As I was making my way home last night from work, I ran over a really deep pot hole in an especially dark part of C5. After a loud bam, I noticed that the car was leaning to the right, and that there was now a loud and repetitive thudding noise that wasn’t there before. Ugh, flat tire.
I know a good amount about cars, all thanks to an ex-boyfriend who was obsessed with them and eventually got me into them too. As much as I hate to admit it, I did have a promise to myself once that I would never date a guy who was into cars. Well, that flew out the window and now I can’t help but sneer everytime a pacool guy drives by where I am, thinking that that loud noise his car is making is impressive. Tambucho mo lang yan!
But I digress.
Anyway, so as I got on SLEX I pulled up to the right side of the road and checked my tires, only to find that my front right tire was completely flat. Guh. Called my dad, put out the early warning device (which is something every person must have in their car as ordered by the LTO!) and proceeded to stare at the tire iron in my left hand, and the impossible task in front of me. In theory, I know how to change a tire. In execution, I know that I won’t get those bolts out even if I were still in my macho, football-everyday, gym-three-times-a-week condition.
Amazingly, I had stopped right across Sea Oil on the West Service Road. Two kind men jumped over the fence and proceeded to huff and puff over my tires for the next hour without my asking for help. A lot of thoughts ran through my head during that hour – the kindness of the Filipino people (take that haters!), how this is the first time I’d ever fit perfectly into the whole Damsel In Distress role, and what the probability was that somebody would hit my car as they whizzed by in an effort to not get caught in the rush hour traffic. In the end, I walked away with this thought: I gotta learn how to change a damn tire!