Last night, while driving back from tennis at about eleven p.m., I had my first flat tyre since I have been a wheelchair user. I pulled into a service station, wondering if I should phone the RAC, but decided that I should see what I can do myself, as I didn't fancy sitting in the car for two hours waiting to be rescued.
The first challenge was finding the wheelbrace (under the bonnet).Then I had to find the manual, which revealed that the jack is actually housed in the spare wheel under the car. As I wrestled with the huge heap of assorted wheelchair wheels in the boot of the car to get to the release for the spare wheel, I became aware that I was being watched carefully by the attendant in the night-counter.
He probably had one shaky finger poised nervously over the panic button, convinced that I was part of some elabourate ruse to drae him out of the office. After all, no wheelchair user in his right mind would attempt to change a wheel on a car, would they?
While I understood his reluctance to get involved, I was a little disappointed when someone came in, filled their car, paid, and left without paying me the slightest heed.
That said, I was glad of the opportunity to see just how much I could do, and discovered that I could actually change the wheel all by myself.
The next person to come into the station did get out of his van and offered to help. And he did it really nicely, too. He said he was running early for work and that he'd be happy to finish off the job if I wanted. I let him nip the wheelnuts up, and we had a 'car talk' in the way men do, chatting about emergency sparewheels and the location of jacks.
Although the whole thing was a hassle and I ended up getting home after midnight, I am still basking in the satisfaction of knowing that I can still change a spare wheel. OK, so the average light-bulb is still just a dream, but you've got to start somewhere...
(By the way, I know the picture is clearly not King's Cross at 11pm, but I thought it was a bit more picturesque)
The first challenge was finding the wheelbrace (under the bonnet).Then I had to find the manual, which revealed that the jack is actually housed in the spare wheel under the car. As I wrestled with the huge heap of assorted wheelchair wheels in the boot of the car to get to the release for the spare wheel, I became aware that I was being watched carefully by the attendant in the night-counter.
He probably had one shaky finger poised nervously over the panic button, convinced that I was part of some elabourate ruse to drae him out of the office. After all, no wheelchair user in his right mind would attempt to change a wheel on a car, would they?
While I understood his reluctance to get involved, I was a little disappointed when someone came in, filled their car, paid, and left without paying me the slightest heed.
That said, I was glad of the opportunity to see just how much I could do, and discovered that I could actually change the wheel all by myself.
The next person to come into the station did get out of his van and offered to help. And he did it really nicely, too. He said he was running early for work and that he'd be happy to finish off the job if I wanted. I let him nip the wheelnuts up, and we had a 'car talk' in the way men do, chatting about emergency sparewheels and the location of jacks.
Although the whole thing was a hassle and I ended up getting home after midnight, I am still basking in the satisfaction of knowing that I can still change a spare wheel. OK, so the average light-bulb is still just a dream, but you've got to start somewhere...
(By the way, I know the picture is clearly not King's Cross at 11pm, but I thought it was a bit more picturesque)
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