The Curious Case of the Unholey Tire
Category: Kitchen Sink...
Posted Wednesday, August 27, 2008 at 06:56 AM [GMT-6]

Update (8:53 am): In the Biblical book of 1 Kings, the king of Aram decides to attack Israel, and sends Ahab, the Hebrew king, a message to that effect. Ahab, after some initial quaking, fretting, and, eventually, praying, gets word from God not to worry about it, and Ahab's response to the Aramean king is a classic understatement: "One who puts on his armor should not boast as one who takes it off." The message would later evolve to the more mundane, "don't count your chickens before they hatch." Why this seemingly irrelevant aside? Simply because when I tried to take the spare tire off this morning in order to remount the regular wheel, one of the lug nuts seized up and I had to break off the stud in order to remove the wheel. So, the non-event described below will end up costing significant dollars. I'm also now convinced that the lug nut studs on 1999 Durangos are imbued with manufacturing defects, as this is the third such mishap in four wheel changes.

I took the Durango in for its 3,000 mile service on Monday, and when the guy brought out the air filter and fluid samples for inspection (we've previously covered that mystifying ritual in these pages), he also informed me that there was a nail in the rear passenger-side tire. "We don't do tire service, but we thought you should know."

I did appreciate the heads-up, and I thought to myself, "how fortunate that they caught that before it causes a problem in an unexpected situation." At least now I have some degree of control over the matter.

I ran some errands and then drove the car home and parked it in the garage. Later that evening, after the temperature had dropped a bit, I swapped the spiked tire for the spare and threw the former in the back of the SUV. Before I did that, however, I attempted to extract the nail with a pair of needle-nosed pliers, but I was unsuccessful; it appeared to be completely embedded and I didn't want to snap a tip off the pliers. I figured it would be easier for the mechanic to locate the hole if I left it in, so I didn't think twice about it.

I dropped the tire off yesterday morning at one of the few neighborhood gas stations that still provides mechanics services, giving them my cell number to call when the tire was fixed. Shortly before lunch, the phone rang and the young lady told me that they'd found "five thorn holes" and they couldn't repair the tire because they're only allowed to patch two holes in a tire, for safety reasons.

Well, that news was unexpected, and I couldn't imagine how I'd managed to mangle the tire like that, nor why there hadn't been any additional evidence. I figured I was just skirting disaster, working my guardian angel overtime. At lunch, MLB pointed out that I had driven in the pasture at the cemetery following a funeral last Friday (we were boxed in after the graveside service), and that's probably where we picked up the thorns. I didn't agree, because (1) we hadn't really driven in "the pasture" – wives like to exaggerate things like that, you know; and (b) even if I was in the pasture, it had been graded and I didn't see anything thorny. However, the evidence seemed to side with her account.

Anyway, mid-afternoon I dropped by the blood bank and made a donation, then drove to the service station to pick up the tire. I greeted the woman who handled the paperwork and told her that I was there to pick up the unfixable tire.

Yes. We can't repair more than two holes in a tire, because it's not safe, she repeated as we walked through the greeting area into the service bay.

OK, I understand. I don't know how it happened, but I do understand your position.

There's your tire, right there. She pointed to something that was, indeed, a tire, but it wasn't my tire.

No, that's not my tire; that one's mine, pointing to the Michelin resting next to the one she had labeled as mine.

No, it's not; that's someone else's, she retorted.

At that moment, a man who'd been standing in the bay but was obviously not an employee spoke up. That's MY tire, he said, pointing at the non-Michelin, and confirming my contention.

Well, we can't fix yours either, because it's also got five holes in it she exclaimed.

At this point, my head started making little creaking noises as it's wont to do just prior to exploding, as I tried to wrap my brain around the immense coincidence that two tires, both with five thorn holes, would appear at the same service station at the same time. It's My Cousin Vinny time.

Fortunately, the mechanic walked up, pointed to the other guy's tire, and confirmed that it was unrepairable. He then pointed to mine and said those words we all love to hear, There's nothing wrong with yours.

As it turned out, the screw (not a nail after all, and that's why I couldn't easily extract it) didn't penetrate the casing of the tire, and there were no other leaks. They had gotten the paperwork mixed up, and my tire was misidentified. I offered to pay them for their time, but they refused payment.

I was struck* by the symmetry of this sequence of events. The guy at the lube place thought he was doing me a favor (which he was) by pointing something out. The lady at the service station thought she was delivering bad news (which she was) by letting me know about the multiplying leaks. Both ended up being wrong, and I ended up being relieved. (I did feel empathy for the guy whose tire really was hosed.) Nevertheless, I'll still have to change the tire again to get back to square one, and I'm not really seeing an obvious lesson.

*I debated briefly with myself over whether the proper word in this case was "struck" or "stricken." Fortunately, my beloved copy of Garner's Modern American Usage solved the dilemma by reminding me that the latter is an archaism that has fallen out of favor. Unfortunately, when I looked up the referenced entry for "archaism," I found that it was accompanied by my photo.