I was heading to church tonight for the “Affluenza” class when I hit a big rock or piece of curb stone or something along the edge of the road in the town center. I felt it. My right front tire sort of skipped.
I kept going.
About a half a mile from the church, I started to hear a flapping kind of noise coming from the right side of the car and I knew my tire was going flat. Since I was on a dark two lane road with no real place to stop without putting myself in danger of getting hit by another car, I slowed down and drove on to the thc church. After the class, which was full of good things, I came out to change the tire. Since was the first flat we’ve had on the Wrangler, it took me a bit to find the jack and other tools; then I found that the axle was lower than the jack was tall and I called AAA. Of course, what I found out next was our AAA membership had expired, I renewed it over the phone and then gave the operator the specifics of my problem.
Forty-five minutes later, a giant tow truck pulled in the Parish House parking lot with two guys in it. The driver got out, filled out the paper work, and then changed the tire — all in about ten minutes. The other guy never moved from where he was sitting on the passenger side — even when the driver turned his motor off and the truck’s inside lights went out.
I put the flat on the back of the Wrangler and drove home an hour and a half later than I had intended. I drove down the same stretch of road I traveled last night about the same time after finding out the owner didn’t seem to be willing to think about my proposal for the Bakery.
I rode home on a metaphor: something unexpected took the air out of my tire; I did what I could and called for help, which came; and I drove home, a bit wounded by still able to travel. It’s not the most profound comparison anyone ever drew, but it spoke to me. I deeply appreciate the words of encouragement several of you wrote in response to yesterday’s post. You, like the tow truck driver, are keeping me on the road.