Sometimes, it’s best to just stand there

It really was a dark and stormy night, just perfect for me to become a road-kill statistic.

After a big sleep-inducing dinner, I had left the extended family at Lake Summit, and was heading “back down the mountain” to my own bed in Gramling, down that last steep stretch of decline on Interstate 26 between Saluda and Columbus.

Going up the grade, you always see trucks slowly struggling in the right-hand lane, some of which become overheated and have to pull over. Some cars, too. Worse to be coming down the grade, riding your brakes, and have other fearless drivers blow off your doors, hurtling themselves to certain death if they misjudge a turn or have a senior moment.

I had just started down the grade when I felt something more wrong than usual with the car, which, at 300,000 miles, feeling new bumps and grinds among the many is common and expected. Maybe I heard something? Maybe I didn’t? Maybe the car was driving a little funnier than usual? Maybe it was just uneven asphalt?

There were sporadic spikes of lightning in the thick clouds, it was raining just enough to be irritating, and I was hot and tired, overfed and sleepy. If I could just get home, I would deal with the problem tomorrow.

I lifted my foot off the brake pedal to get a feel for the road and didn’t like what I felt.

Something was definitely wrong, and I suspected it was a tire. Mentally I chanted, “Just get down the mountain, just get down the mountain, just get down the mountain.” In less than a minute, I knew I would never make it to the Columbus exit, even though it was just around the bend.

I started evaluating the traffic, rain, darkness, my ability to hold the car steady, when the vibrations told me the time to think was over: Pull over now or die trying.

I managed to pull over into the emergency lane and center my car between the guardrail and speeding cars, giving me enough room to get out without being sideswiped. I turned off the car, turned on the flashlight function on my iPhone, and got out to see what was the problem. Cars and trucks fled down the mountain like the proverbial bats out of Hades. Just as I had feared, the back passenger-side tire – what was left of it – was in shreds.

I called the family…

“Hey, it’s me. I’ve had a flat tire on the interstate. I can change it, but I can’t see what I’m doing. Can someone bring me a flashlight?”

“Oh, no!” the voice on the other end exclaimed. Other alarmed voices were joining the conversation. “What happened… are you okay… did you pull off the road… are you sure it’s a flat tire… did you get hurt… we can call Triple A…” There was a cacophony of voices, asking redundant questions and not waiting for answers.

“I’m between Saluda and Columbus, halfway down the grade. Just send some of the guys out with a flashlight.”

The family was launching into another round of 20 Questions when a camper pulled up. Its headlights were blinding me. “Someone has just pulled up behind me, and if they stay, I can change the tire using their headlights. I’ll let you know.” Click.

The silhouetted figure of a man approached me in the glare. “Hey,” I shouted and waved my hand, hoping he was not an interstate killer. “Thanks for stopping.”

A man stepped into view. “Flat tire?” He looked okay: a little past middle age, cargo shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops, beer belly. “Yeah, and pretty bad, too.” I pointed my cellphone at the tire. Even in the dim light, it was obvious some of the rubber was missing and the rim was sitting on the asphalt.

“You were lucky to get off the road in one piece,” he observed.

I agreed. “But I can change the tire if I have light. If you don’t mind, can you pull up a little closer and leave your headlights on? It shouldn’t take but a few minutes.”

“Sure thing, and I’ll get my flashlight,” he replied.

During the next 15 minutes, Bill — from Ohio with his family in the camper heading to Myrtle Beach — and I changed the tire. Actually, he held the flashlight and I changed the tire, getting what was left of the old tire off and the little tire on. I worked quickly and efficiently knowing exactly where my jack, tools, and spare were. Instinctively, Bill just held the light steady and made polite conversation. We both knew this was a one-man job.

He said he was looking forward to eating some seafood in Calabash. I told him to check out a place called Crab Catchers and to try the soft-shell blue crab.

After throwing the remains of the flat tire in the trunk, I held out a dirty hand. “Bill, thanks for stopping. I would have never got this tire changed without your help.” We shook hands. “Glad to help. Got far to go?”

“Nah, I’m almost home. I’ll be there in 15 minutes. I’m good to go.”

“Well, let me get back on the road. Myrtle Beach is waiting.”

“Thanks again, Bill. Be careful, and eat a blue crab for me.”

Driving slowly home, I called to let the family know I was okay.

“Are you sure you’re okay… who helped you… he could have been some kind of killer… was he alone… did you have a spare tire… can the tire fixed…you know it’s not safe…” •

Steve Wong is a writer living in the peach orchards of Upstate South Carolina. He firmly believes: “If you can’t change a flat tire, you shouldn’t be driving.” He can be reached at Just4Wong@Gmail.com.