By Steve Flairty
NKyTribune columnist
It was sure good to cross the state line and be back in Kentucky. Suzanne and I were traveling on North I-65, when only 30 minutes before, we had departed our overnight stay at a hotel in a small Tennessee town outside Nashville.
But that wasn’t the original plan.
This was a mid-morning Monday, when I am generally at home in Versailles either reading or writing words. Being an introvert, I kind of like being at home with that activity schedule. But on this day, the routine was different because of what happened the day before. Only the gift of a donut and the intervention of a White House spokesperson kept things from being overly serious.
What? I’ll explain.
The evening before at Nashville International Airport, it was good to see Suzanne again. She had arrived from a week-long vacation trip to Ireland with friends. A week earlier, I drove her from Versailles to the same airport for her departure and fortunately navigated the craziness of the downtown and airport-related traffic just fine on that day.
After the happy greeting and gathering of luggage at claim #9, we made our way to the airport parking area at level P2, expecting to leave and head back home, arriving about four hours later that night. I was looking forward to hearing all about fun times in Ireland, especially the big wedding she attended, and I knew Suzanne was eager to oblige.
But when starting the car, the dash display popped on showing that my right rear passenger tire was low on air, indicating, at least, some kind of leak. Figuring that we needed to attend to the matter quickly for safety’s sake — and recalling I hadn’t changed a tire since I was stranded near Cynthiana while enroute to college at EKU years ago — we decided to leave the airport and get to the nearest service station to, at least, pump some air into the tire and buy some time for a fix later.
I carefully maneuvered our way out of the airport onto I-40 West, my eyes on the tire pressure display and Suzanne’s on the roadside looking for the nearest service station. By now, our emotions were mixed; we were elated to be reunited after a week apart, yet each of us possessed the sinking feeling of being stranded or run over by a motorist in another state several hours from home while dealing with a flat tire.
Within five minutes, Suzanne spotted a Shell gas sign off an exit at what appeared to be a food mart stop. I made a quick turn and headed to the most isolated part of the lot I could find.
Fingers crossed, I entered the busy store and joined a line of customers to talk to the crusty-appearing attendant, needing to ask a pertinent question. When the chance came, I spoke in my best disarmingly friendly voice.
“Sir, would you all have a pump outside to air up a tire?”
“No, we don’t,” he responded in his most dismissive “don’t bother me, I’m busy voice.” I was a bit surprised, but not really, judging by his aforementioned crusty appearance.
“Would you know of any place nearby that would have an air pump?” I gently persisted.
“I have no idea,” he persisted with no hint of being less than crusty. I walked back to the car and talked with Suzanne. We decided to call AAA and ask for a tire change. That, of course, would require an address for where we sat with our car having only three and a half tires filled with air. It was back to Mr. Crusty.
“Sir, we’re calling AAA to come and change our tire. Can I get this store’s address to give them?” I feared the worst from him.
“Right out there on the front door it tells the whole address.” He pointed to the door while leaning slightly forward. “You need to be parked way to the side because people swing far around after getting gas and you could get hit.”
I acknowledged what I perceived to be his less than deeply held concern for our safety, first with a nod.
“I think we’re at a pretty good place and we’ll be OK,” I replied. By then, I couldn’t wait to be out of his hair and back on the road. Bless his heart.
Suzanne proceeded to call AAA and in about 25 minutes, a friendlier sort by the name of Brian, probably about 25 years-old, pulled into the lot with his wrecker with AAA details on the doors. I showed him the half-inflated back rear tire and the “donut” emergency tire that I’d already retrieved from our car’s back section. The donut looked like a big bicycle tire.
After telling us that we were lucky to get him so soon because it had been a busy night in Nashville, he responded to my “make conversation” question about whether the Titans won their game that day. (It actually didn’t matter to me.) Albeit with a pleasant tone, he said he didn’t know, adding that “I have a lot of things better to do than follow stuff like that.”
“I can see why you said that,” I responded with my own pleasant tone, somewhat agreeing with him.
Brian quickly moved onto the tire change, and as he finished, I asked him how far the little wheel might get us down the road.
“This thing is only supposed to get you a maximum of fifty miles, but not to go over 50 mph,” he said with no hesitation. Then I told him we were heading home, and it was about 170 miles away.
After hesitating, he looked closely at both of us. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d find a place to stay overnight, close to a Ford dealership or tire store. If you get too far from Nashville, have a blowout and are sitting alongside the road, it’s gonna be outside our zone and you’ll need to rely on some guy locally we contract with.”
Brian finished his service to us, smiled and shook both our hands. (Perhaps we reminded him of his grandparents.) Anyway, we took his advice. We maneuvered our way back onto busy I-40 West and soon found the merging lane to I-65 North. Reluctantly, I pushed the flashing red light button because with cars speeding by at speeds of 70 or 80 and us moseying at 50, it seemed the safe thing to do.
Nervously and in heavy darkness except for the lights of cars flying by, I watched the speed and total mileage display carefully. After traveling 27 miles, we came upon the White House exit showcasing several hotels and restaurants. We figured with the fifty accumulated miles coming fast, we should stop and layover the night. We pulled into a Hampton Inn, were greeted by a friendly clerk who listened to our story and happily mentioned there was a Firestone Tire store basically a half mile away. Thinking about our diminishing “donut” mileage quota, we were pumped (or, at least, would have our flat tire pumped in the morning).
Fortunately, with the intervening of the White House spokesman and the help of a donut (spare tire), we were back on the road to Versailles and home, problem-free, and we enjoyed talking about Suzanne’s problem-free trip to Ireland.
But it would have been nice if that conversation had taken place the day before…