I’m Not a Bad Driver. I’m Just an Afterthought in the Places Everyone Else Takes for Granted
How a playful image of my “naughty” wheelchair driving revealed the illusion of accessibility
My son, Matthew, recently sent me an image that perfectly captures the high‑velocity reality of my life in a powerchair.
There’s me: grinning, arms in the air, tearing down a hill with the sort of enthusiasm that suggests I’ve momentarily forgotten I have brakes. Behind me is Peter, my husband. He is in his natural state: mid-sprint, eyes wide, already anticipating a disaster that hasn’t happened yet.
Peter is my navigator, my pit crew, and the person who hoists the chair in and out of the car. But in the moment? He’s in despair. He sees the risk before I’ve even felt the bump. Ironically, his panic often becomes the very thing that makes me “go wrong”. It’s hard to stay on course when your co-pilot is narrating your potential demise.
We laughed at the accuracy. It was an instant family classic.
Until I looked more closely at the ramp.
The Anatomy of an “Almost”
Look at the ramp Matthew created. To someone on foot, it’s a splash of colour on a country hill. A ramp was put in place to give me my freedom. But to my powerchair or any wheelchair, it’s a perfect example of the “almost‑accessible” design that fills the real world.
It looks like a ramp until you look properly. There’s no slope at all, just a raised board painted to look helpful. It’s the perfect example of design that appears welcoming from a distance but becomes a barrier the moment you imagine actually using it. It’s not a ramp you use; it’s a ramp you brace for.
Once you’ve lived long enough in a chair, you start to see danger where others see decoration.
When I pointed it out, Matthew said, “Oh, I didn’t notice that.” To be fair, none of us had - we were too busy laughing at the buttons on Peter’s hideous cardigan. Humour gets us through it, but it doesn’t erase the reality.
In those five words, he summed up the global design crisis. Accessibility is invisible to those who don’t have to steer through it. But for disabled people, these “almosts” are everywhere, ramps that technically exist but are unusable in practice. They mark the difference between being symbolically welcomed and being able to enter safely, independently, and with dignity.
The Emotional Tax of the Spotter
There is a hidden cost to poor design that never appears in a building budget: the strain it places on relationships.
When the world is full of steep gradients, heavy doors and awkward thresholds, Peter cannot simply be my partner; he has to be my lookout. His pre-emptive despair is a rational response to an irrational environment. But there is a psychological toll to being constantly “watched”, even lovingly. When the infrastructure is built properly, when the access is level, and the doors are light, Peter’s shoulders drop. Good design allows us to be a couple, rather than a driver and a frantic safety marshal.
It’s exhausting for both of us in different ways.
The Physical Gauntlet: From Glass to Gradients
If you aren’t on wheels, accessibility is a simple yes or no question:
Does the building have a ramp?
But as the journalist of my own life, I know the truth is in the details.
The Shatter‑Zone Anxiety: Every time I approach a glass door, I feel the weight of uncertainty. UK Building Regulations say manual doors should open with no more than 30 newtons of force. In reality, many require the strength of a small ox. My fear isn’t just getting in; it’s the quiet dread that one day I’ll hit the glass at the wrong angle because the door refused to budge.
The Steepness Stakes: A permanent ramp should ideally be 1:20; at 1:12, it becomes intimidating. Without side protection, legally required to be at least 100mm high, a ramp feels less like access and more like a balance beam.
The Rain‑Soaked Indignity: There is a particular humiliation in sitting outside in the rain, watching others walk straight into a dry building, while you wait for someone to find the key for a lift or fetch a portable ramp from the back room.
The Data of Exclusion
This isn’t just about my son’s picture. This is about a world that still treats Disabled people as an afterthought, and the numbers make that painfully clear.
The Purple Pound: UK businesses lose an estimated £274 billion a year because they aren’t accessible.
The Access/Anxiety Effect: According to AccessAble, 78% of disabled people have abandoned a business because of poor access or lack of information.
The Compliance Mirage: The Equality Act 2010 requires “reasonable adjustments”, but that phrase is where accessibility goes to die. Architects design for compliance. The bare minimum to pass an inspection.
Compliance is a steep ramp with no handrails. Inclusion is a level threshold. One gets you through the door; the other lets you enter with your dignity intact.
A Call for Real Design
We all missed the issue with the ramp at first. It looked cheerful, even inviting. That’s exactly how poor design hides itself; it blends in until you imagine actually using it. But until the people drawing up the plans and policies start noticing the things that catch us out, I’ll keep bracing for the next avoidable bump.
To the Peters of the world: we love your vigilance. We know you panic because you care. But the best way to stop us from going wrong isn’t to catch us when we fall, it’s to demand a world where the ramps aren’t launchpads, the doors aren’t immovable, and the “naughty” driver in all of us can enjoy the ride.
True freedom isn’t being allowed in.
It’s being able to enter safely, confidently, and without an audience.