Burning Rubber

You never appreciate four tires. Until you have only three.

But I wasn’t thinking that early Sunday afternoon as I sped down the interstate, on my way home from a meeting in Norfolk. 

Like most of you, I was taking four tires for granted. Assuming they were all there, working in concert, doing their jobs.

I was sorting through my plans for the rest of the day: As soon as I got home I was going to spring-clean my screened porch, then I was going to take my puppy to the beach, next I’d catch up on the Sunday papers and then I’d work on the website.

I didn’t know it at the time, but one of my tires had other ideas.

At first I thought there was something wrong with the highway. Isn’t that how these things always start? You notice a bit of a vibration, you study the roadway for potholes, then you turn down the radio and suddenly you know what that thwump, thwump is: A flat.

Dammitdammitdammit I muttered as I got off at the next exit and rolled into a little turnoff.

As soon as I opened the door I could smell burning rubber. Which is odd, because when I looked at where the back tire was supposed to be it was gone. Oh, the rim was still there, with a few pieces of wire brooming out, but there wasn’t enough rubber to make a rubber band.

How the heck did that happen, I wondered. How long must I have been driving on that flat to essentially erase all evidence of an actual tire?

Cue the stupid woman driver jokes, I thought.

My car insurance includes roadside assistance, which is fortunate, because I drive a 15-year-old car that lacks a jack. 

I went on the insurance app, answered a few questions and the GPS pinpointed my location . 

“Help will arrive in 40 minutes,” a cheerful text told me.

Nothing to do but enjoy the unplanned interlude, I told myself, as I turned on an audio spy novel, “The Ghost War,” opened the windows and tried to chill.

About an hour later, I received another text.

“Help will arrive in 35 minutes.”

I phoned. I complained. I received an apology. Seems the original tow truck driver couldn’t get to me and they’d had to find another.

Eventually a wrecker arrived, a guy in a Harley-Davidson T-shirt and a beard down to his chest looked at what was left of my tire and whistled.

“Whoa, nothing left of that one,” he said, as if I hadn’t noticed.

“I guess there’s no way to patch it, huh?” I joked. 

We enjoyed a laugh as he got my spare on and me moving again in less than 10 minutes.

But my day was shot. My tire had stolen most of my afternoon. So the porch received a partial cleaning. Scout got a walk, but no beach time. I perused the papers, but didn’t really read them.

So there is nothing topical for you today. No politics. No social commentary. Not even a photo of Biden tripping up the steps to Air Force One.

Just tires. And the one I took for granted.