Context and Conjunction
We had a flat tire right here. No blowout, no noticeable puncture, just a sudden subtle rumble and a rhythm of rim against road. It might have been a pain in the neck to change. No, it probably was. I mean… I’m sure it was. I was too impressed with the hulk of ancient granite around us — a screaming iron oxide canyon flecked with bits of pink feldspar and sunlight. I passed Joseph the jack handle and watched for cars behind us. The looming insistence of geology that embraced us made his little car seem littler, and in no time the wee spare was bolted on and the Miata back on the road essing back home within the burnished vise of the canyon.
Joseph claims that it’s really a cinch to change a tire on his car. That I could have held the car high with one finger while he unbolted the flat and made the switch. Even with the inconvenience of the flat that aborted our trip to Estes Park, the mineral grandeur of that space and the weight of years the canyon had piled up since the -zoics made our roadside moment seem blip-like.
Lightened further by the fact that I could say “we” had a flat, when indeed I was at the wheel when the tire gave up. And though Joseph will joke about “our” flat for some time, I did pass him the jack handle. And he did take this picture. We did this together.