Fun With Tires

It was a typical Tuesday morning. I kissed my wife as she went off to her job, then herded Michael into the van to head off to Ms K’s. I was going to be on time to work today; I might even redeem myself somewhat for the previous day’s slip-up.

We were only a few blocks from Ms K’s when my cell phone rang. It’s Michael’s Mommy.

“Hi!” she says, and not in a happy, breezy sort of way. It was in a much more anxious tone.

“Hi sweetie,” I said, cautiously. “What’s up?”

“<unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“Okay, honey, it’s okay. Where are you?”

“<higher pitched unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“It’s okay sweetheart. Calm down. Please, just take a few deep breaths.”

“okay…” she said, still anxious but slightly calmer.

“Okay. Now, calmly, please tell me, where are you?”

“<unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t get a word of that.”

“<very loud, emphatic unintelligible shrieking and wailing>”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

I pulled hard to starboard and diverted course toward the freeway. On the way I finally got out of her that she was on Interstate 5, just outside of Portland and heading north to Vancouver. She’d gotten a flat tire.

This wouldn’t have been such a huge problem, except that she didn’t have a spare. The car was already riding on the spare. Months ago, her left front tire had been punctured by a rogue screw that was on the garage floor, placed there by our dear and delightfully curious little red-headed child. Getting around to fixing the tire was just not in the cards for us. So that tire went on the back, occupying the spot where the spare usually goes. And it stayed there, until now.

After driving for what seemed like an eternity, I spotted her car on the side of the interstate, hazard lights flashing. Still talking with her on the phone, I told her that I’m pulling off just past her. I parked and turned on my emergency flashers.

“Where we going?” Michael asked from the back seat.

“I’ll be right back. I have to help your mommy,” I told him. “Her car is stuck.”

Since it’s 8:45 in the morning and traffic is in full force and at full speeds, stepping out of the van is going to be dicey.

An opening appears, and I dashed out of the car.

Cars, trucks, vans and eighteen-wheelers rush by, mere millimeters away from my side of the car. The roar of traffic is nearly deafening. My mind plays an endless loop of the roadside disasters clips shown on “Worlds Wildest Police Videos”. I’m sure that at any moment I’m going to be sideswiped and ground into a bloody pulp.

I finally got over to the passenger side of my wife’s SUV and explained my plan, then asked her to carefully get out and go sit with Michael in the van so he won’t be scared.

Time for big strong husband-man to get to work.

Plan A: Use “fix-a-flat”. I retrieved a can of the tire sealant from the back of the van, shook it and hooked it up to the valve stem of the very flat tire. I pressed the button to start the flow of sealant. Unfortunately, on the other side of the tire, I could see the white goo splatter ineffectually all over the tarmac. I reached my hand around and felt the hole in the tire. The crater I found in the rubber was large enough to pass a Chihuahua through. This tire was toast.

Plan B: Use the Van’s Spare. My reasoning was sound: they’re both Hondas. They both have five lugs. Simple. Since the jack in the SUV was buried under a metric ton of medical supplies, I retrieved the jack out of the van. Michael’s mommy questioned this move. “It’ll be fine. They’re the same make!” I explained. She’s suspicious, and rightly so.

I jacked up the SUV as far as the van jack would go. It’s just high enough to remove the bad tire. I applied the tire iron to remove the lug nuts, but am shocked to find that the van’s tire iron doesn’t fit the lug nuts on the SUV. So I had to dig out the SUV’s tire iron, which meant I’d have to redistribute my wife’s medical supplies from the cargo area of the SUV to the back seat. Gently but haphazardly, I hefted the supplies over the back seat and away from the cargo area. The interior of the SUV looked like an ambulance that was involved in a roll-over.

With the right tire iron, the tire came off easily. I set it aside.

Then I hoisted the spare up to the hub, and saw that the hub wasn’t high enough to attach the spare. The van’s jack, extended as far as it will go, didn’t raise the SUV up high enough. Ho, boy.

I’ll need to get the SUV’s jack after all. Well, at least it’s accessible now, since I had to uncover the tire iron.

I tried to apply the SUV jack, but it was obvious that I was going to have to remove the van jack in order to get the SUV jack into a stable position. Which meant jacking the car back down, with the old tire on the hub.

Back on goes the old tire. Secure it down. Jack down the SUV. Remove the van jack. Put the SUV jack on, jack up the SUV. Remove tire, grab van spare.

I hoisted the van spare up to the hub, and found to my complete dismay that the lug bolt hole arrangement is not quite in line with the SUV lug bolts. The van spare wouldn’t fit at all.

Ho, boy.

Plan C: Use the Screw-Damaged Tire. By this point I was getting pretty tired. I’d raised and lowered the SUV several times, moved tires several times, crawled around on bits of broken glass, asphalt, rubber and other miscellaneous detritus, in the rain, while seventeen million tons of rolling steel sped by only a few feet away. Not only is it hard to work physically, it’s difficult to think clearly under those conditions. I prayed to God: “Lord, I’m about ready to cave here. If you want to send me a miracle, I’ll take it.”

I removed the damaged tire that’s been stowed on the back of the SUV and hefted it over to the empty wheel hub. The gleaming screw is still embedded in the rubber, taunting me. I secured the wheel onto the hub and jacked the car down.

I went back to the van, grabbed another can of fix-a-flat (I keep two in the van – never can be too prepared) and started filling the tire. Nothing comes shooting out this time. So far, so good.

As I’m about halfway through the can of fix-a-flat, an ODOT Incident Vehicle pulls up behind me, yellow lights flashing. The driver got out and came over to talk to me. Thank you, God!

“Can I help?”

“Yes!”

I explained what my current plan was. He brought over a compressor hose and pumped up the tire with more air, and it held just fine. I asked him where the nearest tire store was, and he said there was one just a couple of exits up. I went back to tell my wife we were going to try for that, and asked her how Michael was doing, and whether he was scared.

“No, he says he’s bored. He wanted to get out and help and see the flashing lights, but I told him he couldn’t. So to appease him we dug through his lunch box. I’ve fed him all the chocolate I could find, including the two pieces you had up in front.”

So much for my secret stash.

The ODOT driver finished filling up the tire, and I thanked him and secured the damaged tire, spare and the equipment. I gave my wife the signal that we were heading out, and got in the SUV. We carefully pulled out into traffic and zipped along at a whopping 40 miles per hour, keeping flashers going all the way.

We were able to make it to the tire store without any problem. Michael even got two bags of popcorn out of the deal. And a Hershey bar. And a couple of cups of water. And a chance to run around a tire store and pester customers. A mere 30 minutes later we were on our way home.

After dropping Michael off at Ms K’s, I finally pulled in to work at 10:45. Well, maybe I wasn’t on time, but I made it in. I’m giving myself points for that.