Air Pressure at Work

I hate balloons.  If the balloon is sitting around, minding it's own business and stays on the other side of the room, I can appreciate the fun (!) vibe it is supposed to convey.  They look lovely, festive, this air trapped in a usually globular rubber pouch decorative thing.  Except, they explode.  Do not pop a balloon near me unless you have a putty knife to scrape me off the ceiling, and then be prepared to run for your life as I will be after you.  Maybe have an extra balloon to waggle at me, keep me at a distance while you escape.

Explode.  Not quite what happens, I always thought the sound was created by the air pressure; turns out that the pressure inside even an overinflated balloon isn't that great, it's the latex, sort of breaking the sound barrier.

"While the air pressure inside the balloon does not contain much potential energy, the latex does store terrific potential energy as "elastic strain energy". The rapid release of the stored energy in the latex produces the resounding bang.

When a balloon bursts, the latex splits into various pieces as cracks develop. The speed of sound in latex is much higher than the speed of sound in air. The speed of the crack propagation through the latex approaches the speed of sound in the latex. Therefore, the velocity of the crack faces break the sound barrier in air and make a sonic boom. The latex then violently contracts. The ends of the latex contract so rapidly that they break the sound barrier. Just like the end of a bullwhip, and they make a shock wave. The more latex breaking the sound barrier, the bigger the bang. The faster the latex is going the bigger the bang. A few large very tight pieces of latex contracting will make a bigger bang."
                                                                                             https://www.balloonhq.com/faq/howpop.html#whybang

Geez, I may have to pop a few balloons to see how this works.  Just kidding.  What caused this declaration of balloon malice was a small but necessary event, I filled my car tires this morning as the pressure in one was down to fifteen, according to that gadget where the plastic measure-ometer tells how much air is in there.  A car tire is a giant balloon of death as far as I'm concerned.  Yes, they can kill you.

The front left tire is lethargic and getting less round as pothole season comes to an end; I wish really hard that the Tire Fairy will come and magically fill the tire with air overnight so I don't have to find an air pump that works.  You know how reliably wishing works; like, not at all.  I'm stuck, gotta get out there and fill the thing and let this be the last tire occurrence this year, already.  I find a gas station, and yes there is a working pump that takes quarters; seventy-five cents for three minutes.  No way is finishing the job in that amount of time going to happen, so I load my pocket with about three dollars worth of  quarters.  I will not let myself run scared after the minutes allotted runs out, if there are quarters, then I will finish the job.  By now, my heart rate is accelerating into 78 rpm, soon to hit the Canadian speed limit where signs say 100 km meaning 60 mph, but that Americans snicker at and pretend we don't know what a kilometer is (I don't, exactly).

First, I unscrew the valve caps and put them someplace safe, not in the pocket with the quarters, for if I'm panicking, they may get shoved into the coin slot of the pump as surrogate quarters.  There are only three caps, should pick some up; when being fiddled with, they often drop down behind the hubcap and disappear, poof!  But these I have put into the pocket with the zipper, safe.  Next, dig out the tire gauge from my purse where it has been since the last tire foray, and finally put the money into the air pump.

The contraption begins to shake from the incredibly loud hammer drill racket that has been started and to me, the ground could explode as a result of the Machiavellian instrument roaring in the effort of restraining all ten thousand pounds of air pressure contained in a thick iron canister buried below the surface of asphalt.  Truly, it's only an air compressor that manufactures the pressure as needed, but in my head, it's the monster under the bed made more gruesome due to invisibility.

So not only am I rattled by the imagined air pressure I have to control through the hose, but now I have to hustle and try to get to all the tires in three minutes.  The mechanism in my hand looks foreign to me, ready to speak in some unknown language, and it's hissing.  I get to the first valve, line up the connection, turn my head away, and squeeze the release handle; more air comes out than goes in, and the gauge tells me that ten pounds may be all that I drive home on if I don't get this right.  I'm muttering to myself as I figure out the best angle to get at this valve stem that is jammed against an opening in the hubcap. Okay. You can do this, you've done it before, get a grip.

The tire gets up to 30 and I'm done with it; is the recommended pressure 35 pounds?  I. Don't. Care. This death trap is done and I move to the next, which doesn't need as much attention and is completed in a minute, up to thirty-five pounds.  One more.

The valve stem is left handed and I'm right handed, or the hose doesn't reach properly, or a small god sneezed, I dunno; this one is not cooperating and again, I let out more air than get in, and the air pump comes to a halt.  The shuddering ground stops moving and the relief at the end of the noise and threat of death by tire is circumspect to my quality of life since I have to trudge back to the machine and feed it money.  It takes me the whole three minutes of the second round to fill the single remaining tire, but it is done, and I am surprisingly alive.

The valve caps are replaced, the hose is coiled and slung over the metal arm.  As I drive down the street, a bouncier, smoother ride is evident, and I approve while continuing to return to normal breathing.  The endorphins of success are flowing, there is celebration in the air.  Home again; I have faced the demons of pressurized air contained in vulcanized latex and lived.  I still hate balloons.

Tonight is cool, chilly in fact, and I am ready for bed.  The leaves on the trees are arriving at last, and birds fly in zigzags with tangles of string and grass in their beaks.  It has been a long day, beginning early on with a daybreak appointment before the tire adventure; time now to wash faces and find blankets, soft sheets and a pillow.  Let the world spin, learn the science of it, there's wonder there. Dream before the sandman comes.  Wish.