Night Riders
July 1st. The last few days have had some interesting events. Two days ago, Kappy and I went out for an evening drive to look at wildflowers in the Bighorn Mountains east of Buffalo, WY. It's beautiful country, with alpine meadows, aspen groves, and shadowed paths in dense timber. The traffic is light and there is commonly no other car in sight. The lupines were especially lush, patches of rich blue and purple at the interface of the timber and the meadows. Our Sierra lupines seem a little pale and thin in comparison.
A warning light appeared on my Chevy's instrument panel that I'd not seen before. The left rear tire pressure was at 40 pounds, almost half of what it should be. We were only 20 miles from Buffalo and decided to head toward civilization while we still had some pressure and before it got dark. We slowed a little to baby the wounded tire and descended 3,000 feet on a sparsely traveled road into town. We stopped at the first gas station and asked if there was anyplace that could repair our tire. I wasn't holding out much hope. Buffalo is a town of about 5,000 people and the biggest store in town was an Ace Hardware. The gas station attendant (Is that what you call the guy who is essentially a cashier at the mini-mart attached to the gas station?) gave us the name of the local tire store that would be open tomorrow morning. His station did have an air compressor so I gave the ailing tire CPR and Kappy said, "Let's call Triple A. We pay for roadside assistance. Let's use it." I was a little embarrassed to call. I just needed to change the tire and put on the spare. Every guy I know and half of the girls of my acquaintance can do that. In fact, I required my daughter to demonstrate the ability to change a tire before I allowed her to drive. (I wonder if she still could?)
At my wife's urging , we called AAA. "We are extremely busy tonight and it may take awhile to answer your call. If this is an emergency, call your local emergency services provider. Stay on the line and we'll answer your call in the order in which it was received." Perfect! I figured that however this worked out, I needed a safe place to change the tire. Ironically, the first place we came to with a big parking lot was the Wyoming Department of Transportation equipment yard. We were still waiting for AAA to answer the phone and dusk was settling in. I thought I might as well get started changing the tire before it was totally dark. If AAA showed up before I finished, that was fine.
My truck is a 3/4 ton full-size pickup with a big diesel engine and 20 inch wheels with all-terrain tires. The tire and wheel weigh about a hundred pounds and I'd just as soon let a younger man wrestle with it, but I figured I could get started just to fill the time. Of course I had to get out the owner's manual to figure out where the tools were hidden. In my truck bed tool box I carry a hydraulic jack that was my father's. It weighs 20 pounds, but can lift a small house. As I was positioning it under the axle, AAA answered the phone. The young man I spoke to was very nice, but clearly had a form to fill out. Some questions to verify my identification, a description of the problem, and my location. My location was a problem. I ended up walking across the street to find a house with a number on it so he could put a street address on his form. Apparently, Wyoming's transportation budget does not extend to numbers on their buildings. After all this, the young man said, "Oh, you're in Wyoming. I don't know how this call was routed to me. I'll have to transfer this call to the appropriate regional dispatch."
Back on hold again; by standing on the lug wrench and bouncing, I was able to break loose the lug nuts. The AAA regional guy comes on the phone, confirms the previous information, and says,"We can probably get somebody to you in less than an hour." At this point, Kappy, who has always been ready to help me shoulder any burden said, "I'm going to walk over to the bowling alley and get a beer."
I put on the brake, got the wheel jacked up, and got the lug nuts off. I found the nail, which had been the precipitant of this situation, glinting between the treads while I was locked in combat with the tire. The damn thing would not come off the axle. Kappy, who was back with her beer, made herself useful by Googling 'what to do when the wheel won't come off.' None of the solutions, which mostly involved kicking or hammering, worked.
It was full dark by now and Kappy and I waited in the cab of the truck, the silence only broken by the delicate gurgle of Kappy drinking her beer.
Just as I picked up the phone to call AAA , the glare of headlights announced the arrival of help. I stepped into the light, unable to see the vehicle behind it clearly, but it looked like an ordinary pickup.
A voice with a country twang said, "You look like you might need some help." I thought he was a local good Samaritan and said, "I'm okay, I'm waiting for Triple A."
"Yep", he said, "That's us." Us? Sure enough, another shadow stepped forward. Husky young men on the edge of scruffy, wearing denim and faded tee-shirts. They didn't look like they missed too many meals. The handshake told me what I needed to know: confident, firm, calloused. These were workin' boys. "We drove down from Sheridan", he said, "It took a little while. We work for Bobby's Tow Service up there". I looked a little closer at their truck; an older model standard cab pickup that had seen hard use, with none of the signs or lights you would expect on a service truck, and as far as I could see, devoid of any equipment.
I explained my problem getting the wheel off. "Yep, they get sticky sometimes", he said and motioned to his, so far, silent partner. His partner, the larger of the two, lay down under the rear of my truck, drew back an NFL linebacker size leg and delivered a mighty kick that popped the wheel loose. In about another 3 minutes; the wounded tire was in the back of my truck, the spare was bolted on, and we were shaking hands all around. I signed the invoice, the only thing I'd seen so far that gave any hint there was some commercial venture behind these boys. A glance inside the cab of their truck while signing for the work,showed a pile of discarded coffee cups and an overflowing ash tray. Their truck may have run on gas but they ran on nicotine and caffeine. One more handshake and thanks for the help, and they pulled away into the night, presumably on another mission, or perhaps to the bowling alley for a beer and a hot dog.
