Driving north on 71 from Cincinnati to Columbus last Sunday afternoon, my vehicle suddenly started thudding. The thudding quickly turned to shaking. Yep, it was a tire, and it blew. I was in the slow lane, thankfully. I managed to get off the highway into an area with a large patch of grass — a fairly safe spot to pull off in an emergency. Not ideal, but not terrible.
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My 16-year-old and 12-year-old sons were with me. The latter couldn’t contain his excitement. “Yahoo!” he yelled. “I’ve always wanted a flat tire!”
“Well,” I sighed, “you got one. And we’re four hours from home.”
It was pushing 1:00 pm, and I knew that every repair garage would be closed on a Sunday.
“I hope this vehicle has a spare,” I said.
I wasn’t sure because my second oldest son had been driving the car the last several years (he’s now in seminary). It’s a 2005 Toyota Sienna with almost 330,000 miles, an incredible machine. It has rarely broken down — though it did die on the George Washington Parkway during rush hour in April when I was traveling to Old Town Alexandria for work at The American Spectator.
When I spoke to the Walmart auto repair gal, I told her I would like to buy a second tire while I was there — that is, a spare tire to keep in the car. She told me they don’t sell those.
Speaking of “Yahoo!” What a blast that was! It nearly caught on fire on the parkway. But I escaped death that time, too. It was quite the adventure. So was this rendezvous with mile marker 70 on 71N toward Columbus.
Alas, I discovered that the vehicle had no spare tire. It had been removed at some point for some reason.
Notably, I’m a member of AAA. I have been for about 40 years. I’m something like a Gold Star member. I must pause here to rave that AAA is truly superb. It’s so good at what it does. I can’t speak highly enough of these folks. In fact, I had called AAA the prior morning because of a problem with another car. I’m a AAA “frequent flier.”
Tire Blowout (Paul Kengor/The American Spectator)
And it’s because I’m so experienced with AAA that I know that AAA will tow your car if you have a flat, but their drivers don’t carry spares. I needed a new tire, or else I would need to find a hotel until Monday.
Fortunately, following not far behind us was my daughter and son-in-law. They pulled over. We tried to access their spare. It was situated in the most half-assed spot I’ve ever seen for a spare tire. Whichever half-wit engineer came up with that idea ought to get the Nincompoop of the Year Award. It was essentially unretrievable. Short of summoning the power of God to levitate the vehicle above our heads with the added help of a legion of angels with power tools, we weren’t getting that tire.
I felt helpless and I felt stupid. Since I began driving in the 1980s, I’ve changed many flats. It’s a skill that young men once had, like shooting and skinning a deer. But not anymore.
Today, young men and girls alike grab their cellphone for SOS. They contact some type of roadside assistance. They have no clue how to change a tire.
In fact, I’ve learned from this debacle that many new vehicles today don’t include a spare. Perhaps manufacturers assume that modern drivers wouldn’t know how to change the tire if they had a spare, and might literally crush themselves in the process. If they get a flat, they’ll go to Google. But if you’re in the middle of nowhere on, say, a late Sunday night, you’re toast.
So, what would I do, amid my helplessness and embarrassment? I called some 24/7 number answered by a woman in India who tried to scam me. Eventually, I called AAA, as I should’ve from the outset. As I talked to the operator, I was thrilled to learn that there were three Walmarts within about 15-30 miles that had full automotive repair services open into Sunday evening. That would be my destiny and salvation. I called Walmart and the gal confirmed they were open and would watch for me.
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In the meantime, however, I waited and waited — with two anxious boys in high heat and humidity with thunderstorms approaching. Needless to say, they didn’t do well. These two boys are adopted. They don’t have the genetics of my slender wife. They are large creatures. Very large. In their impatience, they began wrestling in the open hatch of the minivan before falling onto the pavement. It was only a matter of time before one of these meatheads rolled onto the highway and got run over by an 18-wheeler.
Gadzooks, my wife wouldn’t be pleased with me if that happened.
The whole spectacle merely increased their old man’s anxiety in a tense situation.
At last, relief appeared in the form of tow truck driven by a fellow who identified himself as simply “Red.” Red was exactly what you would picture of a guy named Red who operates a tow. He was a good old boy and the salt of the earth. Truly, if there’s a more selfless species of homo sapiens than the rough-around-the-edges guys who tow your vehicles and save your butt during emergencies, I don’t know who they are (I would add EMTs to that).
Saved by AAA! (Paul Kengor/The American Spectator
No 20-something woke Ivy Leaguer with a “degree” in Feminist Studies or Queer Theory would ever in their most useful minute on planet Earth do for you what a tow-truck driver like Red does daily. Their natural habitat is standing behind a Starbucks counter with blue hair barking at you for “misgendering” them.
As for Red, he scratched his beard as he found himself in a dilemma. As he assessed the excessive physical size of the two reported “minors” in my custody, he pondered how he would fit the four of us in his front seat. I couldn’t leave one of them behind on the highway (which would likewise displease their mother). The boys contemplated the possibility of stashing in the minivan while being towed atop Red’s truck bed, ducking all the way to Walmart 18 miles away, but we figured that was neither prudent nor legal.
We would need to squeeze together in that one-row front seat. I basically sat on the lap of my largest son, which was preferable to the 270-pound teen defensive tackle crushing my lap.
As we drove through the lovely countryside, we found ourselves strangely content as we talked about families, kids, grandkids, America. Being from Cincinnati his entire life, Red is a big fan of the Cincinnati Reds (fittingly). He was astounded when I named each starting player of the 1970s Big Red Machine. Then again, my splendid Pittsburgh Pirates Lumber Company teams had lost enough to that club for me to remember. We talked Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Dave Concepcion, George Foster, Willie Stargell, Dave Parker, Al Oliver.
Was there ever a better time for Major League Baseball than the 1970s?
But I digress. Back to spare tires.
We made it to Walmart, and I felt awful that I couldn’t tip Red because I had no cash. That’s another casualty of our modern culture — cash. Worse, though I was able to put anything and everything on a credit card that afternoon, for some reason I couldn’t add a tip for Red, even as everyone today expects a tip for everything — from that blue-haired barking barista to the grocery cashier who scans your cereal box.
“No problem,” said Red. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
When I spoke to the Walmart auto repair gal, I told her I would like to buy a second tire while I was there — that is, a spare tire to keep in the car. She told me they don’t sell those. She confessed that she, likewise, has no spare in her vehicle. “Where can I buy one, for the next time this happens?” I asked her. She had no idea.
As Walmart replaced my tire, a young couple arrived with their car in tow. You guessed it. They were on the same road. They apparently ran over whatever I ran over, which apparently was debris that fell from the pickup of some jackass who hadn’t secured whatever he was hauling. Thanks to that guy’s carelessness, people were in jeopardy of crashing with their children on the highway. It happens all the time. When I see construction workers driving without their material secured and nails and screws flying into the air, it makes me crazy.
In all, it was a precarious day. And our vulnerability was made far worse by the outrageous reality that I couldn’t get a spare. Something that every vehicle ought to have.
I write often here in my Saturday column about the dismal signs of the times and the decline of the culture. I must add this to the list. What does it say about a people who can no longer change a tire or even carry a spare?
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