Changing a Tractor Tire

When I was in high school I worked on a farm.  When people think of farms it is often idyllic pastoral imagery.  This was not that kind of farm.  There was no livestock, meaning no the happy cow in front of a red barn.  The barns, if they could be called that, were steel buildings shoved full of a hoarder's dream.  The farmer went to an Alyeska auction once and came back with two trucks and what may have been a reel to reel computer, I do not quite remember.  The trucks needed to be waxed, a job best done not by Turtle Wax, but used automatic transmission fluid.  It was a different kind of place.

I could easily say that every day had a story, but most days were rather monotonous, and somehow one gets used to crazy.  When I first started, my task was to drive a quad around a giant field picking up sticks (logs) that were once wind rows that the farmer, Ken, had decided to plow into the field.  When the trailer behind my quad was full of sticks I used a mixture of diesel and gasoline poured out of a jug and a lighter to light the pile on fire.  Ken was not without precautions.  When he issued me my jug of diesel-gas fuel blend, he made sure I was using a long handled barbecue lighter, for "safety."  As fire season came on, with no rain and high winds, lighting 10 foot tall piles of wood on fire seemed a little risky, until my assignment one day was to try to start a forest fire in an island of trees that the original land owner probably pictured would be a perfect site for a his house.  With that, it proves that crazy is easy to accept, I just wrote that we were trying to start a forest fire, so the risk of starting a forest fire is already small potatoes.

One day I was sent out to run over six inch diameter aspen trees with a tractor.  For a week my job was to burn weeds (trees), a weed burner that had been affixed to a 500 lb propane tank on a trailer.  I dangled on a rope from the back of the tank, setting the world on fire.  Another day one of the farm trucks (with a broken gas gauge) ran out of gas.  Rather than putting more gas in the tank, Ken decided the truck needed starter fluid, not more fuel.  He turned it over, while I sprayed ethanol into the carburetor.  When the truck turned over, I stopped, and the truck would die.  We switched roles, as I obviously was not using the aerosol can correctly.  Ken sprayed the carburetor with the volatile aerosol until the engine compartment erupted into flames.  With crazy becoming normal, my own risk acceptance grew, and my ability to deal with "normal" monotony waned.

Driving a tractor, or any heavy equipment, is boring.  Some of the fields I would mow would take eight hours to make one lap of the field.  My day would be something along the lines of:  drive to the tractor, take lunch and water into the tractor, lube the tractor, start the tractor, drive two hours, turn right, drive two hours, turn right, stop for lunch, drive two hours, turn right, drive two hours, drive back to the barn.  One simply cannot alternate days between being tied to a bomb and sitting in a tractor cab keeping the wheel straight.  So I would come up with my own crazy ways to entertain myself.

Once, sitting in the cab, having done nothing for the last hour, I realized that the tractor drove itself.  The throttle could be set so that the tractor would drive at a constant speed without an operator.  The steering was stiff enough that on level ground the tractor drove straight without my touching the steering wheel.  I looked at the dual wheels, then at the mower behind and it occurred to me that I could jump out of the tractor, and clear all of the danger.  I slowed the tractor, then leaped from the hot, exhaust filled cab.  Clear of the danger, I proudly looked at the tractor lumbering along without me.  Then I realized I had to get back into the cab.

The story that I most enjoy from the farm, though it has been years since I have attempted to recall it in its entirety, is how to change a tractor tire.  Anyone who has been to a tire store has seen the various machinery available to change a tire.  There is a machine that breaks the bead, then an attachment is added, and the tire is pried off the rim.  Bicyclists are familiar with doing this process by hand, or with small nylon tire levers.  For heavy equipment there are similar machines, but these machines are expensive, and the Co-op was a long ways away.

Without the hydraulic driven machine to break the bead, farmers can use a momentum driven device, where a heavy metal sleeve is hoisted by hand, then slammed down a metal rod with a chisel-like head.  Using this tool is time consuming, physically demanding, and in no way dangerous.  Instead, Ken liked to use a 4x4 piece of lumber, and a truck.  One end of the board was jammed into the tractor tire next to the bead, the other was put wedged between the license plate and bumper of the truck.  The truck was then reversed into the tire.

"Careful," I was warned the first time we changed a tire, "if that slips it will kill you."  In addition to death by slipping lumber, I had already considered death by breaking lumber, death by being crushed between truck and tractor, and death by tractor falling off jack.

I stood clear of the operation.  The truck backed-up, the board slipped, and profanity flowed from the cab.  I reset the apparatus, then stepped away.  The truck backed-up, the board slipped, and profanity flowed from the cab.  I put the board back, and, reluctantly, held the board in place, awaiting certain death.

The bead broke, and I knew that from then on, I would have to be in the center of the operation to facilitate changing every tire.

Back in the tire shop, a tire iron-like attachment is slipped under the bead, and the machinery pulls the bead over the rim.  On the farm the first tire iron is slid into place, then a second, then a third, then profanity flows freely as one slips and all three go whipping through the air.  This is repeated until either the tire is off, or there is a human casualty.  Victory never went to the tire when I was a part of the mission though, and the bead was always pulled off the rim.

At this point, the tire is half on the rim.  Tubes could be replaced, and foreign objects could be removed.  Occasionally though, the tire needed work done on something that could not be reached with the half mounted tire.  The tire could be either be pried completely off the rim, or the youngest, smallest worker could climb into the tire.  Another farm hand would pull the bead wide, I would exhale, and squeeze inside.

With the tire fixed, the bead would have to be reset.  While this operation always included prolific, creative profanity, most of the really dodgy work was done.  The tractor would be sent back into service, and I would set about another task.  Like the time we were sorting used tires Ken had gotten for "cheap"...