The Taurus' tires have reached the point of no repair. I'd plugged them several times—these tires attract nails like giant, rolling magnets—and when I rotated them just after buying the car two years ago, I marveled at their longevity. It appeared they were the originals, dating to the last year Hong Kong was a free country.

Originality is not hard to figure out. Just look at this lug nut.

No deformity on the right shoulder to suggest its having ever been turned counterclockwise. Some UAW guy in Atlanta air-wrenched these nuts into place per factory specs, and no one's touched them since.

But this week I went out for lunch and noticed the car's nose sitting a tad high in the parking lot. I walked around to find the right-rear, which had been shimmying ever since the Houston trip, expired. Upon wrenching it off, I found a bubble in the tread—not safe, not fixable, and not worth risking failure even if the leak was unrelated and could be plugged. So it was off to Tire Rack to study their supply of Kumhos.

Kumho is a Korean-made tire, low-priced yet long-wearing. I had researched them before, when the Explorer's all-terrain tires finally wore me out. Once again, I pawed through the customer reviews, ignoring the idiots who insist they rotated, aligned, and monitored pressures daily but only got 3,500 miles out of their treads. (The need to lash out at one's own stupidity and neglectfulness knows no limit, and customer reviews is the perfect place for it.)

For the size and type I needed, I saw almost all positive reviews, with praise for the tires' silence and slow wear. Those are my top criteria, as snow traction is something we only have bad dreams about in Dallas.

I can order Kumhos for $54 each from Tire Rack, but with freight and installation they will cost about the same as the tire shop wants -- $416, all services included. I appreciate a business that quotes the full price up front. Thursday, I'll drop the car off.

i slept in the spare bedroom last night, owing to a strangely upset stomach that awakened me at odd intervals. I feared that each time I started to nod off, Little Roo would think it was Squeeky offering to feed him, and I'd get zero sleep. So I exiled myself to the futon, rising once for a drink of water and once again to imprison Wolf Dog after he decided to go stand in the backyard and bark, intermittently, at nothing.

The mild stomach-ache continued into today. I ate nothing from 2 p.m. Monday until 8 a.m. Tuesday, when I broke the fast with a plum. Later, I downed a good-sized lunch and immediately regretted it, as the mass sat there holding my ribs apart as if I'd swallowed a football.

I don't feel much at all. Not hungry, not sleepy, not energetic, just neutral, which is distressing, because I need some passion in life. It's as if I've contracted the Whatever virus. And a virus I suspect it is, because body aches and lethargy accompanied the ache. Now I just feel unmotivated. Perhaps the rebound in a day or two will be worth it.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 05:34 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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