How I keep the last stretch from taking me down
Driveway Mode is how I get through the last lap when my body can’t be trusted on autopilot.
It sounds dramatic to call 30 or 40 feet “the last lap,” but that short distance is where a lot can go wrong.
It’s the walk from the car to the door.
The step from the sidewalk to the entryway.
The stretch between tired and inside.
And when I’m already loaded up, that little distance can become the most dangerous part of the day.
The trap is simple:
I can still feel capable in my head while my body is one bad step from going down.
That disconnect is what makes this chapter matter.
Because the last lap doesn’t just threaten a fall.
It threatens my confidence.
My dignity.
My trust in my own body.
My sense that I can still move through the world without everything turning into a public mess.
That part matters to me.
I learned it the hard way at a liquor store.
I was feeling good that day — good for me, anyway. Good enough that I let myself walk in with old confidence.
No cane.
Strong stride.
Acting like my body was still the body I remembered.
Then my affected toe caught the slightest transition plate at the entrance.
Down I went.
The first truth of that fall was shock.
Not “I knew this was coming.”
Not “I was being reckless.”
Just pure shock:
Oh my God. I can’t believe this is happening.
That’s what makes this kind of fall so dangerous. It doesn’t always feel dramatic before it happens.
It feels normal enough.
That’s the lie.
And the most common mistake before Driveway Mode is always the same:
I move like the old me, or I move like I want other people to think I still can.
That’s the vanity trap.
Sometimes it’s not even about strangers anymore. At this point, strangers can think whatever they want.
But when people are watching — family, familiar faces, people who know me — there is still a part of me that wants to move cleanly, normally, quickly.
I don’t want to limp all over the place while everybody sees it.
I don’t want to look like a mess.
That’s the wrong instinct.
Because the minute I start rushing for appearances, I’m putting myself in danger for vanity.
And vanity is not the winner here.
That’s the deeper truth under Driveway Mode:
control matters more than appearances.
The whole chapter is really about that.
It’s not just “walk slower.”
It’s:
don’t hand the disease the wheel because you’re embarrassed.
What makes the last lap dangerous is not just fatigue.
It’s urgency.
By the time I’m in that final thirty or forty feet — the walk to the car, the walk from the car, the stretch from tired to inside — the brain starts saying the same stupid thing every time:
Just get there.
Just push through.
Just quicken the stride.
Just finish this last bit.
And with MS, that thinking is exactly backwards.
Going faster does not get me through it faster.
It gets me into trouble faster.
That’s what makes the last lap so deceptive. It’s short enough that you think you can overpower it.
You can feel the body fading, but the distance is so small that some part of you thinks:
Come on, man, just get to the car.
Just get to the chair.
Just get to the house.
That’s the trap.
And underneath that trap is fear.
I rush because I’m scared the body is going to stop cooperating before I get where I’m going.
I rush because I think if I can just get there, the danger will be over.
But when I rush, that’s when the toe catches. That’s when the uneven ground wins. That’s when everything goes sideways.
Fear starts it.
Then panic.
Then anger.
Then embarrassment.
That’s the version of me that shows up when I ignore Driveway Mode.
That’s why I have to interrupt it.
A good example is going to my cousin’s house after a half-hour drive.
It wasn’t even a brutally tiring day. But I’d been sitting in the car long enough that my body was stiff getting out, and I hadn’t done my little loosening-up routine.
It was not nice outside, and I wanted to get in the house quickly.
Then I saw my cousin standing in the front window, looking out at me.
My first thought was immediate:
Oh my God, I can’t let her watch me struggle.
That’s the last lap trap right there.
Not exhaustion this time.
Embarrassment.
Being seen.
Wanting to get inside before anyone really notices how awkward it is.
And that was exactly the moment where I had to stop and override myself.
No.
Slow down.
Take your time.
Get upright.
Move properly.
Because if I had rushed, I probably would have looked worse, felt worse, or even fallen.
Instead I slowed it down on purpose and got inside safely.
That’s Driveway Mode working in real time.
When I switch into Driveway Mode, I do it on purpose.
End of day.
Uneven ground.
Snow. Ice. Wet pavement.
Low light.
Carrying something.
Curbs.
Brain fog.
Any time walking feels less trustworthy than it should.
That’s when I stop pretending and start using the cues.
Pause.
Breathe.
Scout the path.
Head up.
Back straight.
Hip first.
Short steps.
No hunching.
No rushing.
The self-talk matters too.
Head up.
Back straight.
Short steps.
From the hip.
Keep it slow.
Keep it short.
That line matters because it gives me something to do with my brain besides panic.
A good example is leaving therapy when I’m already cooked.
I’ve done the workout, cooled down a little, maybe recovered just enough to fool myself, and then I start the walk out.
First five feet feel okay.
Then another five.
Then I can feel myself starting to slow down.
And that’s the exact moment when the brain wants to say:
Come on, quicken the stride, just get to the car.
That’s the wrong move.
The right move is to slow down even more.
Shorten the gait.
Take smaller steps.
Pause if I need to.
Stand there and take five or six breaths if that’s what it takes.
Then move again.
