Thrill rides

Normally, the words "thrill ride" evoke images of roller coasters or, at the very least, those damn spinning teacup things that make me deathly ill every time I ride them. Not today. Today, Brandy and I had our very own thrill ride on the way to the airport.

We had just hit the flat straightaway after Candlestick on southbound 101 when the car started gently pulling to the right. I mentioned this to Brandy just as the car started making a great deal of road noise. At this point, she told me to pull over, and I started making my way to the right lanes. Just as we got in the far right lane, the car started pulling violently to the right and making a god-awful flat tire sound. Instead of attempting to clear the traffic and make it to the next exit, which was only 200 feet ahead, I decided to pull over right away. Good thing, too.

When we got out to survey the damage, we found that the right rear tire had pretty much disintegrated. While the tread and inner wall were intact, the outer wall had completely separated, leaving a shredded, three-inch wide void about where the whitewall would be (if this were the '70s). I can't even imagine what would cause a tire to fail like that.

Thanks to prior experience fixing flats, I managed to change the tire quickly (Camrys have full-size spares! All the better to finish your errands before having to take the car in.) and to get Brandy to the airport in plenty of time for her flight.

The first time I had a flat tire, I was at Cedar Point on the day after my senior prom (Jen Davis, wherever you are, thanks again for riding home with me despite having to deal with a 120-mile drive at 45 mph on a donut). You know, they don't even let you change your own tire in the Cedar Point parking lot. Because of liability issues, they have roving maintenance staff do it for you, but I had it halfway finished before they got there. [By the way, if you ever need to change the tire on a Dodge Caravan, just be advised that the jack, for some unknown reason, is under the hood.]

The second time I had a flat tire, I was driving in San Francisco when I experienced that same pull of the steering wheel. It was just a nail puncture, so I heard only the dull thup-thup-thup of a mostly-deflated tire instead of the loud growling of a shredded tire. After unsuccessfully trying a can of Fix-A-Flat, I managed to change the tire in a relatively dark corner of Noe Valley. Yes, I know it would sound more exciting if I had been in Bayview or something. What can I say? I lived in Noe Valley back then.

After today's excitement, I'll go ahead and say that I'd prefer my flat tires to happen at less than 70 mph.

Or not at all. That sounds even better.