Damage limitation
I'd always wondered what became of the vehicles that deposited those barely-there shells of tires on the side of the road. Now I know, though I hasten to add that I didn't leave the shredded tire there but hauled the whole thing away in the boot. After removing all the suitcases, tool chests, jugs of windscreen wiper fluid and loose clothing so that someone could get at the spare... Ah: someone?
I'd carefully printed out a temporary renewal card from the AutoAssociation's website -- and equally carefully put it somewhere unfindable: not in my computer bag, nor the folder with hotel reservations, nor stuck helpfully between two pages in the road atlas. It took a dozen phone calls back and forth between myself, Triple A's 800-number service rep, Tim (who, in between trying to reach said service rep and reassuring me that he was trying to call her, allowed himself to point out that he had recommended replacing all four tires before I left San Diego), and the local Triple A service company, to get the right membership number in the right hands before being charged $50 for the service call. If it sounds tedious, it was, especially in frosty morning air being whipped to an 80mph frenzy by highway traffic passing not a dozen feet away from the suitcase I perched on beside the passenger door.
One kindly soul with a grizzled beard pulled his green pick up truck over just ahead of me and jumped out to see if he could help. I think he was going duck hunting: he was wearing green camo'and green Wellies with dried mud on them, and had a curious spaniel in the bed of the truck. Then, about the time Pat, the equally grizzled mechanic, managed to get the tire changed, a fella in a black cowboy hat rode by on the far side of the highway. I'm sure he wanted to yell, Get a horse, but if he did, I'd never have heard him over the scream of the traffic.
Of course, these little spare tires can only go 50 mph, and no further than 50 miles or so. Tim again set to work on the mobile phone, this time finding and directing me to the Lake Charles Sears, where -- bless them -- they keep the full auto center open even on Sundays. (This is what Christian charity and service means to me: my essay for Christian Radio, should I ever be asked to write one.) There, a tiny slip of a woman in her late 20s, baseball cap screwed backwards on her short brown hair and Charley embroidered on her blue coveralls, received the car with a reassuring 'don't worry ma'am, I can do this in a jiffy.' Marjorie, the manager, an older black woman with a comfortingly pillowy figure and a motherly mien, wrote up the service order, inspecting the rest of the car with a virtual magnifying lens. She had no kind words whatsoever for my hometown mechanics who'd let me travel cross-country with four tires in such bad shape. 'Of course,' she said sternly, 'we're replacing all of these tires, right honey?' implying beyond doubt that she wouldn't let the car out of the lot without same...
By now I was well past arguing that two mechanics and the Volvo service division had given those tires a pass, and agreed that four new radials were a small price to pay for another 60,000 miles of peace of mind. Charley directed me to the adjoining mall for a two-hour lunch break, confiding that since leaving both Oregon and the military, she'd come to appreciate Louisiana cuisine and thought Chick-Fil-A was the best thing on offer over there.
I ignored the apparent contradiction and went off to dine on whatever Lake Charles had to offer, grateful I was there to enjoy anything at all.
I'd carefully printed out a temporary renewal card from the AutoAssociation's website -- and equally carefully put it somewhere unfindable: not in my computer bag, nor the folder with hotel reservations, nor stuck helpfully between two pages in the road atlas. It took a dozen phone calls back and forth between myself, Triple A's 800-number service rep, Tim (who, in between trying to reach said service rep and reassuring me that he was trying to call her, allowed himself to point out that he had recommended replacing all four tires before I left San Diego), and the local Triple A service company, to get the right membership number in the right hands before being charged $50 for the service call. If it sounds tedious, it was, especially in frosty morning air being whipped to an 80mph frenzy by highway traffic passing not a dozen feet away from the suitcase I perched on beside the passenger door.
One kindly soul with a grizzled beard pulled his green pick up truck over just ahead of me and jumped out to see if he could help. I think he was going duck hunting: he was wearing green camo'and green Wellies with dried mud on them, and had a curious spaniel in the bed of the truck. Then, about the time Pat, the equally grizzled mechanic, managed to get the tire changed, a fella in a black cowboy hat rode by on the far side of the highway. I'm sure he wanted to yell, Get a horse, but if he did, I'd never have heard him over the scream of the traffic.
Of course, these little spare tires can only go 50 mph, and no further than 50 miles or so. Tim again set to work on the mobile phone, this time finding and directing me to the Lake Charles Sears, where -- bless them -- they keep the full auto center open even on Sundays. (This is what Christian charity and service means to me: my essay for Christian Radio, should I ever be asked to write one.) There, a tiny slip of a woman in her late 20s, baseball cap screwed backwards on her short brown hair and Charley embroidered on her blue coveralls, received the car with a reassuring 'don't worry ma'am, I can do this in a jiffy.' Marjorie, the manager, an older black woman with a comfortingly pillowy figure and a motherly mien, wrote up the service order, inspecting the rest of the car with a virtual magnifying lens. She had no kind words whatsoever for my hometown mechanics who'd let me travel cross-country with four tires in such bad shape. 'Of course,' she said sternly, 'we're replacing all of these tires, right honey?' implying beyond doubt that she wouldn't let the car out of the lot without same...
By now I was well past arguing that two mechanics and the Volvo service division had given those tires a pass, and agreed that four new radials were a small price to pay for another 60,000 miles of peace of mind. Charley directed me to the adjoining mall for a two-hour lunch break, confiding that since leaving both Oregon and the military, she'd come to appreciate Louisiana cuisine and thought Chick-Fil-A was the best thing on offer over there.
I ignored the apparent contradiction and went off to dine on whatever Lake Charles had to offer, grateful I was there to enjoy anything at all.
posted by CatzEyes at 5:46 AM
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