That’s what worked for me after therapy.
I was tired as hell coming out. But instead of rushing, I took my time.
I slowed the walk.
Shortened the stride.
Paused a couple of times just to breathe.
Got to the car safely.
Then, once I got inside, I didn’t rush the next part either.
I sat for a minute.
Let the body settle.
Then I drove home fine.
Got inside fine.
That’s the tool working.
The last lap counts.
That has become even clearer since I started using my scooter to get in and out of therapy.
Before that, therapy was not just therapy.
It was therapy plus the walk back to the car.
That final walk was the hidden cost.
The last lap.
I could go hard in therapy. I could do the sit-to-stands, push the right leg, work the hip, do the controlled movement, and then still have to walk back to the car after I was already spent.
That walk may not sound like much to someone else.
But after MS therapy, that walk can be brutal.
It can turn a good workout into a crash.
That is what the scooter changed.
The scooter does not replace the workout.
It protects the workout.
It removes the unnecessary last-lap cost so I can spend the energy where it belongs: in the therapy session itself.
That matters because accessibility is not about doing less.
It is about spending my energy where it actually helps.
A mobility aid can be the thing that lets the work happen, not the thing that replaces the work.
That distinction matters.
The goal is not to spend all my energy proving I can walk.
The goal is to spend my energy where it actually helps.
There was one therapy day where I came in on the scooter, worked hard, and felt the difference immediately.
Sit-to-stands were stronger.
My right leg and hip responded better.
One of the guys in therapy noticed and basically said, “Look at you, man. You’re going like a machine.”
And he was right.
I was working.
But the important part was what happened afterward.
I did not feel as destroyed when I got home.
That told me something.
Before, I may have been doing good therapy and then losing too much of the benefit on the exit.
The workout helped me, but the walk out drained me.
Now the scooter protects the exit.
That means the therapy gets the energy.
The recovery is better.
The whole session works better.
This is also where people can misunderstand the tool.
One of the older women in therapy saw me come in on the scooter and said something like, “You know, you still need to walk to get stronger.”
She meant well.
She works hard herself. She knows what rehab costs.
But I had to explain that MS does not work that cleanly.
Walking more is not always the same as getting stronger.
Not with MS.
For some people, walking more builds endurance and strength in a fairly direct way.
For me, sustained walking can drain the signal.
That does not mean I should never walk.
It means walking has a different cost inside my body.
The strengthening happens best in controlled work: sit-to-stands, step work, balance work, weight shifting, repeated activation, hip movement, and targeted therapy exercises.
That is where I can push.
That is where I can train the muscles and the movement patterns.
But trying to walk a longer distance after I am already tired is not always strengthening.
Sometimes it is just spending signal until the system fades.
With MS, the problem is not always the muscle.
Sometimes the muscle is there, but the message from the brain and spine does not keep getting through cleanly.
Fatigue, heat, and sustained demand can make that signal degrade.
So yes, walking matters.
But so does asking a better question:
Is this the best use of my walking?
That is the question I trust now.
If I want to strengthen my legs, it is better for me to do a hundred sit-to- stands than try to walk a hundred feet after I am already spent.
That may sound backwards to someone watching from the outside.
But it is not backwards inside my body.
It is strategy.
It is pacing.
It is how I protect the work.
And this is why language matters.
If people do not understand the cost, they will judge the tool.
Sometimes I am not just living with MS.
I am translating it in real time.
Even in a therapy room, people can understand illness without understanding my illness.
That day, the scooter comment could have felt dismissive.
Instead, because I had enough room to explain it, it became a teaching moment.
That matters too.
Plan for the exit, not just the event.
The walk back to the car counts.
The parking lot counts.
The stairs count.
The checkout line counts.
The exit counts.
A lot of people ask, “Can you do it?”
With MS, the better question is, “Can you get back out afterward without paying too much?”
And it works in other situations too.
I had another moment coming into therapy when I had to get to the washroom badly.
By the time I parked, there was urgency there. But I also knew that if I tried to rush it, I could fall. My leg would not respond properly if I forced the pace.
So I slowed it down.
Shortened the stride.
Shortened the gait.
Kept the movement controlled.
Did not let urgency become panic.
And I made it.
No fall.
No mess.
No drama.
That was Driveway Mode doing exactly what it’s supposed to do.
What it gives back is bigger than “not falling.”
It gives me confidence.
It gives me agency.
It gives me trust in my own judgment.
It gives me trust in what my body can still do safely.
It gives me freedom — not to move like I used to, but to move with intention and still keep going.
That matters.
Because I still move.
I just move with intention.
That’s a big difference.
Driveway Mode is not defeat.
It’s dignity.
It is me saying:
I’m not going to apologize for what my body is doing, and I’m not going to put myself in danger because I’m embarrassed that people can see it.
That’s maturity.
That’s self-respect.
That’s how I stay in my life.
And if the reader only borrows one thing from this chapter, I want it to be this:
Slow down on purpose.
Do not hand control to the disease because you’re embarrassed.
Safety is not weakness.
Intention is not defeat.
And slowing down is one of the ways I protect my freedom to keep moving at all.
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