Kansas Turnpike Flat

There was a sound like a “clunk.” It seemed to come from beneath the truck. It was hardly noticeable and seemed innocuous, I might have just overlooked it, but Alexa, my travel companion, spoke up, “What was that?” I turned my attention toward the side mirrors. The sound was consistent with the possibility that we might have run over something on the road, but I saw no errant objects skittering away from beneath the tires. I paused, though, waiting, no other funny “clunking” occurred. It seemed to be an isolated event. “I don’t know what it was,” I said, “It was like we ran over something on the road, but I didn’t see anything.” I keep looking in the mirrors, but still nothing seems amiss.

Looking in the mirrors, I can clearly see the fenders of the trailer we are towing. Alexa’s Pontiac Grand Am is lashed to the trailer and we are towing it from the back of a ten foot U-Haul truck packed with all of her worldly possessions. Clearly visible, in reverse letters, to make sure I can read them in my mirror, is a sign on the trailer’s fender saying “Speed Limit 45 MPH.” I think to myself, “That’s a laugh. Over two thousand miles at 45 MPH, we would be ready for the loony bin. There is no way. I’ll keep it down to 75 MPH, maybe.” Nevertheless, I had to stare at that 45 MPH sign looking back at me for the entire trip, mocking me.

I start to feel a shaking sensation, ever so subtle. “I think it’s shaking.” Alexa says, “I don’t feel anything.” She may be right; we have already traveled on some mighty bumpy roads. The shaking I’m noticing, if indeed it isn’t just my imagination, is likely just the crappy road, but I think it gets worse. “No, it’s really shaking. Look out the window, can you see anything?” Alexa tries to look at the tires on her side. “They look alright. It’s hard to tell though, they’re spinning around so fast.”

Maybe it is a rough road after all, but I’m thinking it might be a good idea to find a place, pull off, inspect everything and have a good look around. A person can’t be too careful. I’m hunting for what might be available. Currently we are traveling on the Kansas Turnpike. On our trip from Iowa to California, this is the only stretch of Interstate that is a Toll Road. As a Toll Road, it has limited access. Really limited access. Like long, long stretches with no ons or offs. There is nothing anywhere coming up where we can safely pull off, just a narrow strip of shoulder, for miles and miles.

I try to decide what to do when the subtle shaking turns into downright violent jerking. I say, “OK, now something is definitely wrong.” Alexa, peering intently out of the right-side window, says, “The back tire is definitely flat.” “Alright,” I say, “We’re pulling off.” I pull over onto the shoulder, just inches out of reach of high-speed vehicles hurtling their massive bulks of steel past us down the Kansas Turnpike. We get out to survey the damage. Sure enough, the back right tire is, without question, flat as a pancake. Bummer.

We call the 1-800 number that the U-Haul people give you to call for roadside assistance, the number that you keep with you but that you hope that you never have to use. I’m listening to a one-sided conversation as Alexa is talking to someone whose map on the computer is not working very well and who apparently can’t figure out were Kansas is, or where the Kansas Turnpike is, or were the town that we just passed through is, or where anything else of relevant value is. Finally, they get things worked out, thanks in no small part to Alexa’s seemingly limitless supply of patience and they arrange to have a guy come out to fix the offensive tire in 45 minutes. All we have to do is sit tight. Hey now, OK.

We cross to the other side of the ditch to a fence bordering the adjacent wheat field, a prudent safe distance away from the dangerous traffic, and wait for the tire repair guy to show up. I’m figuring 45 minutes most likely translates in the real world to three hours, if we’re lucky.

How appropriate for Kansas, to be stuck next to a wheat field. I suppose if we had been stuck in Nebraska or Iowa we would be waiting next to a cornfield. We didn’t know it at the time, but Alexa and I were standing in grass infested with chiggers, those nasty microscopic bugs that bite you and leave itchy little red bumps all over. We were scratching and itching at chigger bites for more than a week afterwards.

While we are waiting, we notice that Alexa’s car on the back of the trailer is filled up with boxes. There are signs posted on the trailer that clearly state that cars transported on the rented trailers are not to be used to pack items for transport. We wonder, since a guy from U-Haul is coming to fix the tire, will we get in trouble if he catches us moving the car with stuff packed inside. So we think, maybe we should unpack the boxes out of the car before he gets here.

We might have too, if there was anywhere that we could have put them. But there simply wasn’t, except to just stack them on the side of the road, and that might have been hard to explain. So we decide to just take our lumps, come what may. I figured, come on, everyone packs stuff in their vehicles when they transport them on trailers, just like everybody travels faster than 45 MPH with the stupid trailer when they drive on the highway. I briefly wonder if maybe I got the flat tire because I broke the rules. Then I think, naaah, that’s ridiculous.

The guy gets there exactly when they said he would, in forty-five minutes, he puts a new tire on the truck and we are as good as new. He hardly says two words to us the whole time he’s there. I guess tire-changing guys don’t really need to be people persons. We certainly didn’t need to worry about having the boxes packed in the car; the guy could care less. We’re fixed up and back on the road in a snap, from the time of the “clunk” to back on the road, ninety minutes total, not bad I’m thinking. We miss our stop for lunch in Wichita, oh well, and get a bad case of the chiggers for our trouble, scratch, scratch, phooey.

I drop off the truck in Los Angeles and the guy at the U-Haul place asks if I had any problems with the truck. I started to say no when I remembered the flat tire. “We had a flat tire on the Kansas Turnpike, but we called the 1-800 number and they had a guy come out and he fixed it.” He says, “OK, anything else?” I say no, he signs my slip and that was that.