An odyssey of errors
by Scott McNutt
The Highland Games at Grandfather Mountain start today, and they'll probably be a lot of fun. But I wouldn't know, because the time I went, I never got there.
I and my dark-purple, 1996 Saturn S2 (which I've always called my aubergine, because it sounds so much more sophisticated than "eggplant-on-wheels") left early Friday afternoon. I was to meet my girlfriend and some friends there and camp out. Thursday, I had run over a screw and had patched it with some inflating sealant stuff. So I checked the tire before departing. It looked fine. Off I went.
I glanced at the computer-generated map to Grandfather Mountain my girlfriend had given me. At the time, I lived five minutes' drive from the I-75/Merchant's Road on-ramp. The map seemed to direct me to get on the Interstate by way of Canada. I tossed it aside, figuring I'd refer to it when I actually needed it. This is known as "arrogant stupidity." It's a guy thing.
The car's ride was bumpier than usual. No big deal. I passed Strawberry Plains without concern. Still the ride was bumpy. Very bumpy. So bumpy I wondered if all the possums in East Tennessee had signed a mass suicide pact and were flinging themselves under my car, single-file.
I got off at the next exit. The tire looked fine. No sign of deflation, no trace of leaking sealant, no bulges, no nothin'. So off I went.
This drive-a-bit-take-an-exit-check-the-tire routine went on for miles. The tire always looked OK to me. And being a guy, I wasn't about to ask anybody else. Still, something was wrong. Or my possum theory was right. I decided something was wrong.
And as a guy, I was obliged to Do Something About It. So I bought one of those fix-a-flat repair kits, the kind that has a tool that looks like something mad scientists use in their hideous experiments. You coat the tool with a gummy substance, then shove it into the puncture. After wriggling, wrangling, and eventually wrenching that darn screw out of the tire, I did just that: I coated the tool with goo and shoved it into the tire. I had Done Something About It! I was a Guy! A Guyly Guy!
I also coated my fingers, hair, teeth, etc., with gummy stuff. Hands stuck to the steering wheel, off I proudly went...and the bumpiness was worse than ever.
Then I noticed people in passing cars laughing at mine. My guy sense suggested that this indicated something was still wrong. I pulled off at the next exit. What passersby had been amused at were the great jets of sealant spewing from what was now a Grand Canyon of a gash in my tire. The steel belting of the tire had shredded. Sharp shards of it stuck through the tire all around the hole. Apparently, when I first ran over it, the screw had punctured and loosened the belt. Pulling the screw out and shoving the fix-a-flat tool in the aperture had then ripped the belt more. Driving did the rest.
I was at a minimart on the edge of Greeneville when I discovered this. A friendly soul gave me a ride to a nearby truck repair shop. They didn't carry car tires, but they called all over town to find a tire that fit my car. A store on the other side of town had one. They gave me directions, which included getting back on the interstate and going back to the previous exit. So I popped on the emergency tire and off I went.
Whimpering, my car and I hobbled along the Interstate to the previous exit, terrified of the other, unfettered vehicles whooshing past us, and humiliated at having to lean on the tiny "emergency" tire. Then we limped along a variety of side roads and back roads and gravel roads, getting lost at least 18 times, until we found the tire place. New tire installed, off I went.
In the wrong direction.
I have no idea where I went, but I lost 45 minutes getting there.
(Next month: more of Scott's stupidity!)
July 11, 2002 * Vol. 12, No. 28
© 2002 Metro Pulse
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