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Flatter Than A No-Flat "We know what happens to people who
stay in the middle of the road. They get run down." Our wake-up call was a couple of sluggers who came for early morning batting practice. Aluminum bats tinked long lob fly balls into centre field; I was glad Sue and Sharon had talked me out of setting my tent there. I might have been singing a different version of Take Me Out to the Ball Game. Our day began with a shower of the welcome kind - a warm one at the public swimming pool. Happy and clean, our morning ride was smooth sailing despite a strong crosswind. Rolling fields of bright yellow sunflowers delighted us; mellow heads nodding in the breeze, as if bowing to their mighty sun god. We rode from acres of sunflowers to fields of green-stalked corn. In Taber, the sweet corn capital of Alberta, we stopped at a park and refueled our tanks. Between bites, Sharon complained her rear tire felt a little on the low side. "It's only flat on the bottom," I kidded, grabbing my air pump and swinging into action. "Have you seen this?" I asked in alarm, pointing to a treadless bald spot. "Do you think we should replace it?" I wondered, erring for the first time in history on the cautious side. "Ah, it's lasted this long," Sharon said (erring for the first time in history on the incautious side). "Surely it'll last two more days to Medicine Hat. We can get one there. Or we can phone Vicky and have her add one to our tab." I added air to Sharon's tire and we departed town, assisted by a healthy tailwind (that alone should have alerted us that something was wrong). Sure enough, less than 15 kilometres later - on a lonesome stretch of highway between Taber and Purple Springs - Sharon's rear tire suffered a massive deflating episode. The tire held a so-called 'no-flat' tube. Its end wasn't so much a bang as a strangulated, wheezing guttural croak. The 'no-flat' tube, stuffed to the gills with a green substance, battled valiantly to seal the gaping wound. Neon-green gook swirled out in astonishing looping circles, looking as if a million grasshopper guts were spewing on an out-of-control amusement park ride. Sharon's bike fishtailed. I was certain she was headed overboard for a close encounter of the asphalt kind. But, instead of shipwrecking, the little mermaid battened down her rollicking vessel's hatches, reeled in her catch, and oared to a safe port on the road's sandy shoulder: rear tire a shredded mutiny, legs netted in algae-green slime. "Can we fix it?" I asked, attempting humour. "No," came her deadpan reply. "We can't." A maroon Continental Mark IV, the size of a boat, drifted alongside and dropped anchor. A porthole opened. An elderly passenger peered out. "Do you need any help?" Sharon elected to wait with the bikes and wipe herself up. Sue and I caught a ride back to Taber with the good Samaritans. They ferried us to a sports store where we received bad news. "We only carry 27-inch tires," a clerk informed me. "Great," I said, biting my lip. "Know where I can get a 700?" "Lethbridge," came the earnest reply. Considering Lethbridge was 50 kilometres away in the opposite direction, it didn't appear a viable solution. "Terrific," I said. "We're on bikes," I informed him. "Any other ideas?" He shuffled off to query the manager. In the interim, I pulled a tire off an overhead nail and scrutinized the fine print on the sidewall: 700 x 28C. Perfect! Coincidence? Luck? Or the universe lending a helping hand once again? "Sorry," the clerk apologized on his return. "No stock," he confirmed. "We only carry 27-inchers." "Okay," I said. "I'll take this one until you get some 700s." "A 27-inch won't fit," he advised correctly, not realizing I had found the one 700 in his entire stock of 27-inch tires. "It's 4 millimetres too big." He frowned. "Or small. I forget which." "That's okay," I smirked. "We carry a spare foldable rim in our parts bag." The helpful couple transported us to the edge of town. They pulled over and let us out. But they didn't intend to just abandon us on the side of the road. Oh, no. That wouldn't be rural hospitality. The man hopped out, intent on flagging down a vehicle that would give us a lift back to where Sharon waited. Within moments, a battered primer-grey pickup rushed toward us, travelling a hundred-plus kilometres an hour. Our good Samaritan recognized the clunker as belonging to a pal of his. He flew into the middle of the road, flapping his arms like a deranged gregarious aquatic duck on quack cocaine. "And I thought the muck on Sharon's legs was bad," I muttered, squeezing my eyes shut, believing his goose was cooked. Fortunately for him, the brakes were the one thing still working on the junker. A brief scream of tires punctuated the afternoon air and the pickup scrunched to a juddery halt - mere inches in front of our nearly flattened friend. "Whew!" Sue breathed. Still in a bit of a shock, I opened my peepers. The next thing I knew, Sue and I were bouncing along on a ratty coils-poking-through bench seat next to a crusty old potato farmer. The old tuber, face pockmarked like a field ready for seed, had eyes only for Sue. "Yep," he bragged, "I sell potatoes all over Alberta. Hell," he said, puffing his chest out, "I even sell them to Idaho!" The potato bug jabbed a thick thumb toward his thorax and declared, "Some folks around here call me the King of Potatoes." "If you play your cards right," I whispered to Sue, "you could end up the Queen of Spuds." Minutes later, the farmer stopped where Sharon still waited. We thanked the tater king for coming along at the right time. I slammed the jalopy's door and noticed that Sharon's legs were free of green goo. She was sitting cross-legged in the ditch, reading. Her bike, oiled and polished, rested upside-down on its handlebars, awaiting the new tire. "What took you guys so long?" Sharon blinked, standing and marking the page of her book with a spare tire patch. "We almost had to walk to Lethbridge." "Oh. In that case, you made good time." We installed the new tire. "Looks good!" I said, pumping it to the recommended pressure. "Too bad I can't say the same about your 'no-flat' tube." |
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