Sunday at the USDF National Finals was a quiet affair. With all my students’ rides complete, and just one finals class for me left—Beverley Thomas’s Fiero in the second level open finals—we had a leisurely breakfast, rode my test (Fiero was terrific) at noon, and with awards not until 5:30 p.m., Ferris and I went to the movies. Fiero led the class for a long time and ended up placing fourth in tremendous company; I got my ribbon, we made our lap around the Alltech, smiled for pictures, and then we were done. We were packed and ready for the van, which would show up at 7ish am the next day, Monday, so we went out to a fantastic dinner, went to bed, got up, loaded up, and were on our way home.
But remember that this is us we’re talking about. So this is not The End.
Either I or a member of our team has had some kind of tire-related calamity at least once a month this year. Let’s be clear on this—I take terrific and regular care of my vehicles. But we’ve had more than our fair share of bad luck this year, and our bad luck streak is so powerful it’s tendrils have reached others; our wonderful hauler, Kevin Hennessey, had a tire go bad on the trip to Kentucky with our horses.
So when, just after cresting the highest point on I-64 Eastbound in West Virginia, an incredibly treacherous stretch of mountainous highway, my brakes started to feel funny, I had to laugh. Wasn’t this just perfect? But this year’s many travails had me well-prepared for what to do.
We pulled over, saw the bubble in my car’s front tire, got out the spare and the tool kit, and set about changing a tire. I could be a part of a NASCAR pit crew at this point with the experience I’ve got changing tires. I confidently grab the lug nut wrench and the special key that would release the tire—I drive a cute little Honda, which has these special anti-theft lug nut things that exist solely to annoy the not-handy—and give them a push.
Nothing happens.
I try again. Nada. I put a little English on it. Zip. I put a LOT of English on it. You guessed it. (I have Ferris, on whom I bet I have 50 pounds, give it a shot. No dice.) After many four letter words, I call U.S. Rider in defeat. They are their usual chipper selves, and assure me that help will be on the way as soon as I tell them where we are.
This is the point where I started to get That Feeling. You know the one—the feeling you get when you just know that something is about to go seriously sideways.
I didn’t have the presence of mind to look for an exit number or a mile marker on our quick exit-stage-right maneuver; I figured I’d just pop the spare on and we’d be on our way in minutes. There are no landmarks. There are no exits within sight. There are beautiful, rocky West Virginia mountains and trees, and one of the country’s most treacherous stretches of interstate.
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We knew we were about two hours away from Lexington, Virginia, and we knew we’d just crossed over Sandstone Mountain, so between those and a GPS trace on my cell phone U.S. Rider is confident that we’ll see the driver in an hour.
The hour comes and goes. 70 minutes. 75. 80. I talk to dispatch at the tow company that is being sent to rescue us several times, including one conversation that, I swear, goes like this.
Me: “Hey, do you have an iPhone? I can just drop a pin on the map and text it to you with my exact location.”
Dispatch: “Gosh, ma’am, I don’t know what kind of phone this is. They just gave it to me here at the shop.”
Me: “… Well, does it have an apple on the back?”
Dispatch: “I don’t know, ma’am. It’s in a case.”
Me: (starts really, really needing a grilled cheese sandwich)
The Gods have mercy on us at the 90-minute mark, when a crew of incredibly, incredibly nice West Virginia Department of Transportation fellows comes to the rescue. They have our spare tire on in about 3 seconds (making me feel like Princess Weenie of Week-and-Feeble-Land), and wish us a nice day.
It should go without saying, of course, that this is the part where I try to start my car only to learn that 90 minutes of running my blinking hazard lights has killed it’s tiny little Japanese battery.
Our Heroes in Denim Coverall Armor sweetly give us a jump, and we hit the road.
We are, naturally, in the middle of nowhere. We have two options for tires—a Honda dealership 30 miles behind us, or a tire shop 20 miles ahead of us. Guess which one has the size tire I need? We pull a U-turn (please remember that this is a twisty, turny section of incredibly-steep interstate truck route—Ferris and I deserve bonus points for not wetting ourselves during this maneuver) and head back from whence we came. My GPS, which has NEVER failed me, fails us, and we end up in a residential neighborhood, cackling maniacally to keep from crying, and eventually make our way to the Honda dealership, who is expecting us, and tells us that they’ll get right on it.
An hour goes by.
And I am really a nice person. I’m a Midwesterner. I make cookies, not war. But at this point I am seriously, seriously considering homicide. Or a grilled cheese sandwich. Or both.
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I storm into the office, ready to raise Kane, when I am greeted by the very nice Front Desk Guy, who says he was just about to come find me.
“Is the tire on?” I ask. Silly me.
“No, ma’am. I was just coming to tell you that we don’t have the size tire you need in the same brand as your other four tires, so we’ll have to put on a different brand. We weren’t sure if that was ok with you.”
No, sugar, sweetie-pie. I’m sure the alternatives—walking home to Virginia or taking up a residence here until the Tire Fairy drops off a Goodyear—is the much better option.
Miraculously, these words do not come out of my mouth, though I do use my very best Angry Dressage Trainer Face—the one that is usually reserved for the amateur lady horse who has balked at his nice owner’s leg for the. last. time. and then has made the insanely stupid decision to try and tell me that he’s not afraid of me—and the tire is back on in minutes.
The car starts. GPS tells us how to get back to the interstate. We have grilled cheese sandwiches. And four hours after our debacle began, and 12 hours after we’d set out from Kentucky, we arrive at home, safe and sound.
I have never considered biking to work more seriously in all my years. And I just may hitchhike to Florida this winter.
