I used to scream over flat tires. Red hot rage in my early 30’s as I stormed away from the car, through the apartment, yelling inane catch phrases like “over my dead body” or “this is the last straw” to the world, unfair and unfounded. How self-important was I to be derailed this way by the incompetency of road trash? (Or how hungover was I that a flat tire was a delay of a long nap and a very greasy burger?) I was broke, so the fire of disaster was fueled by the absence of good car insurance with a tow truck feature and I didn’t have AAA AND I always meant to buy a donut for the trunk and never did. So the flat in front of the apartment was like a sign that read “You are fucked” and got me on the couch for at least a day before I could wrap my head around a solution. Then there was the flat tire scenario no where near my apartment and by then I had some coverage for the tow but it was only five miles which only would get me to a car dealer with lots of glass windows that up-charged $100 for everything. So a new tire even if the brand was Mohawk was out of my budget. And they had you in their clutches too because you needed to get your car out of there ASAP or they would impound it.
By my 40s, victim-y surrender to the plight of my life played into the flat tire, and upon its discovery, the phases now uttered were “Oh course, this is my life” or “Why me?” A flat tire would symbolize all I didn’t understand as a mother and a human, and I was the tire, deflated and useless. I was running around picking up two kids as a single mom and needing to get to work on time so I was paralyzed by the fact that the tire was flat. The yelling had more of an urgency as I actually had responsibilities (versus my 30’s) but was more of an extended strained call for the decency of the Universe to help me out. Somehow, someway, I would manage to get everyone to where they needed to be, but if memory serves I once ran a full mile to work in full speed as the only option upon a flat tire finding.
In Covid, on Mother’s Day, I got a flat tire in the hot parking lot of a mediocre mall. In my 50’s, not much phases me anymore. In fact, the less reactive I can be about anything, the better. I am tired, I accept life on life’s terms, and I just don’t want any really really bad news. A flat tire, bring it on. Could be ten times worse. That doesn’t make walking two very hot and bored daughters around the mall for three hours any easier, with masks, waiting for the tow truck. I practiced an inner meditative silence after a short lecture to my children it was Mother’s Day, and therefore they couldn’t be madder than me, which shut them up.
I was curious why I had gotten a third nail in two months. Maturity drives us to know more about the causes of our despair. I was called to do some research. I discovered my car, the VW Tiguan, had a suspension as such that it pulled up nails from the road more than other cars. I stared blankly at the information on the screen. Really? My worst nightmare is a car feature? Also, construction had been on an uptick before Covid, and the roads were left strewn with nails? Dystopic in its own right.
And let’s look on the bright side. With those nails, I lived closer than ever to an abundance of tire shops in South LA and learned about the extremely primitive practice of placing your tire in a tub of water and spinning it to see where it needs a patch or if in fact it is a candidate for a quick $10 fix. I would pray if they do the patch, that they are in fact exceptional at their job. But for at least a month or so after you patch it, you are convinced that the tire has a slow leak. Quick checks in the morning in the parking garage reveal that the tire COULD be a little flatter than the other tires, which by this time are all different makes and models, with only one being the fancy factory tire the car came with. This potential illusion of flatness is simply a knee jerk reaction to tire PTSD and the desire to never be caught off guard by a flat tire again (which is an impossibility in this lifetime.)
Determined to defy the odds, you go on an air pump bender, locating all the gas stations where they turn them on for you for free versus charging you $1.50 for air (which is beyond ridiculous.) I even went so far one time when I was pissed to be charged for air to look up the law. I found out it is illegal to charge for air at gas stations. But when you are direly worried your tire will be flat by the morning in your paranoid delusion you either pay or pump some overpriced gas just to get your fix of air. And then there are the pressure gages that are busted on these machines that no one ever services. So you have no idea if your tire is about to blow up even though you are skilled enough about tires at this point to read the suggested tire pressure engraved in the teflon. I used to have my own pressure gage in my car and I am now realizing I have lost it and I am sad about that fact.
Why are flat tires so triggering? The unknown comes in and just punctures a hole into our reality. A deflated tire is less violent than a car accident, but sneaky enough to put a cinch in the plans. Especially if you have a color coded Google calendar that has very little wiggle room. We schedule ourselves to the point where we forget we pee, drink water and eat. Also with a flat tire, you have to examine your back up people if you have kids to pick up from school. You can realize you have no back up friends in a pinch. Then you may need alternatives to get to a location if you have to give a talk or make a presentation (and leave the car with the flat tire for another time to deal with - that is Jedi super power action right there.) Can you imagine being so cool as a cucumber over your tire you were in the Uber telling the driver, yeah I got a flat tire but it’s cool. Or not even telling ANYONE and opting out of the option to complain.
That’s when you completely let go and step to the other side of flat tire spiritual fitness.