I saw it coming, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

One minute I was driving my beloved white Grand Prix down State Street on my way home from work. I knew the car behind me was going too fast, but there was nowhere to go, so I sat and waited as it crashed solidly with my rear bumper

I wasn’t hurt at all, and except for the rear bumper and muffler dragging on the ground, the car didn’t look that bad either. But then the insurance agent called: The unibody frame was damaged, and it would cost more to fix it than the car was worth.

Looking for a new car seemed almost adulterous. But I needed to get to work, and the insurance company wouldn’t pay for my rental forever.

Soon, the roads of Eau Claire became my own personal meat market. Friends gave up on trying to converse with me on the road, because I was constantly interjecting things like “Oooh! I’ll take that Jetta!” or “Teal is definitely my favorite color. But not the bright ’80s kind. The muted blue-green kind.”

I was shamelessly fickle. Every day, I liked something new. But eventually the days on which I wanted a Honda Civic became more and more frequent.

Turns out Hondas are gas-efficient so I can afford them, are nice enough so they will continue to be drivable for the foreseeable future and are next to impossible to find in Eau Claire. So, I hit the information superhighway in search of my dream car.

My best prospect was in Eau Claire after all: a silver four-door Civic with no visible damage except a scratch on the windshield. The previous owner had put close to 90,000 miles on it, but the car didn’t seem to know. It didn’t take up any more space than it needed to, but the interior felt anything but crowded. Behind the wheel, I felt more comfortable than I had in all the other cars I’d tried.

It also had a manual transmission.

Never mind that I had no idea how to drive it. I knew it would be my car.

I’d tried a few years earlier to drive my dad’s manual-transmission truck and never got past the point where I killed it instantly. I was going to have to learn from scratch. Forcing myself to get more involved in the driving process would be a good thing, I thought.

Plus, I was enthralled with the image of myself as a chick who drives stick. I wasn’t a tomboy in the rough-and-tumble sense, but I’ve always prided myself on my technical knowledge. I invented my own contraptions with Lego gears as a kid, and I got a perfect score on the electrical section of my ASVAB. I was a little embarrassed not to know how.

Friends offered lessons (“Did you find a stick so I can show you how to work it?”) and advice (“Just get it. I tore the hell out of my transmission the first week I had it, but I learned fast.”). My mom urged me to think carefully about whether I really wanted to have to deal with it all the time. I considered it carefully, but I knew.

And one nippy Tuesday, I ventured to the dealership and signed away my life’s savings. My little brother drove it off the lot.

In my spare time, I practiced driving in circles around a quiet block near campus. I had prepared myself for the learning curve, so I didn’t get too frustrated when it took three starts to get past a stop sign.

Eventually, I discovered what I had suspected all along: driving stick was a lot of fun. I drove for the sake of driving, something I’d never really done before. I offered coworkers rides home from deadlines, just to show off. When people called my cell, I proudly announced, “I have to let you go. I’m driving.” before hanging up on them.

My Grand Prix and I made a final, emotional journey from Eau Claire to Superior. I pulled over for an hour or so to nap in the driver’s seat, then finished the trip.

Driving stick hasn’t made me smarter or hipper. It doesn’t mean I’ve arrived at any particular level of competence. But I know I’m happier for having taken that chance.

Now excuse me while I take a victory lap.

Koehler is a senior English literature and print journalism major and managing editor of The Spectator.