A few months back, heading northbound toward Seattle on the interstate, with afternoon traffic moving slightly above the speed limit — a rare enough occurrence to be a story in itself — I was keeping right to allow hardcore speeders easy passage when I noticed a series of cars in my lane suddenly braking, moving left, then rocketing forward.
Drawing closer, I realized a battered Camry was going about 50, despite a flat tire on the driver’s side rear. The highway shoulder was plenty wide enough to pull over and safely change it or call for help, but apparently the occupants were determined to make it to the next exit, about a mile ahead.
Fascinated by the Camry’s side-to-side shake, I slowed to match its speed, hung back a dozen car lengths, and turned my flashers on. I expected the shredding tire to fly apart, but the car made it to the exit for an area called Star Lake, which has a gas station a few yards off the interchange. But they just kept going.
When I pulled out and passed, the driver, a teenage boy in a backward ballcap, and now more than two miles from the nearest ramp, was chatting on the phone, laughing. I tried to imagine the conversation:
“Dude, whassup… Me? Not much. I’m on I-5, heading back to Canada.”