A warning light appeared on my Chevy's instrument panel that I'd not seen before. The left rear tire pressure was at 40 pounds, almost half of what it should be. We were only 20 miles from Buffalo and decided to head toward civilization while we still had some pressure and before it got dark. We slowed a little to baby the wounded tire and descended 3,000 feet on a sparsely traveled road into town. We stopped at the first gas station and asked if there was anyplace that could repair our tire. I wasn't holding out much hope. Buffalo is a town of about 5,000 people and the biggest store in town was an Ace Hardware. The gas station attendant (Is that what you call the guy who is essentially a cashier at the mini-mart attached to the gas station?) gave us the name of the local tire store that would be open tomorrow morning. His station did have an air compressor so I gave the ailing tire CPR and Kappy said, "Let's call Triple A. We pay for roadside assistance. Let's use it." I was a little embarrassed to call. I just needed to change the tire and put on the spare. Every guy I know and half of the girls of my acquaintance can do that. In fact, I required my daughter to demonstrate the ability to change a tire before I allowed her to drive. (I wonder if she still could?)
At my wife's urging , we called AAA. "We are extremely busy tonight and it may take awhile to answer your call. If this is an emergency, call your local emergency services provider. Stay on the line and we'll answer your call in the order in which it was received." Perfect! I figured that however this worked out, I needed a safe place to change the tire. Ironically, the first place we came to with a big parking lot was the Wyoming Department of Transportation equipment yard. We were still waiting for AAA to answer the phone and dusk was settling in. I thought I might as well get started changing the tire before it was totally dark. If AAA showed up before I finished, that was fine.
My truck is a 3/4 ton full-size pickup with a big diesel engine and 20 inch wheels with all-terrain tires. The tire and wheel weigh about a hundred pounds and I'd just as soon let a younger man wrestle with it, but I figured I could get started just to fill the time. Of course I had to get out the owner's manual to figure out where the tools were hidden. In my truck bed tool box I carry a hydraulic jack that was my father's. It weighs 20 pounds, but can lift a small house. As I was positioning it under the axle, AAA answered the phone. The young man I spoke to was very nice, but clearly had a form to fill out. Some questions to verify my identification, a description of the problem, and my location. My location was a problem. I ended up walking across the street to find a house with a number on it so he could put a street address on his form. Apparently, Wyoming's transportation budget does not extend to numbers on their buildings. After all this, the young man said, "Oh, you're in Wyoming. I don't know how this call was routed to me. I'll have to transfer this call to the appropriate regional dispatch."
Back on hold again; by standing on the lug wrench and bouncing, I was able to break loose the lug nuts. The AAA regional guy comes on the phone, confirms the previous information, and says,"We can probably get somebody to you in less than an hour." At this point, Kappy, who has always been ready to help me shoulder any burden said, "I'm going to walk over to the bowling alley and get a beer."
I put on the brake, got the wheel jacked up, and got the lug nuts off. I found the nail, which had been the precipitant of this situation, glinting between the treads while I was locked in combat with the tire. The damn thing would not come off the axle. Kappy, who was back with her beer, made herself useful by Googling 'what to do when the wheel won't come off.' None of the solutions, which mostly involved kicking or hammering, worked.
It was full dark by now and Kappy and I waited in the cab of the truck, the silence only broken by the delicate gurgle of Kappy drinking her beer.
Just as I picked up the phone to call AAA , the glare of headlights announced the arrival of help. I stepped into the light, unable to see the vehicle behind it clearly, but it looked like an ordinary pickup.
A voice with a country twang said, "You look like you might need some help." I thought he was a local good Samaritan and said, "I'm okay, I'm waiting for Triple A."
"Yep", he said, "That's us." Us? Sure enough, another shadow stepped forward. Husky young men on the edge of scruffy, wearing denim and faded tee-shirts. They didn't look like they missed too many meals. The handshake told me what I needed to know: confident, firm, calloused. These were workin' boys. "We drove down from Sheridan", he said, "It took a little while. We work for Bobby's Tow Service up there". I looked a little closer at their truck; an older model standard cab pickup that had seen hard use, with none of the signs or lights you would expect on a service truck, and as far as I could see, devoid of any equipment.
I explained my problem getting the wheel off. "Yep, they get sticky sometimes", he said and motioned to his, so far, silent partner. His partner, the larger of the two, lay down under the rear of my truck, drew back an NFL linebacker size leg and delivered a mighty kick that popped the wheel loose. In about another 3 minutes; the wounded tire was in the back of my truck, the spare was bolted on, and we were shaking hands all around. I signed the invoice, the only thing I'd seen so far that gave any hint there was some commercial venture behind these boys. A glance inside the cab of their truck while signing for the work,showed a pile of discarded coffee cups and an overflowing ash tray. Their truck may have run on gas but they ran on nicotine and caffeine. One more handshake and thanks for the help, and they pulled away into the night, presumably on another mission, or perhaps to the bowling alley for a beer and a hot dog.
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