Why you never carry bicycles on a rack on the back of an RV
A few miles up the road, after being passed by another 50 or 60 trucks, one of the huge monochromatic symbols of Interstate Commerce slowed as he pulled alongside, magically rolled down his passenger window, and I knew what he was going to do next. Yep, he pointed toward the rear of the camper. Damn. Here we go again.
We had made the trip in 1994 with my mother for the first Stubblefield family reunion, but I had caused a major family problem. My mom, who of course grew up in the area, wanted me to turn at an intersection she thought she recognized. I ignored her, following a map that turned out to be old and in error. My mom sat in the car and fumed while I went to a gas station and bought a new map of the area. She never let me forget it. She complained to relatives, and anyone else who would listen, about her son ignoring her when she gave directions. It was a major faux-pas on my part, and she never let me forget it. On this trip, I think she got even.