RC#57: Byways and Highways, Part 1

published in Eastern Economist #444, August 6, 2002

For those who are still contemplating a summer car trip in Ukraine, I have a couple of tales to tell. They are both disappointing and heartening. But the message is, be prepared – and go for it!

            I still remember travelling to Ensenada, Mexico, from San Diego, California, with a couple of friends. The roadway was a narrow, unmarked thing creeping up and down steep, uninhabited hills. Sign after sign saying “Curva pelligrosa” – dangerous curve. There was at least one dead dog every couple of miles. There were no gas stations. We were all very glad to get back to the land of 8-lane freeways.

            I’ve seen a lot more since. I’ve even learned to drive in it. Not only that, I have my own car. So I have all the pleasures of driving, along with all the headaches of owning the darned thing.

            On my way back to Kyiv not long ago, I thought my car was making too much noise on the passenger side. My passenger at the time was a nice young lady from Mohyla University, not a Rottweiler, so I knew the noise wasn’t inside. It sounded suspiciously like the front right tire.

            Now, the tire in that spot had blown out on me just six weeks earlier. Then, too, there had been a warning rumble. About 20 kilometers out of L’viv, my nerves got the better of me and I decided to check the noise out.

            We were just coming up on a bright yellow gas station, so I pulled in. “You guys know anything about tires? I’d like mine checked out,” I said to the guy inside. “No, we don’t, but there’s a guy back in the shop that does.”

            He called out and in a minute a young man came out wiping his hands. “My tires are making noise, rumbling,” I said. “Would you mind driving around with me to see what it might be?” “No problem.”

            Katya got out and Slavko took her place. I turned the car down the highway, drove a few kilometers at various speeds and U-turned back. When we got out, Slavko got down and checked out the two front tires.

            “I think your bearing could be gone on this right front tire. See here? It’s pretty hot, whereas this one…” – he got up and went to the left tire – “…is fairly cool. There’s a shop back up the road towards L’viv that I’m pretty sure can do it for you.” “Thanks,” I said and we made our way back about 15 kilometers to where we had come from.

            Sure enough, just past a truck area, there was a huge complex and in back an impressive shop with 6 bays. Better yet, it was open and working at nearly 20:00 on a Tuesday night.

            “Can you check my tires out? I hear a lot of noise and I’m wondering if I have a blow-out brewing,” I said. “No problem. Drive it on over here,” the man said, pointing out to a bay with a lift.

            When the car was up in the air, an authoritative-looking man in an overall and cap uniform began looking at the underneath carefully. “It’s definitely not your bearings,” he said. “See how your wheel turns smoothly and easily? It wouldn’t do that if the bearings were going.”

            I felt relief. Bearings sounded expensive to me.

            He carefully looked over the tires and eventually took the right front one off. “Look at this,” he said. “These are cheap Slovak tires. Touch the sidewalls.” I could feel some bumps and it worried me. “Nah, they won’t blow out on you. But they aren’t great. Your back tires are originals and they’re better made.”

            He then looked at the engine and other parts from below, checking for leaks and such. “Everything seems pretty good from here,” he said. “There’s a bit of oil around this seal, but it’s par for the course.”

            After fishing around a little more, he told one of the other guys to balance my front tires and see if that made a difference. The lift came down and the guy went to work. Twenty minutes later, I did a short test drive down the highway again. The noise was less, but it was still there, even at low speeds.

            “Try rotating the front tires to the back,” said the main mechanic. “That way, if one of those tires does blow, it won’t be as dangerous.”

            The tire guy went to work, starting with the front right tire. He took each one off, balanced it and moved it to the next position. When he got to the last tire, the right rear one, he suddenly said “Hah!”

            Rolling the tire to me he said, “Here you are!” Sure enough, there was a bulge in the treads, a nasty bump that he said would probably have resulted in a blow-out eventually. “Do you have a spare tire?” I did. The left front tire that was taken off when the right one blew.

            He balanced the last tire, screwed it on, and said, “Take it for a spin and see how it goes.”

            The car drove as smooth as a shot of Bailey’s.

            I drove back into the bay. The tire man tightened all the screws and put the hub caps back on. By now it was 22:30. “I’ve put the other tire in your spare well, but I wouldn’t use it,” he said as he closed the trunk.

            I thanked him, paid him the Hr 36 he requested – less than US $6 – and we drove off, happy as larks. •

–from the extensive notes of Pan O.

Part 2 continues the saga of Ukrainian byways and highways.