Lea told me she noticed her low tire pressure warning light came on this morning. Without a significant drop in temperature, which we haven’t had, that usually means something’s amiss.
And, indeed. Everyone is 35 psi except the right rear, which is 24. Dammit. That’s too big a disparity to be anything but a leak. I took the wheel off and it didn’t take me long to find an embedded hunk of scrap metal, too close to the sidewall for the tire to be repaired.
This tire and two of the others easily have another 10-15K left on them. The other is significantly newer because of this same scenario about two years ago.
So, because I like these tires and also would like to spend $200 instead of $800, ideally I would replace the one tire, put it on the same end as the newer installed tire, and keep trucking. But, a match is not in stock. “Have one Thursday.”
Sigh. Best I can tell the flat loses about 3 psi per hour, which is borderline impractical for continuing to use the van until the tire arrives. So, $800 and today it is, and all of the tires are the same age again.
Boring story? Sorry. How about this? Several years ago I went to have a flat fixed at that shop just south of the railroad tracks on Sullivan in downtown Madison. The guy who came out told me it was too close to the sidewall and couldn’t be fixed. I said no, that’s pretty far inboard of the sidewall. (Really, it wasn’t even borderline. He just didn’t want to mess with it.) He refused again. I said “come on, man. Really?” Then he stepped closer to me and said “Really.” And I looked at him, and he was a big guy with two sleeves of tattoos, bad teeth, a scraggly beard, and not much of a haircut. Wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he’d been in prison. So I said “thanks,” rolled the tire back to the truck, threw it in the bed, and got it fixed down the street.
Now I’m a reasonably well-adjusted fellow. But my inner redneck still thinks back and loves the thought of me being imposing enough to push the issue with that jerk, goad him into hitting or shoving me, and then just whipping his ass. Then the ambulance would come for him, I’d give a statement to police, and that shop would fix my tire for free.
The right thing at the time doesn’t mean the wrong thing isn’t in there somewhere. Heh.
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