Originally I was to pickup MissAmyRed from the airport at 9:30am Thursday morning. When I woke up, though, I was greeted to a series of unfortunate text messages. Amy’s original flight was delayed and, because of this she, had missed her connection. After a confusing number of steps and alternate plans created and then thrown out, Amy was able to secure a flight that would land around 6pm, much later than previously hoped for or anticipated.
I left camp around 5pm to go pick her up. On the way, I stopped briefly to fill up my gas tank. As I got back onto the highway, my car skidded. Though the incident was jarring, I was able to correct my vehicle fine.
But then I noticed a vibration in my car as I rode along. I hoped it would correct itself. Instead it got worse. That was when it dawned on me.
Oh shit, I have a flat tire.
I made my way to the side of the road.
Am I doing this? Am I really going to do this?
Normally I have no problem changing out my tire. I’ve done it on multiple occasions.
But I had just left camp. I was in a tight red tank top, low cut in the front, as well as a tighter black skirt, much shorter than one in this kind of situation would want it to be. My one consolation: I was wearing my black leather shoes instead of my sandals.
I got out of my car. Popped open the trunk. Pulled out the tools. Set up the jack. Got a honk or two from passing cars. Resisted the urge to flip said cars off. Removed two lugs nuts.
And then the cavalry arrived. A stranger parked their car in front of mine and stepped out. Just as he was approaching me, a roadside assistance worker parked their trucked behind my car. The (hopefully) good samaritan left and the person whose actual job it was to help me took over.
The gentleman used his impact drill to remove the last three lug nuts much faster than I’d removed the first two. He filled my donut with a bit more air, used it to replace my shredded tire, and lowered my jack. I thanked him for his assistance and was on my way.
Funny enough, due to yet more flight hassles, Amy only had to wait for me for about fifteen minutes. We drove very slowly north and were soon enough at camp, delays and all be damned.
When I later recounted my ordeal at the Baekry, RtB looked at my outfit and quipped, “I bet it didn’t take long for someone to stop and help you.”
No, it didn’t.
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