If you’ve been reading my blog any length of time, you already know that road trips never go smoothly for me. It’s always something. When I do make my destination without incident, something’s sure to go wrong on the way home.
In the spirit of lemons-to-lemonade, I tend to use these incidents as “blog fodder” for at least three reasons. One, it’s tough to think up something new to write about every week. Two, I know how readers love to revel in my calamities. Three, there’s always a lesson to learn and share if one digs deep enough.
It’s my innocent fellow travelers (usually Hubby) who must suffer the consequences even though they never volunteered to have their every move documented and published for whichever readers are heartless enough to enjoy others’ misfortunes.
Our last trip was no exception, to our daughter’s Calgary home for Christmas. You need to know that I’m not a fan of driving, especially since my collision last spring. I’m generally willing to drive only if there’s no snow, rain, ice, or fog. And no darkness. No curves or hills. No one passing me. Oh, and no other vehicles on the road.
This is rather limiting.
But with Hubby fighting a cold, I was determined to drive as much as possible, both to give him a break and to lose some of my anxiety around driving. I took over the wheel as soon as the sun rose, at Brandon. Despite some fog, I managed to continue into Saskatchewan, becoming more relaxed as the fog lifted. I was gaining confidence and felt pretty proud of myself as we approached Swift Current around 3:30 p.m. I looked forward to stopping for a bathroom break and having Hubby take over the wheel for the remaining five hours.
Suddenly, we heard THWACK-THWACK-THWACK!
In my rearview mirror, I saw a strip of rubber flapping around the rear wheel. I immediately thought of those “road alligators” sometimes left behind by semi-trucks. I pulled over and Hubby got out to inspect. Turned out I’d run over a tarp strap. The strap’s hook had punctured our tire, and the tire was quickly going flat.
Then we discovered our spare was impossible to remove from its rusted and corroded rack under the car. I tried calling CAA. No cell service.
Finally, a text went through. While we waited for a tow truck, Hubby began calling tire shops only to learn they were all closing (it was Saturday) and would not reopen until Wednesday, after Boxing Day.
I began to pray as I envisioned spending Christmas in a Swift Current hotel room. Either that, or our kids would need to make two ten-hour round trips to get us and take us back. (They later assured us they would have, although that could be because we were bringing a week’s worth of meals with us.)
When our tow truck driver arrived and I climbed into his cab, it was hard to ignore the whiff of alcohol or his constant use of a hand-held cell phone while driving. However, the guy had connections we did not. He knew the personal phone number of a repairman willing to come open his shop after hours even though he lived out of town. Yes, we needed to pay after-hour rates, but this is why God invented credit cards. Ninety minutes later, our tire was fixed and we were once more on the move—in the dark, with Hubby at the wheel.
You could say that sketchy tow truck guy saved our Christmas, all because of who he knew. Then again, it’s entirely possible the one I knew and prayed to had dispatched the best person for us. So much to consider. And to remember.
Like checking the accessibility of a spare tire before leaving home. Or not taking road-trips with a writer.
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