🛞 Rocky Road
[ca. 2007]
In 1999, I purchased a 2000 model year Saturn SL/2 sedan. Red. Impossibly, it's still running now in 2026. 37 MPG. They don't make 'em like they used to!
I call this car The Adventuremobile and I've driven it a number of places that I really shouldn't have due to general fearlessness and stupidity.
On this particular lovely sunny morning I was cruising down Buck Meadows Road, south of the booming metropolis of Buck Meadows, California, population 31 back then, 21 now. Buck Meadows is apparently named for the nearby Buck's Meadow, a transposition that I really appreciate.
Buck Meadows Road, upon which we were traveling to our exciting adventure destination, isn't exactly... paved. It was a good well-graded dirt forest road, wide enough for two cars. And it wove through beautiful pine and oak (and poison oak) low-Sierra forests. Morning sunbeams cut through the trees, casting spotted shadows.
But the atmospheric scenery wasn't what we were after. We just wanted to get our adventure going, so I was goosing it. A little. As one does. A little bit of rallying fun on the loose terrain.
Anyone who's done this, though, knows that mischief lies in those shadows on the road.
BAM! The front left tire took a serious hit on something. Probably a big round river rock embedded in the roadway. Yikes! I slowed, but the car seemed to be driving OK. And we continued on to our adventure, which was a resounding success.
The next day, we made a diversion to Angels Camp (see The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County) and, coming back to the car, I found the tire was low. Uh oh. And also, the outer rim was tremendously bent. The tire seemed intact, and I speculated that a small gap between the bead and rim was allowing air to escape. Perhaps a little puff of air every time the wheel came around.
Naturally, it was Sunday, and not a thing was open that could help. And I had to get home the next day. (I think some of my companions had to get home—I believe this was after I burned out at Activision and took some time off.) So I went to a gas station and filled the tire up to see where that left us.
I drove a bit and stopped to check. It seemed like I needed to top it off roughly every 60 miles. So I hopped back home to my Berkeley apartment (at 2034 Ashby Avenue) stopping every hour to top off the tire. I did have a donut spare, but those weren't great for prolonged highway travel.
And I made it home, and there was much rejoicing.
But how was I going to fix this thing? Folks said to get a big-ass hammer and wail on it until it got back into shape. As long as it could be brought back into balance, it should be good. I bought a 4-pound hammer ("new job, new tool"), and drove to my nearby laundromat (with the amusing name of Washingtown, at 3215 Adeline Street). Might as well do laundry at the same time.
CLANG!! This was loud work. Sorry, neighbors. And it sure dinged up the finish on my cheap-o steel wheels. Oh well. CLANG!! CLANG!! It was here I learned that the rims were very inflexible. I now understood the impossible magnitude of the forces that were initially required to wrench it out of shape. And my little 4-pound hammer wasn't having much impact.
But it was having a little! One massive swing at a time was slowly bending it back into position. I kept at it. Still plenty of time before I had to switch the clothes to the dryer.
Eventually I started getting to diminishing returns. The rim was still bent, but was much closer to the tire than it had been, and it didn't want to move any farther.
I finished my laundry, drove home, took the wheel off, and walked it to the auto shop that was conveniently located directly across the street. They were able to get it in balance, and all my Thor-like efforts apparently paid off, because the tire held its pressure after that.
And the wheel is still on the car today, a little bent memento of that beautiful day in gold country nearly 20 years ago.