Pustay Beaven: All signs point to Clemson ... by car

In hindsight, I should have accepted the sign when the universe sent it. Because, honestly, it could not have been clearer.

I mean, my plane caught fire in the air.

And nothing says "today is not your travel day" like electrical fires that cause smoke-filled airplane cabins after takeoff.

But thanks to my stubborn streak, I refused to accept the omen. And after a fairly boring two hours that involved several truckloads of firefighters in full gear, maintenance said the catch-y fire plane really was fit for flight. They asked us all to get back on board.

So I did.

I mean, I had to be in Greenville the next morning for the Clemson University Global Tire Industry Conference. And yes, I missed my connection from Charlotte. But I had managed to reschedule and get a seat on the last flight to Greenville late that night.

Things were looking up! Sure, I'd have to sit at the airport for eight hours, but I was going somewhere, right?

Turns out, no.

Fifteen minutes after finally boarding that last flight out of Charlotte, the crew asked us all to leave. The flight was canceled, they said. Mechanical issues.

That was the last sign I needed. I gave in and did what the universe wanted.

I Ubered from Charlotte to Greenville.

It was a rather pleasant ride that only began to feel slightly murder-y when the driver said sometime after 2 a.m. that he had to "go off route a bit to get gas."

Following several "Sorry, wrong direction" U-turns—he did pull into a gas station, which was heartening. Still, I remained dubious.

And as I stared out the windshield at the Waffle House and the Michelin North America headquarters beyond it, I began wondering if this was it, the end. I wondered if this was the last thing I would see before this dude chloroformed me.

It's strange what goes through your mind at 2 a.m. when you think there is a decent enough chance you could be axe murdered by a stranger. Things like:

Could someone on staff submit my expenses without my receipts?

Do I get to choose the place I haunt? Or would I be forced to spend ghostly eternity at that Waffle House, given its proximity?

Then I thought of the irony of it all. How I, a tire industry journalist, had somehow skirted death by airline twice only to end up as true crime podcast fodder this close to Michelin.

But none of that mattered because Marc, it turns out, is a nice guy who just drove a long way in a vehicle that needed gas. I feel bad for doubting that. He delivered me safely to where I needed to be.

So, exhausted—and alive—I made it to Clemson. I caught up with industry friends and met some new ones. The best part, though, is that I get to share more about their ideas and innovations.

And next month, I get to do it all over again with the Smithers Traction Summit in San Antonio.

When that happens, though, I'll take any signs the universe sends a little more seriously.

Pustay Beaven is managing editor of Rubber News. Connect with her on LinkedIn or by email at [email protected].