COLUMN: Blowout

I don't believe in curses -- but I'm pretty sure westbound I-80 is my own personal version of the Annabelle doll.

One of my favorite pastimes is aimless driving. There's few problems in life that can't be sorted by an open road and a good Spotify playlist. Some people spend years learning how to align their chakras. I just get in the car.

It's rare for me to have a bad roadtrip experience. But whenever a friend and I have travelled together on I-80, bad things happen. We're now 0-for-4.

The first time was when we journeyed to a NASCAR race out in Newton. Afterwards, the line back to the interstate was long and stalled, so I decided to peel down the first gravel road that came along and blaze my own trail home. Sure enough, we somehow got lost in a floodplain and ended up halfway to Missouri before I figured out a way to cross the flooded river. The next year, we went back to Newton in just enough time for a freak rainstorm to cancel the race minutes after we arrived.

The last time we were on I-80, we were headed back from a funeral in Omaha. I was already dealing with a tailbone injury that made sitting in any prone position agony. We were ten minutes outside Omaha when the snow began to fall. The next two hours was spent more sliding than driving, white-knuckling through what quickly became an epic blizzard, while stopping at every rest area just to make sure my tailbone hadn't fully split in two.

That was the last time we attempted that particular stretch of road together -- until last weekend. I'd managed to score some great tickets to see Marc Maron in Iowa City and made a reservation at a fantastic dinner spot. We left just after the rains on Saturday. There were a few scary clouds still milling about, but the skies were sunny as we left the Quad Cities.

That lasted ten minutes. Suddenly, the rain was downpouring again and tornado watches were in full effect. Bravely, we soldiered on. That was when I challenged fate by bravely saying, "We're actually making pretty decent time."

Three minutes later, I found myself sandwiched inside a convoy of semi trucks. I was in the passing lane. Semi ahead of me. Semi behind me. Semi to the right of me. And, as if on cue, that's when my front tire chose to explode without warning at 70 mph. Strangely, I didn't freak out, and somehow managed to guide the car off the highway onto the world's narrowest shoulder. THEN I freaked out.

Don't for a second think I'm the kind of nerd who doesn't know how to change a tire. I'm not an idiot. But there IS a grey area between knowing HOW to do something and being ABLE to do it. I absolutely know how to do a chin-up, too, but that doesn't mean I'm CAPABLE of it. But being stuck on I-80 was enough of an incentive to give it the old college try.

If anyone says I've got junk in my trunk, that's an accurate assessment. Step one was clearing it out to get to the spare. Just as we'd cleaned the trunk out and my possessions were strewn about the roadside as if we were holding an impromptu interstate yard sale, THAT'S when the rain came back. In monsoon-like fashion. "Nope," I yelled. "Get back in the car."

Given enough time, I'm capable of changing a tire. But I'm ALSO capable of calling for help. I pay good money for roadside assistance, and I was most definitely on a roadside in need of assistance. My insurance provided me the number of a trusted local company, so I called them to put my mind at ease.

"Hi!" I said. "I'm stranded off I-80 with a blown tire and could use some help!"

"...No."

"I'm sorry," I asked, "What was that?"

"No. We don't do that."

Now, I'm no business major, but I would think if you had a business that specialized in roadside assistance, you should probably be willing and eager to occasionally assist people on a roadside. Clearly, I was mistaken.

"Well, we're stuck on the side of the interstate. Who do you suggest we call?"

"I don't what to tell you," my new friend said. "Don't you know how to change a tire?"

"YES, I KNOW HOW TO CHANGE A TIRE BUT NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF A DAMN MONSOON INCHES AWAY FROM RAINY INTERSTATE DEATH, YOU VILE MOUTHBREATHER," is what my brain said. What my voice said was, "Umm, well, never mind, I guess." My friend had a AAA card, so we tried that approach and spoke to a delightful robot who assured us that assistance would be headed our way in four hours.

We looked at each other and knew what had to be done. For the next twenty minutes, we kneeled in the rain, working together (which was mostly me yelling "truck!" every time we were about to get splashed), and somehow managed to get the spare mounted and the soggy contents of my trunk back in place.

Our dinner reservations were long gone, but we DID make the show with five minutes to spare, despite looking like a pair of wet dishrags. Afterwards, we skipped I-80 and elected to return home via U.S. 6 since you're not supposed to take the spare over 50 mph. That certainly wasn't an issue, because the fog that rolled in minutes after we left ensured a slow speed. It wasn't pretty Iowa fog, either. This was Scottish moors / Stephen King / 35 mph fog. It was a two-hour drive home.

I spent much of my Sunday enjoying the lobby of Tires Plus. It turns out my other tires were sketchy as well, so I now have a full new set. My car rides wonderfully, especially now that I've removed all the cumbersome weight of disposable income from my wallet. I might even be up for a roadtrip -- any direction but west.