So, what do you do when your tyre explodes on a country road with no streetlights at midnight in 4 degree weather with no phone reception? No, this is not a made up story...
Coming back from dinner at a friend's house, I was so tired (3 nights of little sleep does that to you... see my previous post) that I drove into a median strip heading out of town. In the hire car. Don't ask me how.
After about 2 minutes of driving further into the country, I noticed the characteristic thump thump thump and went into a state of denial, before coming to my senses and facing the gut dropping sight of a flattened tyre. Now I was in the pitch dark, my only company the foxes and rabbits who helped with the drama of the situation by making appropriate rustling sounds in the undergrowth around me.
I drove a further mile or two on the wheel rim with my hazards on to see if the car would make it, then gave up when the GPS told me I still had 15 miles to go. At least I'd driven to the closest (and only) street light by now.
I hopped out of the car, grabbed out the spare and the kit, then had a little "I can't do this" moment. I was cold, absolutely exhausted, and in my work clothes. Last time I'd tried to change the tyre with my dad I'd needed help loosening the wheel nuts. This wasn't going to be a proud "she does it herself" situation. And anyways, I didn't want to kneel on the ground in case I snagged my favourite tights.
So I stood praying and waiting for stronger hands than mine to loosen the stupid wheel nuts. Finally I saw headlights in the distance, and putting aside images of Wolf Creek or similar, I put on my bravest face to the guy slowing down towards me in a BMW.
Turns out there was no way I could have done it myself - the tyre had to be kicked off from underneath as it was firmly stuck. He was such a lovely guy, and I got his number to have coffee with him (and his girlfriend, grateful that he mentioned that detail) as they had only recently arrived to Canterbury themselves.
Twenty minutes later and he was off, but I was still stationary. The bloody thing wouldn't 'turn on'.
I tried everything. I even got out and pushed the damn thing down the road to see if that would work. A funny sight in my fishnets and skirt, my beautiful cream coat and hands now covered in dirt.
As I cried out in exasperation (my automatic windows were down and I was now freezing inside as well as outside of the car), I realised I wasn't brave or strong or tough. If I died of cold or a fox attack out here (assuming foxes are as evil as in the books), no-one would know until tomorrow night, when I failed to show up for a play I am seeing. Like Bridget Jones being found half eaten by alsatians.
Then I stopped feeling sorry for myself and realised I'd just locked the steering wheel. Back in business and tearing down the country roads to home, I called the only person in the world for times like this. My dad. He promised he wouldn't tell mum. Sorry mum, you can't handle stories like this I know!
Sometimes being brave is really just being scared as anything but gritting your teeth and getting through it anyway. No other choice, really.
Now, any ideas on how to hide this boo boo from the hire car company??
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