Tires and Down to the Wire
Dec. 21st, 2022 09:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
captainsblogLiterally, that last part.
If you've been following closely, you'll note we've been going through a bramble of bad breaks here, The vacuum. This very computer. Spots on the roof (yes, spots, since the other venting fan, over the stove, also sprung a leak earlier this week when the latest pile of snow started to thaw up there- also to be looked at after all the snow melts). What else could possibly go wrong?
Don't ask that.
'Tis the week before Christmas, and hearings are few, the clients have parties and shopping to do. But I hadn't been into Rochester since Axe Throwing Night and I needed to catch up on some work there. Also, my down-filled winter coat had been nestled all snug in its closet there since leaving it there so I wouldn't forget it at Lasertron. Mostly, though, word had come that the long-awaited Deal From Hell had finally been signed up and would fund yesterday. I could pick up a check for over a year's worth of work!
I only needed to get there, and yesterday, a clear if cold morning, was a damn better choice than the end of this week with the latest promise of actual blizzard conditions here and beyond (and, naturally, the Bills playing in the worst of it in Chicago this Saturday). I left Eleanor with my beautifully paid-for car and a full tank of gas. It was still dark, but I loaded into her car and headed off into the sunrise.
Just before the midway point of Batavia, I heard a thud. Or maybe it was a thunk. Nothing dead appeared before me or in my rearviews, and the car seemed to still be moving fine without any parts (or anything dead) dragging from it. I continued listening to the preview of Bills-Bears-Blizzard and the recap of the Sabres win the night before, and then the idiot lights came on. The tire ones. Not the friendly reminder your left rear's getting a little low, might want to check that, but multiple ones saying, in essence, you're sinking like a stone and you probably should PULL THE FUCK OVER.
Our cars both have tire pressure sensors, but they reveal their evidence differently. On mine, the one I was not driving at the time, you just get the yellow ! symbol and CHECK TIRE PRESSURE for the routine shit, with the red ! PULL THE FUCK OVER one reserved for the true disasters. Neither tells you which tire(s) or how bad. Fortunately, the Hynudai displays all four, with the baddie(s) highlighted and the pressure it's reading counting down to the inevitable zero. Right front was the culprit- it was already in the low 20s of PSI (it should be mid-30s) by the time Casey Kasem made this announcement, and I watched as it dropped about a PSI every couple of minutes with me tooling along at 80 mph.
I did some math. Worst thing to happen was to get stranded on the 90, because only their authorized contractors can come and assist, and they take full advantage of that monopoly. I knew it was less than six miles to the first Rochester exit, and known-to-me terrain one exit beyond that on 490, so Casey counted it down to about 10 PSI when I cleared the electronic toll and was high single digits when I made it safely to a gas station in Bergen.
First thing: get the tire repair kit out of the back.
Neither of our cars has a spare tire. Not even a donut. The Hyundai DOES have a handy onboard Tire Repair Kit, though.
Which is now inside, safe and warm, so we can fully inspect it, magnify the illegible instructions on it and READ THE FUCKING MANUAL on how it works. Because the time and place you do NOT want to get this education is in work clothes, on the side of a road, in 20F temps or worse, in Bugtussle County. I abandoned any hope of figuring it out where I was and decided, since hey, I was in a gas station, I'd just use their air pump fill the tire back up to full so I could get it maybe five miles down the road where I knew there was a tire place or two.
As I pulled round to it and got out again, I got the news from the guy just leaving: It doesn't work. This is not an unusual experience, from the far more times I'm dealing with that much less dangerous yellow light on either car to get one or the others' tire pressure back up to code. But blessedly, the gas-and-Dunkies kitty-corner to it DID have a working one, and after turning my last two singles into quarters, I was back in 30-PSI Land, enough to get me to Chili Center, and just in time, I might add:
It's drawn the curtain and gone to join the choir invisible. THIS, is an ex-tire!
----
Now safely in the Mavis Tire waiting room, I went over options. Repairing it might have been the quickest, but not a permanent solution. After almost 30 miles at low PSI, half of them way low, that tire was likely doomed anyway. Yet here comes the first bit of weird karma: we've known from the Hyundai dealer since the beginning of the month (when Eleanor took it in for rotation) that all four tires, original to the car and just passing 30,000 miles, were going to need replacing anyway before inspection came due in February. They gave us an 800-ish price for all four; our mechanic, who I was seeing myself for my own snow remounting, couldn't do much better. So we were waiting for one of those year end Deals you often see. I'd passed a Goodyear with a "4-3-2" special, and couldn't even figure out what the numbers meant except it was probably less than 800 for the lot.
