride at all. He looked down at his own hands, and a nameless unease rose within him. For he knew very well that he had only intended to aim for fifteen centimeters. It was that unexpected shift of his hand that had brought the tire closer. Had he not adjusted the front of the bus in time, that maneuver might not have turned out as beautifully as everyone was now seeing.

"I had only intended to aim for fifteen centimeters," the teacher said slowly. "Just as I reached the right position, for some reason my hand moved further."

One person, thinking the teacher was merely being modest, smiled:

"Whatever the case, you handled it very precisely."

The teacher did not argue. He simply stood in silence, looking at the two tires resting neatly beside the curb. The incident had ended well, but the question lingered for a long time: why, in that brief moment, had his hand done something outside his own intention?

From that small experience in the test yard, the teacher thought of all the people holding a wheel out on the road. Sometimes a fully alert driver is suddenly overcome by drowsiness. Sometimes a person is driving perfectly within the law when everything suddenly goes dark before their eyes, and the wheel sways for a few seconds. In just one moment of losing self-control, a vehicle can lurch in another direction and cause heartbreaking consequences.

When an accident occurs, investigators can usually only rely on concrete evidence to conclude that the driver was speeding, steered wrongly, or lost control of the vehicle. It is very hard for others to believe a driver who says that while driving normally, he suddenly could not see, or that his hands no longer obeyed his will. But from that very driving test, the teacher understood that there are things that happen in life which are not easily explained.

The joy of passing the test therefore did not turn into self-satisfaction. On the contrary, it made him more careful. Driving skill is important, and experience is important too, but no one should believe themselves so capable that they are certain to avoid every danger. We ourselves can be careless, and those driving near us may also be unskilled or lose their composure. On the road, a very small deviation is sometimes enough to change the fate of many people.

After that day, the image of two tires exactly ten centimeters from the curb remained in the teacher's memory. To outsiders, it was simply a beautiful maneuver. But to him, it was a silent reminder: we are not always in complete control of everything. For this reason, the more skilled we are, the more humble we must be; the more familiar the road, the more careful we must be; and every time we take hold of the wheel, we must keep the mind calm, never overconfident for even a single moment.

The Meaning of the Story

We need to train our skills and follow traffic laws, but we must never be arrogant enough to believe we can always control every situation. When we take the wheel, we should keep the mind alert, humble, and careful, so as to protect ourselves and those around us.

Compiled from a dharma talk by Venerable Thích Chân Quang