Road Trip

I have had some strange things happen to me on road trips, but who hasn't? It's impossible to mature in the United States without becoming a bit of a cynic, and I must admit that my faith in human nature is a bit tarnished. Despite the fact that the road can be a dangerous place, I love long trips, especially when I drive alone.

Last week was to have been my last such trip for a while, as I was moving. I got a new (for me) small pickup truck and filled it with things I wanted to have in my apartment, a mere 1400 miles away. My daughter had helped me, so the load was perfectly balanced and quite low; there was no shifting going on and I got an early start so I was flying along "in the zone."

The desert never bothers me, even on the long stretches, as long as the air conditioner is working and I have enough money for gas. I had traveled for about 350 miles when I heard the flapping on the right rear tire; just flapping, no swerving was necessary as I pulled to the side of the road.

I did not panic. There was a strip gone from the center of the tire and the rubber had knocked the fuel conduit loose, but the tire wasn't flat. Besides, I know how to change a tire. I had forgotten that this truck was so new to me I wasn't even sure where the spare was, and that I was unable to offload it alone.

As far as I could tell, I was about 30 miles from the closest town of any size, but all I had to do was call my insurance company, right? Well, I tried that, and learned that for some reason, I didn't have roadside assistance on my policy.

Now I was beginning to get a little sweaty. It was at least 100 degrees and I had a heavy load and an almost flat tire. I asked the insurance person if she would tell me how close I was to the nearest town and learned that there was a tiny place four miles down the road.

Always the optimist, I cautiously limped to that exit and found a single service station. Rushing through the door, I asked the girl behind the counter if there was a garage there. "No," she said.

Okay, so my heart was beating faster now. When I was a younger woman, there was never any difficulty getting a manly hand on the road. Suddenly, I envisioned myself conked over the head in the middle of the desert, lying in the sand, truck stolen. Now there was nothing but a hot sense of panic. I had almost no money, a ton of stuff in a broken down truck in the middle of nowhere and nobody cared.

From over my shoulder, a voice said, "What's wrong with your car, honey?"

I swung around and saw, in the cool shadows, a middle-aged cowboy, sipping a coca cola. He got up and walked with me out the door to the truck.

As I stood by, the cowboy got under my truck and found the spare. He and a friend and the young woman from behind the counter spent the next hour figuring out what I should have known before I left, and getting my tire changed.

The Good Samaritan didn't tell me his name, nor did he expect anything from me except that I pass it on. He suggested that since I had such a heavy load I drive slowly the thirty miles to the next town.

Shaking as I was limping slowly along on my doughnut spare, I looked into my rear-view mirror, and there he was behind me….hazard lights on. He stayed with me until I reached town, pulled in front of me, and showed me the way to the tire store. Then he told the owner my situation and said goodbye.

All I learned was that he was a biker named Ducktape, but he changed more than my tire. He changed my entire outlook. I started the day a cynic, and because of one good man and his friends, I had my faith in humanity restored. For the moment.