Life offers a generous and varied assortment of disagreements, don’t you think? Republicans vs. Democrats. Union vs. Confederacy. Mom vs. Dad.
We’re in Wautoma tonight, spending a few days with Grandma and Grandpa. But getting here was a bit of a challenge. The RV GPS suggested that Dad take I-90 East (which is actually Southeast, for those who are wondering). Dad wanted to go Northeast on Highway 23.
- Northeast on Highway 23 = 50 Miles, 65 Minutes.
- Southeast on I-90 to I-39, then North = 62 Miles, 62 Minutes.
Dad wanted fewer miles, and firmly believed that the drive would be shorter.
The GPS firmly believed in the software programmed by transportation experts.
Mom firmly believed in the GPS.
Mom told Dad that she would support him, no matter what.
Armed with a full array of information, basking in unconditional love, Dad elected to traverse State Highway 23.
That’s where the bumps started.
Just look at the road. See the tar-filled cracks in the road? Each tar-filled crack represents a bump. Mile after mile after mile of unlimited bumps. We got more bumps for the money than any other person riding in an RV today.
Moments later, the RV GPS uttered the following warning “cannot verify that this route is safe for an RV“. There are many things that this message could mean.
- Bridges that are lower than the height of the RV.
- Power lines that are lower than the height of the RV.
- Catastrophic circumstances where a 37 foot RV with six feet of towing arms and a 15 foot vehicle in tow cannot make U-turns or otherwise take evasive actions.
Turns out that (2), power lines, were the unverified issue of the afternoon. Dad felt that if trucks take this road, then the road was safe. Let me tell you, pups, when you are barreling down a State Highway with 22,439 bumps per mile, you want the power lines to be at least 14 feet above the road.
Mom would be the first to tell you that the power lines were not at least 14 feet above the road.
Harrowing conditions, pups.
The great civil war of the Winnebago Adventurer ended once we arrived on Interstate 39 and heard a bizarre beeping sound coming from the rear of the rig. It was time for a new topic – this time, the topic was “Dad closed up the propane but left the fridge on, causing a fault.” Dad and I hate beeps, Mom adores safety, so the three of us agreed to pull into a rest area and resolve the great beeping episode of 2014.
We filled the rig with gas in Coloma, and then we, as a unified front, took our victory lap down Highway 21. We relaxed in the relative comfort of a smooth road, while Amish Laborers redefined what the term “stress” really means.
The reality of back-breaking work while wearing jeans in the searing sunshine unified all three of us. We became gentle souls traveling on a smooth highway under the comfort provided by an air conditioning system pumping cooling breezes from a ten cylinder engine consuming fuel at a rate of 6.5 miles per gallon.
We made it to Grandma and Grandpa’s … woo-hoo!
They are celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary on Saturday. As long as Mom and Dad can rally around the thought that they are not performing the back-breaking work of the Amish, they, too, have a shot at hitting 50 years.
It was dinner time. Dad continued to eat his way through Wisconsin, this time ingesting pizza and chicken.
After dinner, we took a walk along the lake – I sooooo wanted to jump in.
But it was not to be. I was told to hop in the car and head back. I was told that there was something interesting to see on the way home. It was this …
Last I checked, the top of our RV would hit this fourteen foot tall robot from Terminator 2 right in the face.
But I still wanted to take a dip in the lake. I wanted to do the doggy paddle in a tepid broth of microorganisms and modified pollution. So I rejected the family unit.
This is how you “stick it” to humans … you turn your back to them and deny them the opportunity to revel in your company.
Until tomorrow, pups.