The Little Voice Inside

Yesterday morning, I was getting ready to go see my best friend in Jackson.  My birthday was last week, and while I wasn't able to get to my favorite restaurant, Kismet's, during the week for it, I was darned well going this weekend.

One of the front tires on my Cruiser has been giving me fits.  If you read here often, you will remember that it went totally flat on me one morning last week.  Since then, I've been doing a visual inspection of my tires every time I get in it to make sure it's not low/flat again.

I was running a bit late, and I simply forgot to check the tire.  I didn't remember until I was just about headed down the hill portion of my driveway.  I sighed, stopped, put it in park, and got out to do a quick run-around inspection.  It was low.

I'll admit to saying things that weren't polite at this point.

I grabbed my phone and called my parents, intending to go to their house and use Dad's big air compressor to fill it back up.  When I got there, Mom was already standing by her van pulling various things out of it.  She asked me to take her van instead.

I had already been uneasy about the car and a long trip because of its age as well as because of the tire issue.  However, I didn't want to drive another vehicle.  It's silly how attached we become to things and to routine.  I don't like driving other cars.  I wanted mine.  Silly, silly, silly.

That little voice inside my head stepped in at the point where I would have probably insisted on taking the Cruiser and said, "You should take the van today. Just to be on the safe side."  Dad was going to take the wheel off the Cruiser and check it again, and so I handed over my keys, took hers, moved my junk to the van, and left.

When I was close to home, I called to see what the vehicle status was.  Mom told me something that made my blood run absolutely cold.  The tire had been checked when it ran flat the other day, but no hole had been found.  As the guys at the tire shop my Dad took the wheel to inspected it, they also saw nothing wrong.  Dad decided that to be on the side of caution, he would go ahead and have the tire replaced.  That way, hopefully the issue would be over.  When they pulled it off the wheel, the steel belting inside had somehow become detached.  A bubble had formed on the inner surface.  It was waiting to blow out.

I drive like the proverbial bat out of hell.  I routinely thrash my little car in ways that I am fully aware are pushing its capabilities and safety.  I like to drive, and I enjoy speed.  (That is actually a very serious understatement.  This is why I want a muscle car.)  Something takes hold of me when I get out on the interstate.  The speed limit seems to be more of a speed suggestion to most of the people around me.  Everybody suddenly thinks they're NASCAR or Formula 1 drivers. People driving 45 mph lay claim to the passing lane like it's their homeland.  There's a major split where two interstates diverge, and the out-of-state traffic is always in the wrong lane and suddenly switching.  It's insane.  Add to that potent mixture the fact that I am usually leaving town at about five o'clock, the stupidest of all the stupid traffic hours, and you can probably imagine the type of driving I'm talking about.  You'll understand why I had a chill down my spine.

Just the previous evening, see, I'd been braking hard, dancing through 18-wheelers pulling the big hills between town and here, running all out.  It had been more than enough to blow that tire.  I have a front-wheel drive vehicle.  While I've had a blowout at 70 mph on the interstate before, it was a back tire that went, so I was able to maintain control. Anything I can imagine having happened if one of the front ones blew in that kind of traffic at that speed is not good.

I'm thankful for that tiny voice of reason and caution.  I'm thankful that I listened to it.  Otherwise, this could very well have been a posting from a hospital room or a message from beyond.