Flat Tires
I’ve seen this commercial several times. We see the face of a young woman as she changes her tire in the rain. She appears anguished, there in the rain alone. We are distressed too. Is she safe? Will anyone stop to help her? The camera pans out to a man standing next to the car.
Appearances can be deceiving.
“I told you you could do it,” the man says. The girl, obviously his daughter, smiles confidently in her newfound ability as the rain stops and they get into the car together.
I generally hate commercials, and I particularly hate car commercials. But I love this commercial. I love that this father empowers his daughter, showing her that she need not rely on others to do things for her unless she wants to. She can do what she puts her mind to.
I was lucky enough to have a dad like this too. He believed in doing things himself whenever he could. This is the man who built most of his home’s second story by himself on weekends, vacations. The man who always mowed his own lawn, planted his own flowers, painted the house, the deck, the awnings, the lawn furniture.
Sometimes do-it-yourself worked out fine. The second story carpeting looked fantastic, for instance. Other times, calling in a professional might have been a better idea. But who needs a level driveway anyway? He was a firm believer in trying.
So when my first car needed an oil change, he took me to the gas station and showed me how to find the right oil and filter, then dragged me under the car to finish the job. When my headlight went out, I fixed it, with my dad standing behind me. It didn’t feel so empowering, then. It felt greasy. Dead-buggy. And I felt awkward doing something I wasn’t used to.
A few years ago, I had my first flat tire. I had never changed a flat with my dad, but I had seen one changed. This tire wasn’t just flat, but blown right the heck out. My fault. I was new to Texas, not used to the razor-sharp markers sometimes used to separate traffic lanes, and I ran right over a whole stretch of them. The mechanic who later attempted to fix the tire asked if someone had slashed it with a machete.
I pulled over and sat in my car for a few minutes, hoping someone would stop. I knew what to do, in theory, but I felt awkward doing it. What if I screwed it up somehow or made it worse? What if I accidentally fell over into oncoming traffic when I tried to remove the tire?
But no one stopped. I got out of the car, more irritated that I was going to be late than that I had to change my tire. I hate being late. I unloaded the spare and parts from my trunk and watched the road with one eye.
A handful of cars drove by. No one stopped.
I jacked up the car, swearing as I dirtied my shirt looking under the car for the groove to place the jack in, and started to loosen lug nuts. Not an easy task, let me tell you. I stomped on the tire iron and could barely budge them, at first.
More cars drove by. Still, no one stopped.
Finally, I got the tire off. A semi pulled over a couple hundred feet up the road.
“Hold on,” the driver yelled as he walked my way. “Let me finish that.”
I waited for him to get there, then thanked him for stopping to help.
“I wasn’t going to,” he said. “I mean, you look like you know what you’re doing. But then I thought of my sister. If she had a flat, I’d want someone to stop and help her.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this. How odd that I look like I know what I’m doing, I thought. Sure, I know the process, but I am not at all comfortable actually completing it.
“Do you think that’s why no one else stopped?” I asked him. “Because I look like I know what I’m doing?”
“I guess so,” he shrugged and turned his attention to the tire.
I crouched into a deep squat and hugged my knees as I watched him finish changing the tire, grateful that I did know what to do. And grateful that he did too.
More Than Running... 
My husband was a state trooper and when women were on the side of the road with flat tires, he would never change their tire for them if they didn’t know how to do it themselves. Rather, he would walk them through the steps, one-by-one, helping with the tight lug nuts, and teach them how to do it. He always told me stories about how irritated the women were with his side-of-the road lesson when they really just wanted him to do it for them. His intentions were just like your father’s. 🙂
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Jill
March 15, 2014
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