Tires

I have a love-hate relationship with tires.

Maybe it’s codependence.

I’m out of touch with most psychological terms, but I know I need tires.

They don’t seem to need me.

A month or so ago, a tire on my horsetrailer blew out as I hauled cattle to Great Falls. As I chiseled off the last lug nut that had been overtightened with an impact wrench, I might have mumbled.

I don’t know what a psychiatrist would call them, but a linguist would call what came out of my mouth “potty words.”

A couple of weeks ago, I took a load of ewes to Billings. I threw two spares in the back of the truck, just in case.

Self-help gurus advise setting the bar low so you can leap over it. I made it over. I used only one spare.

I’m concentrating on hay in the field now.

I cranked up my 1964 Chevy that carries a fuel tank and a sundry of tools, spare parts and cool stuff I found.

I love this truck. It starts every time.

But the tires have a few cracks and worn spots.

More than a year ago, a tire blew out. That’s when I found out that the spare was on a similar, but not quite right, rim.

That bar was too low, even for self-help gurus.

My neighbor gave me a ride to the tire shop where good tires and bad wheels were switched while the tire shop owner and I discussed obsolete rims.

I promised to look through my inventory of used tires and wheels and he did, too.

Then a September snowstorm, blizzards, a collapsing cattle market and a pandemic distracted both of us.

About a week ago, I wandered through my collection, but didn’t find a wheel close to the right size for the ’64 Chevy.

I eased my way into town, hoping I could add a few more miles to these tires while I carried fuel to the tractor in the hay field.

I parked in front of the tire shop on my way to the fuel station.

As I discussed options for a new tire, a stranger poked his head in, looked me in the eye and asked “Do you collect junk? I have a lot at my place and I don’t want to pay to haul it off.”

Then he glanced out at my service truck, as if confirming to himself that his question was redundant. Obviously, I collected junk.

Only, I don’t.

Let’s just say I prefer to call myself frugal.

A few days later, I was stacking bales when hydraulic oil spewed from a cracked fitting.

Fortunately, I had the tools I needed on my service truck to remove the fitting. All I needed was a new one.

I hopped in the Chevy and eased my way to town. I pulled in to the auto parts store and realized I didn’t have any money or a mask with me.

I have an account at a different store. I hoped I could stand far enough away or beg forgiveness so I could get my hydraulic fitting.

As I backed into the street, a boom echoed between buildings.

The Chevy leaned starboard.

Fortunately, my new tire had arrived so the tire shop guy and I switched good tires and bad wheels again.

About five miles out of town, another explosion reverberated.

Either the Feds found Conrad or I had yet another blown tire.

I called my brother, Roger.

We found a decent tire at the ranch.

I was back behind the wheel two hours later.

The new tires on my service truck double its value – not including the contents on the back. They are incognito, only disguised as junk.

After all, the line between a hoarder and a rancher is very thin.