Mavis quoted me four new Goodyears, with road hazard protection, for just under seven fitty- with a $40 rebate, doubled if I put it on a shiny new Mavis credit card. Even better, despite the full looking waiting room, they could do it right there, right then.
Hell. Where else would I rather be?
----
No specific appointments in Rochester to get to, just the hope of meeting up with the client from the closing to collect the check once all was ready. I'd texted her from the gas station to say I was slightly delayed; she was ready to come out and get me if needed. I told her that I was at least reinflated for the short run and I'd get back once I knew what I was doing and for how long.
Once the replacement was under way, I took inventory, I had my newly fixed laptop and my phone, so I had things I could do. The two things I lacked were a pair of headphones to drown out the inevitable blahblah from the always-on telescreen in the waiting room, and an adapter to plug in the phone's charging cord (always kept in the car) in case the waiting ran it down. Chili Avenue* offered alternatives for this, so I wandered out in search of those. Wandered without coat, I might add, since I was reclaiming the one from the office, but the walk was short and the wind not a factor. A lovely lady at Dollar Tree got me my two electricals for a buck twenty-five each and wished me a blessed day. But before returning, in my wandering I saw, was it a mirage?
Nah, just a Timmy's. Much quieter, their own wifi already on my phone and laptop, and better coffee than a tire joint. For most of an hour, I sat, sipped and watched almost an entire Slow Horses episode. But then I called the client, who, if I haven't mentioned, is the widow of the longtime business guy who I defended from various things for close to 15 years before his shocking demise just over a year ago. Bob wasn't much for helpful business things like reading the documents he was signing, keeping records of those things, telling his lawyer when he was served with something, or (nearest and dearest to me) paying a bill by writing a check and mailing it when he got the invoice. I would always have to stalk him to one of his offices, to a construction site once, but more than once, to the most convenient location closest to his home:
This very Timmy's.
I mentioned that second bit of weird karma to the missus- how ironic it was I was winding up in that dining room after all the times I'd met him there for the same kind of transaction. I heard her laugh, but a moment later she stopped talking and I realized the memory had brought her to tears. She recovered, and we left it that I would check with the lawyer now finishing the deal's last details. He couldn't promise a check would be ready by the end of the day, but he was happy to take my wire instructions, so as long as it shows up today, there will be totally no harm- and maybe $100 or less in extra cost to me if it's not until tomorrow.
I walked back to the waiting room. They called while I was in it, only asking for Richard. No fucking idea where they got THAT from; when they did the intake, I gave them my car registration to get the tricky address from but they somehow misread Raymond as Richard and now that will follow me forever, since it's likely on the credit card they cheerfully approved me for. And it wasn't just them; while working after Slow Horses was done, somebody put my name in a proposed order to a judge as "Rod Davis." Call me anything, just give me new tires.
One final oddity from the experience: I always find it instructive to see what magazines they have in the waiting room of these places. Back in law school days, the mechanic I took my cranky old ‘74 Mustang II to had stacks of Travel & Leisure, which made sense because I no doubt paid for a lot of their boat payments. I still haven’t figured out what to make of what Mavis had in THIS place:
(Amazingly, a friend saw that and told me she subscribes to it. Maybe I will, too, if I can remember;)
----
So that's why today is, literally, down to the wire. It's evocative of my early years in Rochester practice, where my future partners handed out generous Christmas bonuses but not until the end of the day on the Friday before (which could, as this year, be as late as the 23rd), and then only after a food-coma office lunch and an after party with much drinking and a rousing game of One Fat Hen. It was difficult to plan for pressies and travel not knowing if the generosity could continue and to what extent. Now that we've largely given up the gift giving among ourselves, the stress is much less- and makes it easier to appreciate what Christmas is really all about, Charlie Brown.
----
* I often note Siri's verbal burbles here, but this one produced an interesting result, although not for me. In local parlance, the town and internal burgs with the name "Chili" must be pronounced "Chye-Lye," not like the spicy stuff in a crockpot. That's one of the local shibboleths of pronunciation- "Lima" pronounced like the bean, not the Peruvian city, "Avon" with an Ah sound and not like the Ding-Dong Lady, and "Charlotte" with the emphaSIS on the LOT sound. Anyway, someone I know was using their phone for directions, and Siri referred to the town by the incorrect spicy pronouncation of "chilly," but when she got down to the specific street, she got "Chye-Lye Avenue" exactly right. There is hope for us humans; A.I. may take over the world, but at least we'll know it's them talking;)
If you've been following closely, you'll note we've been going through a bramble of bad breaks here, The vacuum. This very computer. Spots on the roof (yes, spots, since the other venting fan, over the stove, also sprung a leak earlier this week when the latest pile of snow started to thaw up there- also to be looked at after all the snow melts). What else could possibly go wrong?
