As you might know, we spent months working on the RV.
And if you know us at all, you know that when I say "we", I actually mean Jason. The kids and I are supportive - ridiculously and completely believing that he is capable of anything. Anything, in this case, means his mechanical ability. No matter what "problem" crops up, we assume he can fix it.
One day before we finally left town, we pulled out of his shop in Greenville, only to make it to South Westerlo, a few moments down the road, where it died at an intersection. Died, as in stopped running and refused to start. With us sitting startled in the back, he whipped off the cover of the motor - which is handily right inside the truck, unscrewed and tinkered and diagnosed, and within several noisy, smokey minutes, we were back at the shop.
This, my amazing husband said, was a good thing - we needed to know what could go wrong, and how to fix it, when we were home.
So, in that vein, we had been driving around our region, raking up the miles and testing and tuning. Mostly, we were trying to get an idea of the gas efficiency of our little beast. We had been hoping for 15 miles per gallon, which made quite a few people chuckle, but would have been thrilled with 10. On one of our last trips out before we took off for parts unknown, the best we could get was a measly 6.
Depressing, I thought. We were idling a lot, said my husband.
On day 2, flying down an interstate for 100 miles, we eeked out a handy 9 mpg and cheered. Unfortunately, that also resulted in a ticking motor which had sucked down two quarts of oil. We decided that our initial decision to stay off the interstates (seconded by the amazing Doug Story), was a good one.
On day 3, we thought we had our first flat tire, only to discover that the battery case had broken and was rolling about - a quick bungee cord repair and we were on our way.
And these sorts of minor, but briefly terrorizing, incidents happen fairly regularly, as if it is warning all of us not to get too comfortable. Earlier today, in fact, our trusty steed stalled drifting into a light in a small town in eastern Kentucky, and refused to start. Carburetor, cursed my husband, but had us moving along within moments.
This is all to point out that such travel is not for the faint of heart - as if keeping six kids in a seat for countless exhausting hours on the road wasn't enough, our vehicle keeps us on our toes. (Frankly, there are many nights when we agree that a collective insanity is responsible.) But, even with the real potential for calamity, the lessons learned on the road, for my kids as well as for us, far outweigh the risks.
Sometimes you just have to live a little.
And if you know us at all, you know that when I say "we", I actually mean Jason. The kids and I are supportive - ridiculously and completely believing that he is capable of anything. Anything, in this case, means his mechanical ability. No matter what "problem" crops up, we assume he can fix it.
One day before we finally left town, we pulled out of his shop in Greenville, only to make it to South Westerlo, a few moments down the road, where it died at an intersection. Died, as in stopped running and refused to start. With us sitting startled in the back, he whipped off the cover of the motor - which is handily right inside the truck, unscrewed and tinkered and diagnosed, and within several noisy, smokey minutes, we were back at the shop.This, my amazing husband said, was a good thing - we needed to know what could go wrong, and how to fix it, when we were home.
So, in that vein, we had been driving around our region, raking up the miles and testing and tuning. Mostly, we were trying to get an idea of the gas efficiency of our little beast. We had been hoping for 15 miles per gallon, which made quite a few people chuckle, but would have been thrilled with 10. On one of our last trips out before we took off for parts unknown, the best we could get was a measly 6.
Depressing, I thought. We were idling a lot, said my husband.
On day 3, we thought we had our first flat tire, only to discover that the battery case had broken and was rolling about - a quick bungee cord repair and we were on our way.
And these sorts of minor, but briefly terrorizing, incidents happen fairly regularly, as if it is warning all of us not to get too comfortable. Earlier today, in fact, our trusty steed stalled drifting into a light in a small town in eastern Kentucky, and refused to start. Carburetor, cursed my husband, but had us moving along within moments.
This is all to point out that such travel is not for the faint of heart - as if keeping six kids in a seat for countless exhausting hours on the road wasn't enough, our vehicle keeps us on our toes. (Frankly, there are many nights when we agree that a collective insanity is responsible.) But, even with the real potential for calamity, the lessons learned on the road, for my kids as well as for us, far outweigh the risks.
Sometimes you just have to live a little.
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