flat tire crisis/saga Part 3
According to the sign outside town, Fredonia is home to over 1000 people. Apparently most of them live underground because as far as i could tell, the population was closer to 10. Fortunately for me, the town's gas station was run by a helpful (if grumpy) bloke named Tony and a retired good-old-boy named Paul. As soon as i pulled in i bought a Powerade & some Camels, then sat on their bench outside to gulp some electrolytes and figure out just what i was going to do about my little problem. In hindsight i realize i should have just called it a day and gotten a room at one of the motels in town right then. I actually started to walk down the road to one of them when i changed my mind because i figured it would be easier to work somewhere with a compressor, etc, than in the parking lot of a motel. Although true, i should have waited until the next day, but i suppose i wasn't ready to give up at that point, i wanted to beat it. That was pride, fucking with me. Once i rolled the bike around into the shade on the side of the station, Tony pulled out the air hose and grabbed a "high-end" milk crate from his truck for me to use. For some reason i thought i'd try lifting it again, as if i had more strength now that i was exhausted, and couldnt even budge it. Inside, Tony was visibly irritated when i asked for help, so Paul volunteered and followed me outside. Paul was probably in his late 50s, maybe early 60s, very large, and had a gentle, soft-spoken demeanor, well-trimmed white beard and (some) hair. He told me that he just hangs out at the station most of the day, just chatting up Tony and whoever comes by, occasionally driving the tow truck when a call comes in. Once we got the bastard up onto the crate and leaned against the wall, it wasnt high enough and the wheel still touched the ground, so we scrounged around for something to stick in there. After picking through the dumpsters and weeds we found a 2x4 and it was good enough:
At that point i was still fairly optimistic that i would be able to fix the thing and be on my way before too long; it was about 3:00, so i had almost 3 hours before i ran out of daylight. Removing the wheel without tipping over the bike was tricky, but the real struggle was working the tire off in my lap with a couple tire irons. I found a bucket that made things a little easier, but it still took all my strength and profanity to break the beads and expose the tube:
The tube had expelled all the sealant into the tire and mixed with all the dirt, forming a delicious goo that oozed all over my pants and boots, and into the dumpster it went. Getting the valve of the new tube thru the hole in the rim was next, its own special time of cursing and fumbling. But the hardest part was next: remounting the tire. Having never done it before (by hand) there was something of a learning curve, so i would guess around an hour or so was essentially wasted just dicking around with the irons, flipping them across the lot, hands slipping off the tire and into the sprocket or rotor, bent over the whole mess sweating all over the place, not getting anywhere. Paul came outside and saw me about to break my own face off from the strain and rolled up the door, then emerged with the bead goo, basically a very thick soap to help the rubber slide into the rim bed. I had been trying spit, but spit only lasts so long. Now things went together and the end was in sight. HA! WHO'S LAUGHIN' NOW, CLOWN?!" As i started to lift the wheel up to the bike, Paul offered a bit of advice, "you should air it up first", and i realized that he was absolutely right: if i had screwed it up, id have to take it all back apart again.
And i had. Big time. With the compressor hooked up, the air was escaping the tube faster than it could be forced in. My vein-popping struggle had pinched the tube not just once, but about a dozen times in little pairs along its inner surface. It was by then nearly sunset, my arms were trembling with exhaustion, dehydration, and possible tissue damage, i was covered in dirt, sweat, grease/slime & a little blood, and getting disoriented and confused from the lack of proper food & water and the exposure of the high desert. I could'nt muster optimism anymore. i had nowhere to sleep for the night, i was stuck in the parking lot of a gas station, delirious & hungry, and totally out of strength. The realization that i was going to have to do it all over again, when the first time was so difficult it had taken 2 hours, erased all hope and i dropped my head down between my knees. Paul was still standing there, and he too was speechless, and left me to myself. It was the lowest point in the whole trip, a depression threshold. There was nowhere to go, no one to call, nothing to do but swallow it whole. After a smoke or two i got to work on the bead again, removed the tube, and saw my handywork: totally destroyed. I had only one tube left, a 21" for the front tire, and it seemed my only option. Then i remembered the patch kit i had packed at the last minute. O providence...i pulled the original tube from the dumpster and sat down to perform what had to be the Greatest Patching Ever. As Slime continued to leak from the pencil-sized hole as i scraped away with the sandpaper, it was apparent that the surface was not going to be clean. Knowing that cleanliness was the key to a proper, permanent patch, i ignored it as i had little choice and finished the job. With the sun now below the horizon, no exterior lights behind the station, and Tony closing up the place, i only had a few minutes to remount the tire, install the wheel, and lift the bike off the crate.
For the second time that day, an inexplicable force of sheer willpower took over and i mounted that fucker in less than 2 minutes. Again, i cannot explain it as anything but a supernatural event. It was like my eyes rolled back into my head and a powerful spirit possessed my body, there's just no other explanation for such a feat of strength and determination. And i did it right, no leaks. In fact, i rode the rest of my trip on that patch and even now, parked in the garage, it holds. Just one of many small miracles that followed me around.
