An Open Letter to My Winter Tires

Dearest Dunlops,

How can I forget the day you came into my life? It was Christmas Eve 2004. An accident involving a Grand Cherokee and a bus bench had left me wondering whether "all-season" simply referred to how much of the year my stock tires performed poorly. Late to the party (who knew that wintertime is too late to order winter tires?), I "had" to settle for you since all the Pirellis were sold out.

Since that day, I have not always treated you kindly. I have let you suffer in the third circle of hell that is a Manitoba summer two years in a row simply because I have been out of the country for two "time to change over your tires" seasons and by the time I got back in late May, quite frankly, it was too close to winter to bother. And I let you be the scapegoat for that awful noise, rolling my eyes and declaring "it's my tires" whenever anyone commented.

But I have never maligned you when it comes to what you do so faithfully and so skillfully: stick to the snowy icy roads. You, my most precious treaded beauties, cling to the nastiest of highways with a tenacity my children only dream of.

Yesterday, of course, was no exception. You doggedly spun through really quite adverse road conditions to convey me to and from the border safely. You stuck to whatever visible surface peeked out of a snowy two-lane highway along Lake Superior, protecting me from certain submersion in said lake had we even grazed the shoulder. You cheerfully took ownership of the "staying on the road" responsibilities and freed me to enjoy selections from my 46 hours' worth of Penguin Classics audiobooks.

And then you waited so patiently while I successfully got my work visa and did not even murmur in protest that you only got to spend two minutes in Canada.

O circular miracles of rubberized perfection, I rejoice in your incredible aptitude for all things tire-ish. May our journeys together be long and similarly free of incident.

Yours always (or until the tread wears down),

PM