Don't ask that.
'Tis the week before Christmas, and hearings are few, the clients have parties and shopping to do. But I hadn't been into Rochester since Axe Throwing Night and I needed to catch up on some work there. Also, my down-filled winter coat had been nestled all snug in its closet there since leaving it there so I wouldn't forget it at Lasertron. Mostly, though, word had come that the long-awaited Deal From Hell had finally been signed up and would fund yesterday. I could pick up a check for over a year's worth of work!
I only needed to get there, and yesterday, a clear if cold morning, was a damn better choice than the end of this week with the latest promise of actual blizzard conditions here and beyond (and, naturally, the Bills playing in the worst of it in Chicago this Saturday). I left Eleanor with my beautifully paid-for car and a full tank of gas. It was still dark, but I loaded into her car and headed off into the sunrise.
Just before the midway point of Batavia, I heard a thud. Or maybe it was a thunk. Nothing dead appeared before me or in my rearviews, and the car seemed to still be moving fine without any parts (or anything dead) dragging from it. I continued listening to the preview of Bills-Bears-Blizzard and the recap of the Sabres win the night before, and then the idiot lights came on. The tire ones. Not the friendly reminder your left rear's getting a little low, might want to check that, but multiple ones saying, in essence, you're sinking like a stone and you probably should PULL THE FUCK OVER.
Our cars both have tire pressure sensors, but they reveal their evidence differently. On mine, the one I was not driving at the time, you just get the yellow ! symbol and CHECK TIRE PRESSURE for the routine shit, with the red ! PULL THE FUCK OVER one reserved for the true disasters. Neither tells you which tire(s) or how bad. Fortunately, the Hynudai displays all four, with the baddie(s) highlighted and the pressure it's reading counting down to the inevitable zero. Right front was the culprit- it was already in the low 20s of PSI (it should be mid-30s) by the time Casey Kasem made this announcement, and I watched as it dropped about a PSI every couple of minutes with me tooling along at 80 mph.
I did some math. Worst thing to happen was to get stranded on the 90, because only their authorized contractors can come and assist, and they take full advantage of that monopoly. I knew it was less than six miles to the first Rochester exit, and known-to-me terrain one exit beyond that on 490, so Casey counted it down to about 10 PSI when I cleared the electronic toll and was high single digits when I made it safely to a gas station in Bergen.
First thing: get the tire repair kit out of the back.
Neither of our cars has a spare tire. Not even a donut. The Hyundai DOES have a handy onboard Tire Repair Kit, though.
Which is now inside, safe and warm, so we can fully inspect it, magnify the illegible instructions on it and READ THE FUCKING MANUAL on how it works. Because the time and place you do NOT want to get this education is in work clothes, on the side of a road, in 20F temps or worse, in Bugtussle County. I abandoned any hope of figuring it out where I was and decided, since hey, I was in a gas station, I'd just use their air pump fill the tire back up to full so I could get it maybe five miles down the road where I knew there was a tire place or two.
As I pulled round to it and got out again, I got the news from the guy just leaving: It doesn't work. This is not an unusual experience, from the far more times I'm dealing with that much less dangerous yellow light on either car to get one or the others' tire pressure back up to code. But blessedly, the gas-and-Dunkies kitty-corner to it DID have a working one, and after turning my last two singles into quarters, I was back in 30-PSI Land, enough to get me to Chili Center, and just in time, I might add:
It's drawn the curtain and gone to join the choir invisible. THIS, is an ex-tire!
----
Now safely in the Mavis Tire waiting room, I went over options. Repairing it might have been the quickest, but not a permanent solution. After almost 30 miles at low PSI, half of them way low, that tire was likely doomed anyway. Yet here comes the first bit of weird karma: we've known from the Hyundai dealer since the beginning of the month (when Eleanor took it in for rotation) that all four tires, original to the car and just passing 30,000 miles, were going to need replacing anyway before inspection came due in February. They gave us an 800-ish price for all four; our mechanic, who I was seeing myself for my own snow remounting, couldn't do much better. So we were waiting for one of those year end Deals you often see. I'd passed a Goodyear with a "4-3-2" special, and couldn't even figure out what the numbers meant except it was probably less than 800 for the lot.