I jammed the wheel back in, half-assed the chain adjustment, and with Paul's help, lifted it off the crate so he could get home to his dinner with the wife. Now well after dark, i mounted the bags and got the hell out of there, headed for the motels. As luck would have it, 2 of the 3 motels were booked, and the only option was the fancy-pants Mormon Lodge, a $77-a-night "resort", but it was no matter. I would have paid whatever it cost just to rest. The clerk looked up at me and paused, asking "are you OK?" as soon as i walked in. I must have looked like a ghost. I mumbled "...got a flat tire 50 miles from civilization..." and took my key.
The final blow for the day came when i unzipped my bag and found 2 empty Pabst cans, yet unopened. All that vibration from "Murdock's Dust to Glory" had caused my fold-up lantern to pierce them and spray their contents all over my shit. Having been placed right on top, the beer had soaked everything and remained pooled in the bottom. Too tired to freak out or cry or anything, i just chuckled a little and unpacked, spreading everything out on the floor of the rather generously sized bathroom and left it there overnight under the heat lamp. That night i slept the sleep o the dead and didnt even rise until nearly 10.
While packing up i found an envelope given to me by my mom when i left town, with the instructions "do not open until Grand Canyon" written on it. I sat down on the bed, trying to guess what was inside, then opened it. Along with a somewhat awkward photo portrait of sis, mom, and grandma, was a letter. At a time when i felt alone and beyond the reach of protection, it was suddenly clear to me the nature and identity of the mysterious benevolent force that had been my escort...thanks mom.
And i had. Big time. With the compressor hooked up, the air was escaping the tube faster than it could be forced in. My vein-popping struggle had pinched the tube not just once, but about a dozen times in little pairs along its inner surface. It was by then nearly sunset, my arms were trembling with exhaustion, dehydration, and possible tissue damage, i was covered in dirt, sweat, grease/slime & a little blood, and getting disoriented and confused from the lack of proper food & water and the exposure of the high desert. I could'nt muster optimism anymore. i had nowhere to sleep for the night, i was stuck in the parking lot of a gas station, delirious & hungry, and totally out of strength. The realization that i was going to have to do it all over again, when the first time was so difficult it had taken 2 hours, erased all hope and i dropped my head down between my knees. Paul was still standing there, and he too was speechless, and left me to myself. It was the lowest point in the whole trip, a depression threshold. There was nowhere to go, no one to call, nothing to do but swallow it whole. After a smoke or two i got to work on the bead again, removed the tube, and saw my handywork: totally destroyed. I had only one tube left, a 21" for the front tire, and it seemed my only option. Then i remembered the patch kit i had packed at the last minute. O providence...i pulled the original tube from the dumpster and sat down to perform what had to be the Greatest Patching Ever. As Slime continued to leak from the pencil-sized hole as i scraped away with the sandpaper, it was apparent that the surface was not going to be clean. Knowing that cleanliness was the key to a proper, permanent patch, i ignored it as i had little choice and finished the job. With the sun now below the horizon, no exterior lights behind the station, and Tony closing up the place, i only had a few minutes to remount the tire, install the wheel, and lift the bike off the crate.
For the second time that day, an inexplicable force of sheer willpower took over and i mounted that fucker in less than 2 minutes. Again, i cannot explain it as anything but a supernatural event. It was like my eyes rolled back into my head and a powerful spirit possessed my body, there's just no other explanation for such a feat of strength and determination. And i did it right, no leaks. In fact, i rode the rest of my trip on that patch and even now, parked in the garage, it holds. Just one of many small miracles that followed me around.
I jammed the wheel back in, half-assed the chain adjustment, and with Paul's help, lifted it off the crate so he could get home to his dinner with the wife. Now well after dark, i mounted the bags and got the hell out of there, headed for the motels. As luck would have it, 2 of the 3 motels were booked, and the only option was the fancy-pants Mormon Lodge, a $77-a-night "resort", but it was no matter. I would have paid whatever it cost just to rest. The clerk looked up at me and paused, asking "are you OK?" as soon as i walked in. I must have looked like a ghost. I mumbled "...got a flat tire 50 miles from civilization..." and took my key.
The final blow for the day came when i unzipped my bag and found 2 empty Pabst cans, yet unopened. All that vibration from "Murdock's Dust to Glory" had caused my fold-up lantern to pierce them and spray their contents all over my shit. Having been placed right on top, the beer had soaked everything and remained pooled in the bottom. Too tired to freak out or cry or anything, i just chuckled a little and unpacked, spreading everything out on the floor of the rather generously sized bathroom and left it there overnight under the heat lamp. That night i slept the sleep o the dead and didnt even rise until nearly 10.
While packing up i found an envelope given to me by my mom when i left town, with the instructions "do not open until Grand Canyon" written on it. I sat down on the bed, trying to guess what was inside, then opened it. Along with a somewhat awkward photo portrait of sis, mom, and grandma, was a letter. At a time when i felt alone and beyond the reach of protection, it was suddenly clear to me the nature and identity of the mysterious benevolent force that had been my escort...thanks mom.
