It was vague, as most premonitions are, except in one distinct area: the time. At 8:45 on Monday, something dreadfully terrible would be happening. I shrugged it off — it’s not like I haven’t had such things before — and let it go.
It came back.
Several times last week, starting late Tuesday, the day I was most recently let out of the emergency room, this same premonition came to me. In my current easily-scared mode, I should not have been surprised to find myself dwelling on it.
Monday morning came: first a doctor’s appointment, then presumably back to work. It’s a long haul, so I pulled out early.
The noises began around I-44 eastbound and the Broadway Distention. Sounded like a wheel bearing on the fritz, though it could just as easily have been the riced-up Honda that was hugging the right lane.
They got louder. Finally, an explosion. The Honda had pulled away. I eased myself over to the shoulder and called 911.
It was a quarter to nine.
The right rear tire was pronounced by a gentleman from the Highway Patrol to be a total loss. Unbidden, he offered to swap the spare for it, and who am I to say no to the OHP?
Shortly thereafter, my boss arrived, and noted that the spare looked pretty low but was probably better than nothing. “There’s a compressor in the trunk,” I said, because of course there is. I am as defensive a person as you’ll find anywhere.
I then hied myself to my usual tire shop, on the basis that all these tires were about the same age — going on four years — and therefore I should probably replace the lot.
Which I did.