Here’s the story within the story: I learned that week that under-inflated Jazz tyres cost me 4% more fuel. But over-inflated to 40 psi? The car felt like it was on ice skates. Hit a pothole, and you'd feel it in your teeth.
I pulled into a servo. The digital pump was broken, so I grabbed the old analogue gauge—the one that looks like a pen with a slide rule. I had no idea what number to aim for.
"The tyre pressure for a Honda Jazz," he said, without missing a beat, "is 32 PSI for the front, 30 for the rear. But check the driver's door jamb, you muppet."
I opened the door. There it was, a little white sticker, baked and peeling but legible:
I remember the day I almost cooked a batch of cookies on my dashboard.
Then I saw it. The rear left tyre was squattier than a bulldog. Low pressure. Classic Jazz problem.
Feeling like a genius, I set the pump. Beep. Beep. Click. The tyre filled. The car lifted. The steering went light again.
Here’s the story within the story: I learned that week that under-inflated Jazz tyres cost me 4% more fuel. But over-inflated to 40 psi? The car felt like it was on ice skates. Hit a pothole, and you'd feel it in your teeth.
I pulled into a servo. The digital pump was broken, so I grabbed the old analogue gauge—the one that looks like a pen with a slide rule. I had no idea what number to aim for.
"The tyre pressure for a Honda Jazz," he said, without missing a beat, "is 32 PSI for the front, 30 for the rear. But check the driver's door jamb, you muppet."
I opened the door. There it was, a little white sticker, baked and peeling but legible:
I remember the day I almost cooked a batch of cookies on my dashboard.
Then I saw it. The rear left tyre was squattier than a bulldog. Low pressure. Classic Jazz problem.
Feeling like a genius, I set the pump. Beep. Beep. Click. The tyre filled. The car lifted. The steering went light again.
