I love my car.

I was released early from work yesterday. As I'm driving on the freeway in the fast lane, the car begins to shudder. The needle on my speedometer lunges down 25 mph. Cars whiz past me and I assess the situation.

Loss of power. Steering is rough; vehicle is pulling to the right. The world outside of my windshield has the sharp tilt familiar to Sam Raimi films and people that lack their right buttock.

I see no cameras. My rear feels intact. Therefore, I conclude that my tire has blown out. My car is pulling to the right, so it must be my right tire.

Traffic is moderate and I am able to navigate my new tri-mobile over to the right lane.

A moment too late. I miss the last exit.

I didn't pull over onto the left shoulder, which would have been easier because I was closer to it. Doing so would mean changing my tire with my body exposed to traffic.

Catching a mini-van in the bum at 70 mph has yet to make it onto the list of Life-Long Goals.

As I reach the far-right lane, the shoulder disappears. It becomes the single-lane ramp that funnels all the West-bound traffic from the 101 onto the US-60. It is a single, curving lane that dips through a gravel-lined valley, effectively obscuring me from the line of sight of oncoming traffic.

It appears that I am out of the frying pan and onto the asphalt.

I hit the switch to turn on my hazard lights (a switch with which I have become very familiar) and pull over onto the upward-sloping gravel shoulder.

I crawled out of the passenger-side door. The temperature is about 110 degrees Fahrenheit and waves of heat are roiling up from the pavement. Beads of sweat spring out on my forehead. I begin to regret dressing entirely in black.

The passing vehicles sound like the angry hisses of monstrous cats.

I may not always have clutch fluid, but I do keep a full-sized spare in the trunk. I changed the tire quickly. Not bad, considering I was on a gravel hill. Heh, I remember the last time I had to change my tire...

I packed up the car-jack and the lug wrench. I growled when I picked up the shredded tire and it seared my hand. I'll have to remember to keep some gloves in the trunk from now on.

I wiggled back into the front set and started my car. I waited for a lull in traffic and pulled out.

As I exited the freeway, I called my brother, Mulk. "Hey Miguel," I asked, "Where's the tire place we always go to?"

"Southern and McClintock," he informed me. I looked at the street I was on. McClintock. Southern was only a half-mile north of where I was.

My car never breaks down more than five minutes away from help.

That's why I love my car.

To show my appreciation, I bought my car a round of new tires

While I was waiting for the repairs to be completed, I walked across the parking lot to X-Treme Bean and wrote this in the air-conditioned ambiance of my favorite coffee shop.

Life is good.