How to change a flat tire

We were about half-way to the winery when the front right tire blew. The roads out there are relatively narrow, but Dale was able to find a wide spot on the side. Still, the car was not level, its right side tilted down slightly on the gravel ditch, and I didn’t like anything about this situation. 

I asked Dale if he wanted me to call Triple A, and he said yes. Smart! I dialed the number and never spoke to a human. They texted me a link to a map that showed estimated arrival time in an hour. That’s when Dale decided smart wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The sun was blazing, and I sat in the ditch on matting we pulled from the car to access the spare tire, which is actually one of those weenie wheels. Dale wasn’t going to wait an hour when he could do it himself. This from the guy who is nursing a bad back. I sat quietly on my mat, sweating and brooding.

Dale got the jack in place and was able to raise the front just enough. He was struggling with lug nuts, when I saw the jack slip. I said, I know you don’t like me to comment, but you should be aware the jack is not stable, and it seems to me the car could fall on you.

Later, as we argued about what happened, I would apologize for trying to keep him alive. My bad.

He did listen to my report on the instability of the jack and stopped to reassess and maybe to get his breath back from the lug nut effort. Just as Dale started tinkering with the jack, a strapping young man in a pickup truck stopped and asked if he could help.

Turns out the guy was an off-duty fireman. With a dazzling smile and effusive good cheer, he stabilized the jack, manhandled the lug nuts and replaced the tire. Before he left, he gave us each a can of cold sparkling water. First responders are special people.

I had a heck of a time figuring out how to cancel the Triple A call. I tried the same number I called the first time, except now it didn’t recognize my cell phone or our account number. The queue to speak with a person was 20 minutes. Finally, I went back to the link they had texted and revisited the map, where there was a cancel button.

All this while headed to the winery, because Dale was adamant we would continue on our original path. By this time, I just wanted to go home, and ever the worry wart, I wondered how far we should drive on the weenie wheel.

I was also pissed I had to deal with Triple A as he manned up and insisted on changing the tire himself. And, of course, I was continuing to ruminate on what would have happened if our fireman-savior hadn’t come along.

The winery turned out to be a pretty good idea.

It wasn’t until later in the evening that we began to deconstruct the events. I originally blamed Dale for the whole thing, principally because I had to deal with the Triple A drama while he played around with the tire. However, I realized mid-way through the argument I was equally culpable.

I wanted to rely on Triple A roadside service, and I was angry I didn’t get my way, which was clearly more sensible. Dale acknowledged he hadn’t changed a tire in 30 years, and maybe at age 70, jacks and lug nuts were a bridge too far.

We talked about having control issues associated with retirement, work or lack thereof. Dale and I both had jobs with lots of responsibility, and the attributes that made us good at those jobs don’t go away simply because we aren’t working anymore. We’re getting better at talking about it, and that’s progress.

I like to think we both learned something about flat tires or possibly life, although I suspect I learned to say, “I’m calling Triple A.” I suspect he learned to say, “Oh, lug nuts, I had a little trouble last time, but I got this.”