“Tired, Again”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-19)

“Where the rubber meets the road.”

This familiar expression must have been born of the physical contact that makes transportation possible on public thorofares around the globe. A useful intersection of basic science and political wisdom. Yet for this writer, the phrase recently took on a different character. One descriptive of my own struggle to re-shoe the family hoss with fresh hoops of carbon black and chemical compounds.

Over the years, I have visited a variety of tire shops and dealerships to acquire these necessary treads for the family trucksters. Once, I even purchased a set of old-style, bias-ply tires from my brother-in-law, for a bargain price of $75.00. He installed the quad in his garage, with a vintage machine powered by an air compressor.

Eventually, my buying habits wandered toward the discount monolith, Walmart. After having luck with Goodyear Wrangler tires on my 1979 Ford F-150, I purchased another set when needed. And again and again. Each 4x4 hauler received similar road-rings for everyday use. I settled into a groove of sorts, repeating this habit without much forethought or worry.

But last year, my buying streak crashed into the retail reality of our local megacenter in Geauga County. When I arrived early on a Monday morning, as the second customer of that day, my plan scrambled quickly. The auto-center did not carry tires in my particular size, P255/70R17. They would have to be ordered from warehouse stock. After discussing options for my 2006 F-150 STX, a wider size of 265 was deemed acceptable. With a different brand, I was assured that my pickup could still get ‘re-tired’ in a jiffy. Karma intervened, however. The mechanic on duty could not remove a front wheel with his impact wrench. The situation stalled their progress for the day, with other customers arriving as I waited. I received a lecture about the process of handling damaged vehicles, should any repairs go awry. If not for my own worsening physical disability, I could have removed it myself. Finally, having lost confidence in the shop, I canceled the transaction altogether. With my head down, I left in silence.

Being a professional writer, and a former supermarket manager, I decided to pen a note to those in charge of the Walmart location. Not as a complaint but simply to offer my particular slant on what happened, and how it might have been handled differently. I hoped my personal letter could offer some insight.

Surprisingly, no response ever hit my mailbox.

Meanwhile, I paused at a tire depot just down the road from my homestead. A place that once helped my wife find new rubber for her Taurus. When I rattled off the needed size, their installer went wide-eyed. “Seventeen? I don’t have a single one of those in the building!”

Online searches found plenty of replacement items available, but few at a friendly cost. Several local dealers refused to list prices at all, instructing potential patrons to call for further information. In every case, an appointment would be needed. My own nature complicated the process. I preferred to make a catalog selection while managing my expense, and get the job finished in one trip. Finally, I decided to ride my mule on the old shoes, for another winter.

With circuitous fate in effect, I arrived at my original point of inception, when warmer weather returned. The tires on my truck were usable, yet now truly at the end of their life span. Continued online research brought me once again to the behemoth from Arkansas. And the Goodyear Wrangler series. I found the AT/S variety in-stock at the Madison, Ohio location. In a P265/70R17 size. For insurance, I printed out the description from their website. Summoning courage and vigor, I went to claim my set of four black rings, for immediate duty.

The representative I met was a courteous young woman, who confessed that they had eight of the Wrangler AT/S tires on hand. But she shook her head when I requested a set for my truck. A quick inspection confirmed to her that my vehicle currently rested on tracks of the 255 width. The standard issue, proscribed by Ford Motor Company. I pointed out that a larger replacement would easily fit the pickup. But she took a stern tone of schoolteacher admonishment. “We are not a custom shop!” she said with brusque intonation. “We can only offer to order exactly what is listed for your vehicle.”

Again, I left in silence. The proper tires were not only more expensive but would also require waiting a few days and then making another trip.

Later in the summer, I sat by a bonfire next door, with other residents of my neighborhood. As beer and snacks were passed around, I mentioned the quandary about worn rubber on my truck. A veteran of the group, older and more seasoned, suggested visiting the Walton megacenter in Ashtabula.

“They’ll fix you up!” he promised. “I’ve signed a waiver in the past. That size will be fine on your Ford. You go up there and everything will be handled right. No problem.”

He was someone we all trusted. When I looked up the Wrangler tires, they were in-stock at that location, and at a friendly price. I reluctantly decided to try Sam’s brood one last time. My ladyfriend Janis went along for company.

We arrived about 1:30 p.m. and were greeted by a fellow in the repair bay. He was familiar with the Goodyear line, and directed us toward their counter, inside. A quick check confirmed that three different profiles were listed for my 4x4 truck. Sizes of 245, 255, and 265. They had ten of the desired hoops on hand. A waiver was not mentioned.

I felt confident, at last.

As the process got underway, one of the installers mentioned having appointment slots available on the next day. He said I was number five in line, but could return at 4:30 or 5:30 p.m. tomorrow. I reckoned on finishing this task with no further procrastination. So my choice was to stay. Janis wanted a meal at Subway, located by the main entrance. So we took the work ticket and proceeded to go up front for a late lunch. The department clerk promised to page us when the job was completed.

After consuming our Turkey Italian Subs, we sat in the lobby, waiting for an Amigo cart. Amazingly, their entire fleet was in use. My debilitated joints were crying out for relief. After about 20 minutes, an associate wearing a yellow safety vest appeared, returning one of the carts. I hailed him cheerfully. Janis and I shopped lazily after that, circling the store a few times while counting customer calls over the public address system. The hours spun away on my Dakota watch. Three o’clock, four, five, six and then… fatigue began to take hold.

Around half-past-six I returned the Amigo and sat down in a line of leather chairs at the auto center. Janis played on her cellphone. I struck up a friendly conversation with the customer before us in line. An older fellow with many stories about being in and out of the hospital. He observed that one of his sons coached high school football in Perry Township, which piqued my interest.

“Did you know Chinese people drink all of their beverages warm?” he inquired. “We had visitors stay and they kept everything out of the refrigerator. Everything warm!” I nodded at regular intervals to indicate my enduring attention span. He helped us pass the time. I wished we had shared more of the night listening to his tales.

Finally, at 7:30 p.m., my name was called. The truck was re-shod with fresh rubber, and ready to run. We had waited six hours. Thankfully, the bill amounted to a total even less than I had calculated. Driving home felt terrific. The old hoss rode and handled much better than before. Janis complained about the pungent stench of fresh rubber wafting through her window. But I received it as an appealing fragrance. A trophy of battle won.

The STX was re-tired, at last.

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