How Changing My Tire Changed Me...

BAM! thud thud thud thud thud thud thud skronk!

That's the sound of a bad day getting worse. I was going about sixty when the tire blew. The front right-side of my truck was suddenly six inches closer to the blacktop. I lurched and skidded my way onto the shoulder. Tractor trailers whipping past me rocked the truck as I caught my breath and pried my fingers out of the new grooves in the steering wheel.

Still not thinking clearly, I grabbed my flashlight out of the glovebox and squeezed out, taking great pains not to get run over. As I got out, the door shut behind me in the wind of a passing vehicle and when I reached over to open it back up... it was locked. NPR was quietly reporting the news of the day to an empty cab. Of course the headlights were still on and the engine was still running.

I giggled and gibbered. I cussed a little and beat my forehead against the glass. Finally, I wandered around to stare impotently at the gaping hole in the sidewall of my tire. It was literally big enough to put my fist into.

It was below thirty degrees outside and I had neither hat nor gloves. I stomped my feet and stared at the tire. I was in the middle of nowhere rural Washington highway. There was nothing for it but to hoof it. Desolate it might be, but I travel this stretch of highway daily and I know the exits pretty well, so I started walking. At least I had my flashlight.

Inevitably, when you're stranded and cold, you start to wonder what you would do if someone pulled over. And - cold as it was - I began to seriously consider sticking my thumb out for the first time in my life. No sooner did the thought occur to me than out of the cars whizzing past, one pulls over and pops the door open. It's a Mercedes and the guy waving me into the passenger seat is wearing a nice suit and what looked like a cashmere coat. I was wearing dirty jeans and a beat-up barn coat I had in the back of the truck and must've looked like hell. Why he pulled over for me... well...

I clambered gratefully into the warm interior and he asks me if I have the time. Five 'til seven I answered through rattling teeth. Very well then, he says, I have just enough time to drop you at the next gas station. Think you can get help from there? Yes sir. Thank you sir. God bless you sir. Wonderful thing you're doing, sir. I was blathering, but the guy took it well. He dropped me at the gas station and roared away. I watched him go, wondering when my guardian angel got a pay raise. I forgot to ask his name.

The rest is a long story. Basically, I spent most of the night at a gas station while other people were either frantically searching for me, searching for my wife to come get me, or trying to help me change the flat. Two highway patrolmen and a kitsap county sheriff's deputy helped me get into the truck (the deputy who opened my truck locked his keys in his car) only to find that the gadget for lowering the spare (which resides under the bed of the pickup on a winch mechanism) didn't work. The blown tire was taken off and put back on several times while we tried various things to fix the winch.

I use a combination of police radios, borrowed cell minutes and the 21st century equivalent of sending smoke signals to finally get hold of my wife. The people from my work brought me hot coffee (and God bless them for it) and finally not only got hold of Kristin but also got the message for her right (on the third try, I think). I got home at a quarter 'til one in the morning.

The next day, a Toyota salesman helped me dissect the winch and crank on a similar truck they had on the lot and we managed to get mine fixed the tire changed free-of-charge and the truck off the side of the highway. I remembered to ask his name, it was Mark.

Four new tires (given me free by my kind and generous father-in-law, by the way) and a few weeks later, I was bombing down the same stretch of road in the opposite direction when I spotted an elderly fellow standing next to a stranded pickup. He had the door of his gas tank open and was staring dolefully at the ground. With thoughts of a certain fellow in a Mercedes in my head, I pulled over. I rarely carry a gas can because since 9/11 you sometimes can't carry one onto the ferry. But that morning - for reasons defying me to explain them - I had tossed the little gas can we use for the lawnmower into the bed of my pickup. It was half full.

I was at speed when I spotted him and had therefore stopped a good half mile away. As I hoofed it down the shoulder with my gascan sloshing, a cop pulled over in front of the poor bloke. I toyed with the idea of going back to my truck and leaving it to the authorities, but since I was already halfway there, I kept hiking. I've been chastised by the police for pulling over and getting out of my pickup before. Technically it's illegal in the state of Washington barring an emergency. I cringed in anticipation as I jogged up to the two men. I needn't have worried. The policeman was happy to see me and thanked me several times for pulling over to help.

I stuck around long enough to make sure his truck started and returned back to my own journey, confident he could continue on his. He waved for me to come around so he could talk to me. I waved back as if I thought he was just waving goodbye. I knew he wanted to thank me, but really, I didn't need it. Besides, he looked like times were a little hard and I didn't want him trying to pay me. Pulling over was my way of thanking the anonymous motorist in the Mercedes that pulled over for me as much as it was about helping him.

Throughout the night of my ordeal, the kindness of complete strangers kept me going. None of them asked for anything and brushed off my thanks. The guy at the gas station fed me coffee and warmed-over hamburgers while I waited for succor. My crew from work dropped by while I was talking to the policemen and brought me coffee and checked up on me. The highway patrolmen were the Heckle & Jeckle of the force, I am sure. They kept me entertained and the frustrations at bay with their good humor and wit, especially when that poor deputy locked his keys in his cruiser. I have always heard of this kind of altruistic goodwill, but never been a position to experience it before.

I couldn't even be mad about it all. I was too busy laughing. So I laughed once more on that roadside, reeking of gasoline and happily waved back at the old fellow before hopping into the policeman's car for a ride back to my own truck.

Joan's little friend said it best... it feels good to do something good for someone else.