Blow Out

(this entry was composed yesterday afternoon and this morning)

Earlier today, I made my expected stop in Joshua Tree National Park. Turning off of Route 10, driving across the plain towards the mountains of the Colorado Desert, I started to have kind of a sinking feeling. This was the middle of nowhere, and though it was a bitter cooler here, 97 degrees, as opposed to 107 in Arizona and Palm Springs, I thought that this was not the place to go exploring on your own with all your stuff packed into your car. I pulled over at a lookout point just to peruse my surroundings, but I immediately felt worried that I had turned off the engine, what if it didn’t start back up? I had already covered over 150 miles in searing heat. I looked at my phone, no service whatsoever. So I had saddled up and got right back out on the highway. I’ll check out the Joshua trees some other time.

The 10 winds through the desert and the mountains, 50 mile stretches with no civilization in sight. The highlight was coming down from the mountains into the valley where Coachella and Indio sit. The descent provided spectacular view of the valley and introduced the Southern California smog.

I filled up briefly in Coachella and then made a quick pass through Palm Springs. My excitement for the waves of the Pacific was driving straight towards Santa Monica. For the past week, broiling in heat from across the country, I kept daydreaming of plunging into the ocean, just as I do any time I have been out this way. The rush of blue and crash of waves jangled through my imagination bringing electricity through my chest and behind my cheekbones. I kept pushing West towards the shores of Santa Monica, giddy with anticipation.

As the distance for LA clicked downward, I stopped in San Bernardino at the site of the original McDonalds. Part of me wanted to skip it, but I kept hold of my previous inclination and made my way over. There is no actual McDonalds on the site, a legal determination made by Roy Krok himself all the way back in the 1950s, and the term museum is applied very loosely. Aside from the vintage displays out front, the artifacts are displayed with a few jumbled showcases across from rows of cubicles for some business whose operation was a mystery to me. But I took in the sights of Happy Meal toys from throughout the ages and quickly made my way back to the car.

Traffic was piling up on the 10 and driving was more harried than it had been at any point on my journey. Though I’ve seen The American Recovery and Reinvestment Act in effect on earlier stretches of the 10 and many of the other highways across the country, this stretch of road was rough and battered. It was only about 50 miles to Ocean Drive, and even with heavily slowed traffic, I would be at the beach within a maximum of ninety minutes.

Passing into the left lane in fast moving congestion was when I heard it. A brisk burst echoed by clanging metal and the smell of burnt rubber. I could see pieces of my tire spray onto the highway like confetti as the car shook violently. I threw on the hazards and moved towards the right lane. I knew I had seen a sign for an exit one mile away. The car was clanging, bouncing, and screaming for relief. I didn’t want to be on the side of the highway, but I did pass a call box in the minimal breakdown area. Understanding I could be sacrificing my rim I trudged towards the exit.

Now I have seen various cars broken down across most of the 14 states I’ve traveled through. Each time I would silently send my plea out to the universe, I hope that person finds help soon.

Completely unaware of what I’d find, I felt the exit would provide a safer haven to repair this damage than the 10. At this point I was unsure as to whether it was one back tire or both of them, and I began to wonder how long it would take Triple AAA to come and restore my caravan. As the car jostled down the exit, I looked over the shoulder of the road and saw a mechanic shop 50 yards off to the right. Firestone All Service Auto Care, right off the exit.

What I can attribute this to is a mystery to me, but I was incredibly lucky. First of all, neither I nor anyone else was hurt. Second of all, I was able to make it off the highway very quickly, into the waiting sanctuary of an auto repair shop.

The car limped into the station and I hopped out to assess the damage. The rear passenger tire was in tatters, it had completely blown out.

I walked into the station and my luck began to continue. Though the shop was out of the specific tires that I needed, I had a spare that was the required tire, so I could have that put on and then just by a new spare. And while I wait? There was a restaurant across the street where happy hour had just begun. I hadn’t eaten for over six hours, so I ambled over to the bar and revitalized my body with a chicken quesadilla, iced tea, and a Cazadores margarita, all for $14 bucks.

About 80 minutes later, I climbed back in my restored chariot and set out for the Ocean. Traffic had died down, and the ride was smoother. But the sun was setting quickly and the temperature was dropping precipitously from the triple digit highs of the desert. By the time I turned onto the 4th street exit it was evening, 62 degrees.

My submersion into the Pacific would have to wait another day.