Somewhere I have lived, a man who owned a tire shop wrote and performed in his own TV advertising, and that's what he said: Tars ain't purty.
No they aren't and mine is really ugly. It blew out and threw shreds of rubber across I 85 in South Carolina yesterday as I was driving back to Atlanta from Clemmons, NC, where I had just spent a lovely weekend visiting my great cook friend, Kathy. We went to art shops in Winston-Salem, Replacements, and to Prissy Polly's Bar-B-Que for lunch on Saturday. We had a great time.
And then there was the drive home. The tire blew out, and with some difficulty, I managed to get to the right-hand shoulder. I know I learned how to change tires in high school driver's ed class, but I was not about to do that on a busy (or any other) road. My insurance company sent out a man to put on the spare (thank goodness for cell phones) and off I went......at 50 miles per hour for TWO HUNDRED %^&*() miles.
You would think that when cars and trucks see a car ahead with flashers on, clearly moving more slowly than the 150 mph everyone else seems to be going, they would know BEFORE they just about hit my bumper that they need to move over. But no.
I'm sorry about all of the people I inconvenienced for a moment or so yesterday on I 85, but to those people who were scared to death as they veered off to the left to avoid hitting me-tough luck. Pay attention next time. And I thought truckers talked to each other as they drive. You'd think they might warn other truckers that there was a green Honda ahead, with an old-ish lady driving really slowly in the right hand lane.
Apparently not. Because each and every one of them scared ME to death as they approached at high speed, and then had to hit the brakes while they waited for a spot to pull into the left lane. I tried driving on the shoulder, but it was paved with those washboard ridges and I was really afraid that would shred the aging tiny, fake tire that is called a spare.
Made it home, slowly, and had a shot of tequila.