Fun With a Flat Tire

1. soda
2. feet
3. dialogue
4. animals in the road
5. tires

I changed my first flat tire yesterday. As far as locations were concerned, I couldn't have picked a better spot. M noticed the flat while we were parked at Asilomar State Beach in Pacific Grove, only a hundred feet from the Pacific Ocean. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. Temperatures were in the mid-sixties and there was a mild breeze - ideal conditions for car repair.

The actual changing didn't take long. I simply lifted the car with one hand, ripped off the flat with my teeth, and threw on the spare. At least that’s the story I’m telling my grandkids in a few decades when jacks, lug bolts, and tire irons are obsolete.

Before dumping it in the trunk, I inspected the flat tire and discovered the source of the leak - a mean-spirited metal screw had punctured the rubber. It likely attacked the tire near the train station where a new apartment complex is going up; throwing itself in the middle of the road where it knew an unsuspecting wheel would roll over it.

Concerned the spare wouldn't survive the sixty-mile trip home, M called a few local gas stations to see if they'd be able to patch a flat on a Sunday. We thought none would and we were right. We enjoyed what is known as a hollow victory. Afterwards, we decided the next best option would be to drive to the closest Co$tco where we knew they serviced tires.

I thought there was a Co$tco in Monterey, but I wasn't sure, so we charted a course for Gilroy where we knew one existed with absolute certainty. We hopped on Highway 1 and crept at a steady 50 miles per hour, fearing the spare would blow if I drove any faster. Cars behind us came up fast and flew past. I lasted a mile before losing my nerve, and exited at the next off ramp.

We pulled into the first gas station we found and I asked the attendant if there was a Co$tco in Salinas. I didn't say Monterey because I didn't want to jinx us. The hedging worked because the attendant replied, "Yeah, there's one in Salinas, but why not go to the one in Sand City? It's just four miles down the road." I nearly jumped across the counter to hug the man, but there were strangers watching, so I simply smiled and said, "Thank you".

We got back on Highway 1 and inched our way to Sand City. It took a great deal of resolve to ignore the cars zipping by. I made a point of avoiding eye contact with the rearview mirror, which was eager to show me the mile-long trail of cars tailing us.

When we reached Co$tco, luck with us. The good people at the tire department were able to squeeze us in and get us back on the road with fresh tires in less than two hours.