American youth attributes much more importance to arriving at driver's license age than at voting age.

-- Marshall McLuhan

This morning marks my 15th Father's Day, and you know what that means -- somebody at my house now has a learner's permit to drive.

I have dealt with this challenge the way most dads do -- I let his mother take an active role.

After all, she has been practicing on me for years.

But busy moms can't always be there, so I will occasionally buckle up in the passenger's seat, hand the keys to my son and grit my teeth as we back out of the garage.

"So this is what an astronaut feels like on a shuttle launch," I think to myself.

I think that, but I don't say it.

I am reluctant to say anything, because I don't want to startle a young man who for the first time in his life has my life in his hands.

For someone such as myself who likes to project a consistent image of calm control, this is all new territory.

My recent rides with Dale Earnhardt Jr. have become a great source of amusement to my family, who generally knows me for my grim stoicism -- "The reliability of a toolbox hammer with half the personality," my younger brother says.

Yeah, the family comedian laughs now, but we all know that the hours he spent teaching his own son and daughter to drive could be counted on the finger of one hand.

My brother and I come by this reluctance genetically, I suppose, because our own father delegated drivers ed duties to Mama and the public school system, which used to do a very good job at teaching youngsters the rules of the road.

They don't do it anymore, I guess, because the geniuses of state education think it more important to emphasize standardized testing on stuff nobody will ever use over driving a car, which we all will do every day for the rest of lives.

It is a life that I think about often as I sit in that passenger's seat watching my son zip through traffic at speeds often approaching the posted limit.

"Slow, slow, slow ..." I whisper.

I also share useful traffic tips and regular braking suggestions.

"Dad, I got it," he'll say, and I will try to regain an air of nonchalance with a hint of indifference.

"I'm just not used to sitting on this side of the car," I'll tell him.

Which is true.

Mail boxes, I've discovered, are closer to the road than I remembered. So are telephone poles. And I see every one of them -- sturdy, anchored, not likely to move if struck.

For the record, I DO NOT jam the floorboard with my foot, stomping some imaginary brake pedal at the slightest hint of an approaching red light.

However, I MIGHT quietly tap the side armrest and occasionally tug on the strap that hangs down beside the door.

What did the old philosopher say? "Life's about the journey, not the destination." He must have had a kid -- about 15 years old, I'd say.