Mario James, Gleaner Writer

Recently, I put on new rubbers on my ... car. (Get out of the gutter) I'm talking tyres!

Even more recently, a serious crater appeared in the road just outside my house. We have drainage problems where we live (just outside Lawrence Tavern, St Andrew) and, after a good shower, the road got ringworm and developed an inverse rash overnight.

The obligatory morning farm truck trundled out at four in the a.m., followed by the early birds and folks hitting the road after kissing the 'matie' goodbye en route to 'wifey'. By the time I hit the road in my spanking new, shiny black rubber, the road's topography was unrecognisable.

Before I knew it, my new left front tyre was four inches under the road surface and heading for the north wall of the mother of all potholes. The resulting sound I felt in my John Brown hind parts. My face contorted in grief. (Is credit union pay fa di tyre dem.) I got out, but my fears seemed unfounded; tyre looked all right. But by the time I reached Burnt Shop (don't ask), I heard the dreaded flap, flap, flap.

Suspecting I had picked up a nail, I felt feverishly around the tyre, hoping to feel steel. No such luck. But I travel prepared - out came my Powerdome (electric air pump/battery back-up thingy). I applied it to the problem at hand (If you don't have one of these things, I highly recommend picking one up. It is a pump, 400-watt inverter, AM/FM radio, light and Jump Start box rolled into some wizard-like packaging. IT WORKS).

Deflated

Imagine my relief when the tyre started to retain air. Imagine my chagrin when a little baby head appeared on the BRAND NEW TYRE. See the devastation on my face when the baby head began to hiss. I was totally deflated at this point.

I had no spare. Sue me. Did I not say I had four BRAND NEW tyres? The donut I had in the spare wheel well has at least 1,500km on it, and is threadbare - and the rim was damaged beyond repair (I BOUGHT FOUR TYRES!) so it was pump, drive, pump, drive, to the nearest tyre stop. I got there - after the last pump stop, I rimmed the thing for the last 100m. Damage didn't look too bad. Rolled up the sleeves, jacked up the car and took off the wheel.

Proprietor said the offending round sinting "haffi vulcanise". I acquiesced and asked the price. "Three-fifty," he said. He did his thing with the deconstructed hot clothes iron fashioned into a vulcanising clamp.

One hour later, I was still there. Why? This fellow tried everything from gas to WD40 to get the tyre bead to seat so he could pump up the tyre. No-go. "Sit'n wrong wid dis yah tyre," he finally proclaimed. "I cyan" pump it. It no good."

So I resorted to buying a Nanny's worth of really crappy tyre from him so I could drive to my tyre A-team, the boys on Molynes Road. If they couldn't fix it, the tyre - so new the casting "hair" was still on it - was toast. Or so I thought.

The 'Bead Blastah'

I reached the ends and gave the rim to the head honcho. He applied air - and came to the same conclusion as the guy before. "Bead nah seat," he observed. "Prento!" he bellowed. "Bring on the Bead Blastah!"

On cue out came Prento holding this thing that looked like a really big Mr Peanut with a longish flattened tube stuck to the middle of it. It had a quik-lok coupler, so Prento went for the air hose and charged it up. It sounded like some one with lungs the size of Africa blowing up one hell of an inner tube. I was sure we were all gonna die because that sinister sound was reaching the point where I felt the canister was going to explode, turn into a lot of hollow-point bullets and reduce everyone in the blast area into so much pork when Prento felt the canister had had enough and turned off the valve. He then positioned the spout of this thing between the rim and the tyre bead, put the air hose over the tyre valve and turned the Mr Peanut valve in the opposite direction.

We in the blast area experienced total hearing loss for a few seconds and started talking like old men. Really, really loudly.

"It work?" shouted head honcho.

"It doan seat, Bossy," screamed Prento.

"Big man," he said - I don't hear him, I just read his lips - "you goh haffi buy a inna tube."

This car thing, at times, can be very frustrating.

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