Several years ago, I had just finished photographing my then CEO, Jim, down by his barn when he asked THE DREADED QUESTION: “Do you want to drive the tractor?”
This stopped me in my tracks. I have never driven a tractor – or anything akin to a tractor – before. My reply was immediate, instinctual, as is often the case when I’m asked to step outside my comfort zone: “No.”
I do not – should not – operate heavy machinery. Most of my life is spent at a computer keyboard where the risk of physical damage remains minimal – to me, to those around me, to anything around me. The personal computer is my comfort zone. It does not entail a clutch.
I’ve never understood clutches. I lack the coordination required to operate one. My only experience with a clutch came at 16 when I was tested on a stick-shift vehicle for drivers’ training. The instructor’s truck lurched backwards across the sidewalk and hit a bush on school grounds. The shaken instructor passed me anyway, just so we wouldn’t have to do it again.
“Go ahead, drive it,” Jim said, oblivious to my background.
I know Jim well enough to know that he is a life-long learner; he endorses others to try new things, to step outside their element. Plus, he is not shy about sharing his toys. Not even Grandpa Saalman had ever offered me an opportunity to drive his tractor. He knew better. He valued his toys.
“That’s okay,” I told Jim. “It’s probably not a good idea.”
“Try it.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll ride with you.”
He wasn’t giving up. I caved. He would be beside me. What could go wrong?
Jim showed me how to turn the key, work the clutch, and shift into first gear.
We putted along.
This wasn’t so bad after all. I caught myself making tractor sounds with my vibrating lips.
“Want to go faster?”
Confidence knocked at my door, and I answered. I wanted to say something farm smart like, “There’s five more acres in the lower 40 I’ve got to plow,” reciting recalled lyrics from “Ode to Billie Joe.”
I shifted to the next gear. Eat my dust, Grandpa Saalman, I wanted to shout.
“Why don’t you go ahead and take it into the barn,” Jim said.
It seemed easy enough. The door was plenty wide as I passed through. Straight ahead, Jim’s son-in-law, Kurt, stood near a restored ’65 Chevrolet pickup, which had belonged to Jim’s late father-in-law. (As Jim’s wife, Pat, explained later, “When Dad died, it became part of our family. I learned how to drive it, as did our daughter, Selena, and our grandkids, Mira and Evan. If it could talk, it would have many stories to tell.”)
Pat and Jim Thyen (former CEO of Kimball International) with their prized pickup, circa 2011. (Photo provided)
The tractor continued its barn crawl. Still beside me, Jim instructed, “Okay, you can stop now.”
But the tractor wouldn’t stop. It – we – headed straight toward the grill of the blue truck.
I frantically pumped the brake, as if trying to stamp out fire ants. I practically stood on the brake pedal with both feet.
“Stop, stop,” Jim said, clearly alarmed.
The gap between tractor and truck closed.
“Scott, you’re going to hit the truck,” Kurt yelled.
It was a sickening, slow-motion feeling. I had resigned myself to the inevitable: there would be a collision.
I remembered a framed picture of this very same truck in Jim’s office. That’s how much he loved the truck; it was like family. I was going to plow into a family member of our CEO!!! This will not look too good on the not-too-distant job resume, I thought.
I worried Kurt might jump between the tractor and truck and play Super Son-In-Law. At the last possible second, though, a quick-thinking Jim reached over and did something. Perhaps he turned off the key. Anyhow, the motor stopped, the tractor rolled a few more inches and became still. You could barely fit a feather between tractor and truck. Disaster averted.
A few days later, Kurt confided, “I’m glad it was you and not me.”
Once off the tractor, I learned you must engage the clutch to stop a tractor, and Jim learned I had not known this.
To tractor trainers out there, remember: the first step to teaching someone to drive a tractor is to first teach them how to stop it.
I earned a nickname that day: Clutch.
“Next time we’ll have you practice in an open field first, Clutch,” Jim said.
But I knew my tractor days were over. Someone else will have to plow the rest of the lower 40. I was more than happy to climb into my Corolla and return to the comfort zone of an automatic transmission. As for the prized, undamaged truck, it has yet another story to tell.
Contact scottsaalman@gmail.com if you need a humorous speaker for a business or social gathering. Laughter is a key ingredient for mental well-being.