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How It Feels in Early Autocratic American Rule
Like a flat tire, actually.
About a month a go, a tire blew out on my car. I was driving on I-85 North, heading toward Atlanta from Columbus, and I heard a little pop from the passenger side back tire. It’s the second time in my life I’ve blown out a tire while driving. Like, 20 years ago, I was in a cheap rental car, the tire exploded, you heard the whump whump whump and I damn near flipped off the side of the road. This one was much easier. I have a nicer car now, with Run Flat Tires, those tires that you can drive on for a short distance, at a slow speed, even if they’re blown. It was not an explosion this time. It was a little flitttt, a warning light popping up on my car and quick pull into the closest gas station to assess the situation.
I was about 75 miles from my house, in excess of the 50-mile limit you’re supposed to go on a Run Flat Tire, but in lieu of driving those 50 miles and then stopping and pushing the last 25, I decided to try to make it home. The maximum speed you’re supposed to go on a Run Flat Tire is 50 mph, so I set the Google Maps to Avoid Freeways and prepped for a long, slow trip.
