Flat Tire
o, I’ve had an interesting morning, and I mean “interesting” in the sense of the old Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.”
I’m driving home last night, and I abruptly notice that the van is pulling hard to the right. Huh. That seems a bad sign, I think to myself. Sure enough, moments after noticing the pull, I’m greeted with the distinctive wub-wub-wub noise that accompanies driving on a flat tire.
Great.
So, fortunately, I’m only a couple hundred yards away from my front door. I very slowly and carefully creep up to my apartment and park. I get out, inspect the right front wheel, and sure enough, that sucker is flat. Awesome. It is also after midnight in a poorly-lit drive, so I said piss on it, I’ll change the damn thing in the morning.
This morning arrives, and I sort myself out and go to change the tire. Now, my father, being a wise and good father, ensured that I knew how to change my own damn tires. However, since then, I’ve never had to change my own tire, largely because, I think, I am a small woman and I’ve always been lucky enough to have a flat tire somewhere public and/or with a boyfriend present. (And really, what’s the damn point in having a boyfriend if you still have to change your own tires? I’m putting out for a reason, here, people.) If there was no boyfriend present, I usually only make it as far as trying to break the nuts loose on the tire before some man in the immediate vicinity takes pity on me and comes to help.
I appreciate being rescued by a member of the male species, especially when it comes to car troubles, and feminism be damned. For one thing, I am a 130lb woman with skinny girly arms, and these assholes at the tire joints with their pneumatic drivers always put the nuts on the tires like they intend that goddamn tire to stay on for eternity. I ask you, even sitting on my ass with a foot braced on one arm of the 4-way and pulling on the other, how in the fuck is someone my size supposed to get these pissing tires off? And I always ask the tire jockeys not to do that to me, and it never matters. Sure as shit, they drill those suckers on like the world will end if they don’t.
Anyway. So, out to the car I go, wondering if I’ll actually make it through this tire change without someone showing up to assist me, wondering if I’ll be able to get the nuts off the tire, et cetera and so forth, get the back of the van open, locate the jack, and . . .
Where’s the spare tire? I know the van has one. I’ve seen it in use before. What the fuck? It’s right here in back, I watched the ex change it once. Okay. I’ll pull up the carpet. Maybe there’s a compartment underneath. Wait. The carpet is screwed down by the van bench tracks.
Really? Are they serious? Do you know who drives vans? Soccer moms with fifty kids in tow. They really expect soccer moms to move van bench seats and unscrew bits to get to a fucking spare? Really? The Plymouth van people must be on crack.
My good and wise father was kind enough to provide me with a tool kit when I moved into the apartment, so I go back to the apartment and get my screwdriver, all the while thinking to myself, and how in the hell was I supposed to change this damn tire if it happened out in BFE somewhere some night? I get back out to the van, unscrew the necessary bits, pull up the carpet . . . and no compartment. No nothing.
I peek under the back of the van. Okay, this is one of those jobs, with the tire screwed to the undercarriage. Fantastic. That means somewhere under the carpet, there should be a crank to wheel it down with. Right.
No.
You must be fucking shitting me. Really? This isn’t labeled? You’ll label where to put the damn washer fluid in the engine, because that’s not glaringly obvious, but you don’t label the crank or make it screamingly clear in some way?
Now, I’m a bright girl, and granted, I’m not familiar with car things, but neither am I fucking retarded. I mean, I went to college. I have a brain in my head. I should be able to figure this out, right? If there’s a crank for the spare in the back of that van, I’m damned if I can find it. I even crawled under the van to look and see if there was something I was supposed to do under the spare, and fuck no, of course there isn’t.
Well this here? This is what we call a bunch of bullshit. How was I supposed to figure this out on the side of a dark road at two in the morning some night? Really. Come on, people. It just doesn’t need to be this complicated.
At that point, I ran through my list of options, and determined that it was time to call for professional assistance. It was ninety, humid, sunny, I hadn’t had any coffee, and we pay people to deal with stupid shit like this. So I went back in and called a tow truck.
Note to self: Call the insurance company and get road service put on my insurance. I can’t believe I forgot that. I’ve had road service since I turned sixteen and got my first car and license. Maybe I am retarded. In my defense, things were hectic at the time.
Also in my defense, the very nice, capable-seeming, although somewhat patronizing elderly tow-truck driver couldn’t figure out how to get the spare down, either.
The upshot being that the nice tow-truck driver took me and my van down to the local discount place, and I got a new tire on the van for sixty bucks, and it only cost that much because I got the free replacement warranty on all four of my tires, even the old ones. Just the one tire on and balanced would only have cost me about $30.
Which, of course, leads me to wonder why the ex spent over $200 bucks for two new front tires for the van six months ago or so. He didn’t put expensive tires on. Hmmm.
Well, we’ll just file that little mystery under “not my problem anymore” and get on with our day, shall we? And now, I’m off to call my insurance agency.
(Photo credit: Original.)
July 16th, 2008 at 3:54 pm
Try standing on the handle of your tire iron and hopping a little. Or hop a lot–the 260 lbs or so of force you’ll generate should be enough to crack the nuts.
July 16th, 2008 at 4:41 pm
I’ve actually used that trick before, on another car, and it didn’t work. The look of dumbfounded amazement on my face was certainly picture-worthy, if anyone had been around with a camera. I’ve seen the trick work before for other women, though.
July 16th, 2008 at 7:23 pm
Like you I’ve always had someone right there when a tire needed changing. Unlike you, the first thing I would have done in your situation was call a tow truck!! LOL…So, now you’ve learned another life lesson! Good for you. Talk to you soon. Love ya lots!
July 17th, 2008 at 7:18 am
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Ok after that’s over, the jack and tire iron are in a compartment either in the back or under the passagner seat or under the hood.
Sometimes there is a little door in the back of the van on the side that holds the jack.
Oh well at least you got a new tire and aren’t driving around on a donut.
See ya!
July 17th, 2008 at 2:46 pm
Oh yeah, that’s a riot. Ha ha, ha.
Now where’s the crank to get the spare tire down in the first place? 
July 17th, 2008 at 2:47 pm
Remember my minivan, the Battlewagon? It, too, had a spare riding on the undercarriage. There was a great big widget, much like a sardine can key, kept in a bracket under the driver’s seat.
This, once found, was to be applied into an unlabeled hole in the rear hatch, along the inside of the frame. By some alchemy, turning the key in that mysterious orifice would cause the spare tire to raise or lower. Or, in my case, to raise while already at full height, causing the goddam cable to snap, making the tire fall to the ground. Wow, I hated that thing.
I actually am a man (I checked) and my gut reaction is to call Triple-A. Because tools hate me, and I hate them. Let the mechanically inclined sacrifice chickets and appease the automotive loas. I don’t have the knack. You know what? I haven’t had a car in two years, and I STILL have a AAA membership. Just in case I’m out with someone, and something like that happens.
Okay, maybe I’m not a great man. I’m okay.
July 30th, 2008 at 5:27 pm
If you can’t find the crank for the spare under the seat or in the compartment with the jack, look under the hood. If I’m not mistaken, my father owns a Chrystler Town and Country, which is essentially the same as yer Plymouth, and his is under the hood… looks a lot like the hood’s prop rod, but is not anchored at either end. usually held in place by two small clips.