An imposing honk snapped me from my trance. A tractor trailer was tailgating me hard. Stubbornly, I stuck to my pace, determined not to satisfy the driver. Thirty seconds later he sped up to pass me, despite the fact there was a double yellow line. Are you serious? I grumbled to myself.

But he didn’t pass me. He pulled up right beside me on the opposite side of the road and gestured furiously to my back tire.

I don’t care where you are, that is never, ever a good sign.

I quickly pulled off by a nearby village, the tractor trailer on my tail. In fifteen seconds my perfect day took a drastic turn when I realized that yes, my tire was indeed very flat. My stomach dropped: I was at least twenty miles from the next town, and I had absolutely no cell service.

The three men from the tractor trailer came up to me. They didn’t speak much English, but the tire pretty much spoke for itself.

Before I could even begin to come up with a plan, they launched into action. One went into my trunk to grab the spare, one went back to the truck to get his tools, and one searched under the passenger seat of my car for the jack. They moved as if they were responsible for getting me on the track to finish the last leg of the Indy 500, and I just stood there, gaping.