I took the wife’s car in for a new set of sneakers this week. The original equipment Goodyear tires were … um … scary. She drives an econobox, designed for the sole purpose of getting you from point A to point B as cheaply and efficiently as possible. To accomplish this, the manufacturer mounts low rolling resistance tires which improve the mileage.

At the expense of traction.

So, even though they were 40,000 mile tires, they were done at 25,000. Oh, well–I guess I had to shop for tires.

(At this point, any who know me will nod and be happy that I had an excuse to research tires, to think deeply about tread patterns and UTQG ratings. These things bring me some level of joy.)

Once I’d made a decision (BF Goodrich Advantage TAs, in case you’re curious), I searched around and found a local shop with a good price. They didn’t have the size in stock on Monday, but by the next morning had them for me. I skedded an appointment, grabbed my iPad and headed downtown, expecting a long wait.

When I walked in, I had a flashback–a massive, mind-bending, memory-searing flashback to any of a dozen service stations we wandered into as a child when we’d had a blowout while on summer vacations. I swear, this place hadn’t changed since it opened in the 1960s. Sticky vinyl seats, vast open space, cracked linoleum tiles, worn paint … it was awesome.

And the service? Top-notch. The counter guy said about an hour, which I thought was nicely optimistic. Forty minutes later they called my name–done.

I can’t wait to buy tires again in a few months …