I changed my first tire the other day. I took the spare out, rolled it to the far end of the garage by the front of the two cars, turned it, and leaned it up against the wall. I walked about 20 feet and grabbed the jack. As I was walking back, I noticed the tire was not where I left it. I got to the spot between the two cars in time to see the tire rolling out of the garage, quickly. I ran after it, but it beat me to the end of the driveway and turned down the street. Seriously, it just made a right after rolling out of the garage. It was like a remote control tire — and the driver was some punk hiding in a tree, laughing at me.
We live on a bit of a hill, so the tire started cruising down the street. I ran as fast as I could after it and tried kicking to knock it over. It wobbled a little but kept rolling, faster and faster. I tried again and, once again, there was a little wobble but it had too much momentum at this point. Finally, I charged the tire and was able to at least change its course. It rolled right into the driveway of someone who lives too far from us to really be considered a neighbor, came to a stop as though the punk kid had grown tired of playing with me, and toppled over.