A few weeks ago, I said that driving the I-5 was boring. Well, let me make a minor amendment to that. Driving the I-5 is boring, as long as nothing happens. Like, your car starting to shake violently. You know how in those airplane disaster movies, something happens and they show the cockpit shaking like mad, sparks flying everywhere, and people are flying through the cabin? Yeah. Like that. Except without the sparks. Or the people flying all over the place. And at 15ft above see level.

Anyway, that's what happened to me about 180 miles from LA. It wasn't entirely new to me. It happened before, when I drove up to Chico for the first time, in fact. That time, a spark plug had gone bad, and the engine was causing some weird vibes. I figured it might be the same, so I pulled over at a rest area, put the gear in "Park" and revved up the engine to 4000rpm. Smooth as silk. Then it occurred to me that perhaps an elephant had wrapped itself around one of the wheels. I walked around, but didn't find anything out of the ordinary. I checked the engine oil level and transmission oil level... both checked out. So, I tried driving a bit, hoping that it'd go away (that's happened too). Of course, it only got worse. I so pulled over at the next gas station, and put the car into 2nd gear and drove around a bit to see if anything would fall off. Nothing did, but the problem was still there.

So I drove on a bit, and it got even worse. My teeth were rattling, and I was afraid for my laptop hard drive. So I pulled over, and called my dad, since he knows more about cars than I do (which isn't saying much because I know absolutely nothing). I told him the engine was fine. He told me to try driving in 4 wheel drive, to see if that makes a difference. If it made a difference, I didn't notice. So I rattled on for a few miles until I reached a convenient little overpass, where I could take shelter in it's shadow. I also marked the tachometer when I passed a sign saying "LA 163miles", and I knew I was 158.6 miles from LA. And I called in the anti-aircraft.. er, the AAA.

"I'm on the south-bound I-5, 158.6 miles North of LA" I told the lady. "We don't know where you are." She replied. I sat and thought for a second wondering if my logic had gone out of whack. But no, I was definitely certain that there was only one point in this big wide world that was 158.6 miles North of LA on the I-5. The AAA disagreed. "Do you see anything around you?" I looked around. To the left, a big huge field that went on for ever. To the right, a big huge orchard that went on for ever. "So you don't know where you are?". I was tempted to tell her that I knew exactly where I was, down to a 10th of a mile and that she needed to go and learn geometry, but I shrugged it off. The lady told me to drive to a call box, and make a call from there. So I rattled on to a call box.

As I was making the call, I noticed a hissing sound. I thought something had finally come loose, but as it turned out, there was a nice big hole in my front right tire. I wasn't surprised. I had this premonition about getting a flat tire. You might laugh, but it's true. That's why I even checked my tires during one of my earlier pit-stops, before the whole ordeal. That's why I've been thinking about having the tires rotated. Except, I also didn't really know what driving with a punctured tire would be like. In my mind, I always pictured a loud bang, followed by the tire shredding off in a dozen pieces; the car careening out of control, into the on-coming lane; rolling over a few times, and hitting a tanker truck. A huge fire ball consumes the car and I, and at the end, my parents get a nice Roasted Ryo. So I simply assumed that the flat tire was a new problem; that the tire had been punctured when I pulled over on the gravel at the call box.

Apparently, car boxes are rigged so the CHP knows where you are, and can relay that information to the AAA. Those things are also located out in the sun. Fortunately, however, thanks to the freakish weather that has besieged our poor planet, it was only 85F, instead of the usual 105F. Besides, I had about 5lb of produce, half a dozen power bars, and 2 liters of water, so I knew I'd be okay for a couple of days.... not that it took that long, of course.

The tow truck dude came after about 20 minutes. He changed the tire with the spare, and I was all set in half an hour or so. He pulled out the paper work and got me to sign it. Then I asked him, "what about my transmission problem?" You see, I hadn't quite added two and two together yet. He laughed. He pointed at my flat tire and said "There's your 'transmission problem'." I felt like an old secretary calling the help desk with a "dead" PC, when all it really is is a floppy in the disk drive. At the same time, I was glad. My car's okay, and I'd be going home after all. Not to mention, tires are cheaper than fixing a bad transmission.

So I got on my merry way, and stumbled into LA a whopping 11 hours after I left Chico. Phew...