Mavis quoted me four new Goodyears, with road hazard protection, for just under seven fitty- with a $40 rebate, doubled if I put it on a shiny new Mavis credit card. Even better, despite the full looking waiting room, they could do it right there, right then.
Hell. Where else would I rather be?
----
No specific appointments in Rochester to get to, just the hope of meeting up with the client from the closing to collect the check once all was ready. I'd texted her from the gas station to say I was slightly delayed; she was ready to come out and get me if needed. I told her that I was at least reinflated for the short run and I'd get back once I knew what I was doing and for how long.
Once the replacement was under way, I took inventory, I had my newly fixed laptop and my phone, so I had things I could do. The two things I lacked were a pair of headphones to drown out the inevitable blahblah from the always-on telescreen in the waiting room, and an adapter to plug in the phone's charging cord (always kept in the car) in case the waiting ran it down. Chili Avenue* offered alternatives for this, so I wandered out in search of those. Wandered without coat, I might add, since I was reclaiming the one from the office, but the walk was short and the wind not a factor. A lovely lady at Dollar Tree got me my two electricals for a buck twenty-five each and wished me a blessed day. But before returning, in my wandering I saw, was it a mirage?
Nah, just a Timmy's. Much quieter, their own wifi already on my phone and laptop, and better coffee than a tire joint. For most of an hour, I sat, sipped and watched almost an entire Slow Horses episode. But then I called the client, who, if I haven't mentioned, is the widow of the longtime business guy who I defended from various things for close to 15 years before his shocking demise just over a year ago. Bob wasn't much for helpful business things like reading the documents he was signing, keeping records of those things, telling his lawyer when he was served with something, or (nearest and dearest to me) paying a bill by writing a check and mailing it when he got the invoice. I would always have to stalk him to one of his offices, to a construction site once, but more than once, to the most convenient location closest to his home:
This very Timmy's.
I mentioned that second bit of weird karma to the missus- how ironic it was I was winding up in that dining room after all the times I'd met him there for the same kind of transaction. I heard her laugh, but a moment later she stopped talking and I realized the memory had brought her to tears. She recovered, and we left it that I would check with the lawyer now finishing the deal's last details. He couldn't promise a check would be ready by the end of the day, but he was happy to take my wire instructions, so as long as it shows up today, there will be totally no harm- and maybe $100 or less in extra cost to me if it's not until tomorrow.
I walked back to the waiting room. They called while I was in it, only asking for Richard. No fucking idea where they got THAT from; when they did the intake, I gave them my car registration to get the tricky address from but they somehow misread Raymond as Richard and now that will follow me forever, since it's likely on the credit card they cheerfully approved me for. And it wasn't just them; while working after Slow Horses was done, somebody put my name in a proposed order to a judge as "Rod Davis." Call me anything, just give me new tires.
One final oddity from the experience: I always find it instructive to see what magazines they have in the waiting room of these places. Back in law school days, the mechanic I took my cranky old ‘74 Mustang II to had stacks of Travel & Leisure, which made sense because I no doubt paid for a lot of their boat payments. I still haven’t figured out what to make of what Mavis had in THIS place:
(Amazingly, a friend saw that and told me she subscribes to it. Maybe I will, too, if I can remember;)
----
So that's why today is, literally, down to the wire. It's evocative of my early years in Rochester practice, where my future partners handed out generous Christmas bonuses but not until the end of the day on the Friday before (which could, as this year, be as late as the 23rd), and then only after a food-coma office lunch and an after party with much drinking and a rousing game of One Fat Hen. It was difficult to plan for pressies and travel not knowing if the generosity could continue and to what extent. Now that we've largely given up the gift giving among ourselves, the stress is much less- and makes it easier to appreciate what Christmas is really all about, Charlie Brown.
----
* I often note Siri's verbal burbles here, but this one produced an interesting result, although not for me. In local parlance, the town and internal burgs with the name "Chili" must be pronounced "Chye-Lye," not like the spicy stuff in a crockpot. That's one of the local shibboleths of pronunciation- "Lima" pronounced like the bean, not the Peruvian city, "Avon" with an Ah sound and not like the Ding-Dong Lady, and "Charlotte" with the emphaSIS on the LOT sound. Anyway, someone I know was using their phone for directions, and Siri referred to the town by the incorrect spicy pronouncation of "chilly," but when she got down to the specific street, she got "Chye-Lye Avenue" exactly right. There is hope for us humans; A.I. may take over the world, but at least we'll know it's them talking;)