So I’m just driving to campus today and there’s a loud bang and a big yanking shudder to the left and all of the rocking of the car that comes with that and the fluttering out the back of part of my tire.
Or all of it.
There was a minivan just almost in my blindspot in the next lane and, fortunately, the entire tread of the tire managed to not hit them. Inside the minivan was a guy who does tires for a living. (It is true what they say in the South. Someone will be along directly to help you. Don’t get in their way. They live for this.)
So I pull things out of the truck to pull out the spare. I dig out the jack. Without a word he pulls that piece of junk off the car and puts the extra in place. I have changed more than a few tires in my life, but I was glad he was there to help put the old one in the trunk so I didn’t have to pick up something heavy after just having therapy and ice on my shoulder.
It was, he observed wryly, defective. And Goodrich has warranties. The tire isn’t that old, after all.
Here is a still shot, so you can admire the damage in detail.
That’s at the place where I got a new tire, where one guy said he’d never had a job like this. And another guy said “God was riding witchou.”
The weird thing is, aside from the bang and flop and jerk of the car was that as soon as that was over the ride was perfect. Of course I immediately slowed, changed lanes and stopped on the shoulder of the freeway. You drive with a tire like that and all deities major or minor will find they have other plans.
There is no tread anywhere on the tire, save that one little thumb-sized piece in the bottom left corner.
But, hey! I got a discount on the new tire. It seems this one had failed. And become defective.
In class we discussed the basic news story and I sent the students on their way to get quotes and write some brief copy. Exciting times in the classroom, to be sure. Afterward I spent the evening counting all of the stars, lucky and unlucky.
The day started with physical rehabilitation where my trainer put me on a device borrowed directly from the Spanish Inquisition, which allows us one of the few still-good Python bits.
Mostly, I think, because it doesn’t spend the entire scene deconstructing the British culture. (Which they did.)
My torture device wasn’t designed for torture, but it had the look. (“Oh. The one in the corner?”) It did involve knobs and slats and springs and straps and rack and pinion steering. It was a modular device that, one presumes, does many things. For me it meant being on my stomach, reaching above to grab leather straps, pulling down, arching back and so on. It was yet another set of muscle groups I didn’t know I was supposed to have.
It occurs to me that much of physical therapy, set to music, could be a post-modern expressionist dance.
I’m actually doing some of these things. Maybe we’ve been missing the point all along.
Check your tires, drive safely and have a great day.
