I love my (still, for the most part, new to me) car.
It drives like a dream, has an awesome stereo, and it even talks to me on occasion.
Like, oh, it’ll randomly announce that I should take note of “low tire pressure.” Because if I don’t (take immediate note), said wonderful new-to-me car will decide to implode said low-pressured tire.
Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t blame the car. It’s not like she chose to drive her left rear tire over this:
Yeah. That is the bolt the repairman pulled out of my tire. The tire that couldn’t be patched, but had to be completely replaced, because I hit the bolt on a bridge and had no choice but to drive on the tire for a mile or so (as luck would have it, right into massive road construction that would prevent me from pulling over before driving another few miles).
Needless to say, having to deal with this on a day when I was dressed up (all the way in a skirt, even), late for a lunch meeting, with a hungry Erin in tow, on a 97 degree day was NOT my idea of FUN.
There’s nothing like trying to feed your two-month old in a gas station parking lot while trying to keep your cool and track down the men in your life to come to your rescue.
Thank goodness for Triple A, and their great employees who had my tire replaced in no time. And thanks to my great dad for purchasing the aforementioned Triple A membership that I (oops) had let lapse. Never again, believe me. I have a whole new appreciation for roadside assistance.
More than anything, though, I’m thankful that it was “only” a blown tire and nothing more serious, seeing as how I’m hauling uber-precious cargo.