How I summoned my nerve and reclaimed my parking bravado | Canada Voices

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When my husband bought himself his dream vehicle a couple of years back, I panicked. Not because I thought the cement-grey, extended-cab Toyota Tacoma was the gateway to a mid-life crisis – although he was convinced it made him look young – but because of parking.

Up until then, I had been an excellent parker. Parking was my thing. Parallel, angle, perpendicular – nothing could come between me and an available spot. Even the new technology, with its incessant beeps and chirps, couldn’t mess with my analogue spatial abilities.

Then along came the behemoth my hubby dubbed “The Taco.” Toyota advertises the truck as a “mid-size,” but I assure you it is not. It’s ginormous. No need to rehash history here, but let’s just say immovable pillars, the Taco and I got off to a rough start.

That affair put a dent in my parking bravado. Since then, I’ve stuck to the passenger seat, in the interests of wedded bliss.

But you know what I like even better than wedded bliss? Untracked powder.

Hubby should understand. After all, he and I met on Whistler Mountain as teenagers more than 40 years ago. Our friendship and subsequent courtship are as firmly rooted in the slopes and glaciers of the Coast Mountains as our marriage is in our three grown children – who also appreciate the allure of fresh snow under their skis.

So, on a recent morning when Hubby and I woke up to a 30-centimetre dump, I had a problem. Hubby had a chockablock schedule of virtual meetings and the only vehicle available was the Taco.

I momentarily considered calling a cab.

And then, I reminded myself that I am a brave and fearless woman who rides her mountain bike down steep, skinny trails flanked by massive fir trees. Surely I could shoehorn a truck into a teensy underground spot. The previous incident was nothing more than a fluke – a glitch in the parkingverse.

I donned my ski suit and summoned my nerve.

“I’m heading out,” I announced to Hubby, who was engrossed in his 8 a.m. Teams meeting.

He looked up, eyes wide, and shook his head. When he saw I was serious, he yanked off his headset and lunged for the “mute” and “video off” buttons.

“No, no. I’ll take you.”

Would our relationship survive another intimate encounter between one of his precious wheel wells and a concrete post?

It was a fair question. But unlike my husband’s fantasies of himself behind the wheel, the fresh snow wasn’t getting any younger.

“Nope,” I said. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

He searched his calendar for an opening that might allow him to sneak away for 15 minutes.

I snatched the keys. “I’ll be fine.”

The truth is, I wasn’t so sure. Before starting the ignition, I took a deep breath and texted Hubby.

Leaving now, will text after I successfully park your ducking [Apple likes to “correct” my adjectives] truck.

As I drove to the Whistler base, I offered a silent prayer for a relatively empty parkade with many options and no spectators.

Once I arrived, I eventually spied a pair of side-by-side open spots. The duo was flanked by menacing pillars, but still, jackpot!

Then I saw headlights in the rear-view mirror. I did not need an audience. I pulled right, lowered the window and motioned the would-be voyeurs to pass. At last, it was just me, the gargantuan truck and a double-wide opportunity.

I clicked the left blinker (Why? Who knows … probably stalling for time) and cranked the wheel. After my first attempt, the Taco was marooned dead centre on the white line between the two stalls. I consulted the side mirrors and began to back up. The luxury SUV parked behind seemed only inches away, but I knew: “Objects appear closer than they are,” or was it “Objects are closer than they appear”? I braked and decided to trust the backup camera. It seems wrong to look forward and drive backward. Still, I gingerly released the brake and inched back, watching the red horizontal line until it almost tapped the Mercedes’s bumper.

Back in drive, I navigated to the left-hand spot, careful to avoid nicking the oversized side mirror on the looming pillar. I stopped the engine and got out to examine my handiwork. The front bumper was a good metre from the wall. I got back in, restarted the beast and edged forward.

Beautiful.

After changing into my ski boots, I grabbed my skis and admired my masterpiece. Now I hoped someone would drive by and see how young I looked.

Later that day I tackled a steep double black diamond, but the adrenalin rush I felt at the bottom of that chute was nothing compared with the relief I felt seeing the Taco safely tucked away with nary a scratch.

I snapped a picture.

Riding the gondola, I felt a series of vibrations against my thigh. The last insistent nudge compelled me to remove my mitt and fish my mobile out of my pants pocket.

Did you make it?

Everything okay?

How’s my truck?

Clearly, Hubby’s meeting had adjourned.

I selected the photo, pressed send and stashed my phone in my pocket, confident my marriage would survive another day.

Kelley Korbin lives in West Vancouver.