A Motorway Blowout

We are halfway through one of our regular drives from London to Wiltshire. We have just passed the grey, built-up suburbs of Reading and are now, in contrast, being treated to vast fields of flourishing yellow rapeseed. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis provide a gentle, atmospheric soundtrack; the dog is sleeping peacefully in the back seat, and we are blissfully unaware of any impending danger.

Suddenly there is a loud bang and we lose control of the car. One moment we are hurtling along at seventy miles an hour; the next, we are braking rapidly and swerving wildly across lanes. We finally come to a shuddering stop and are left sitting silently in the middle lane of the M4 motorway.

We quickly switch on the hazard lights and try to take in what has just happened. The dog is now wide awake and looks as alarmed as I imagine we are. Cars and lorries zip past us at high speed; it is only a matter of time before one of them ploughs into the back of us. We try the engine and, mercifully, it starts. Carefully, we limp the car towards the hard shoulder. There is an unpleasant grinding sound emanating from the rear of the vehicle, but we make it and turn off the engine.

We sit still for a few moments to gather our composure; large vehicles occasionally rock the car as they speed by. I cautiously climb out of the passenger side to investigate the damage. The rear right wheel appears to be absent, and the car is slumped at an awkward angle.

It is too dangerous to investigate any further, so we call the breakdown service. Within twenty minutes, a recovery van pulls up behind us. The driver gets to work immediately. We watch him set up a couple of hazard signs and, within seconds (with a small smile), he informs us that we have had a blowout. He explains that he will just need to replace the damaged wheel with the spare in the boot.

We stand on the other side of the crash barrier, surrounded by the evicted contents of the boot, and watch the wheel being expertly changed. The damaged tyre has been completely shredded; nothing remains but ragged rubber. A few minutes later, we thank the roadside technician (that’s what they’re called) and then tentatively continue our onward journey. We both quickly agree that, from now on, all future motorway travel will be conducted in the slow lane.