interstate wasn't crowded this early in the morning. Traffic was light. This was good, as it would give me a chance to get used to driving the motorhome on the highway.
Surprisingly, the coach handled well. Not much different than a large truck.
The few cars on the road were running seventy five miles an hour and faster. My instinct from years of driving was to try to keep up.
But that's not a good idea in a motorhome. Instead, I followed Jack's recommendation. Keep it under sixty five, and you won't have problems.
It took me about an hour to get from Conway to the other side of Little Rock. Then another ninety minutes to get to Pine Bluff where I left the interstate behind.
For the next one hundred forty miles it would be rural roads with a maximum speed limit of sixty five.
Easy driving, not too much traffic. Just me, the motorhome and Bob the cat.
When I got to Lake Village, Arkansas, the last 'big' town before heading into Louisiana, I pulled into an empty parking lot. The sign above a vacant store read Piggly Wiggly.
I'd been driving for almost four hours, making good time. No need to kill myself by spending too many hours behind the wheel without a break. I needed to get out. Stretch a bit.
I located Bob. He was in the back, asleep on the bed. He didn't acknowledge me.
Good. I might be able to get out the door, take a walk and get back in without worrying about him escaping.
I snuck out the coach side door. Locked it behind me. Walked around the coach to make sure all was good.
We'd picked up some road grime, a few bugs on the front, but other than that it looked good. Made me proud to know it was mine.
Checked the parking lot and decided a brisk walk around the perimeter would get me ready for the next five hours of driving.
After ten minutes of walking, I headed back to the coach, and noticed a few cars now parked in the lot.
Maybe one of the vacant storefronts was used for something after all.
It didn't matter to me. I was ready to hit the road again.
I went back to the coach, unlocked the door and opened it. Bob was there and jumped out the door the moment he saw daylight.
I tried to grab him, but he was too fast for me. He was gone.
This was bad. Real bad.
I looked around and didn't see Bob anywhere. My guess is he wouldn't run toward the road – too much noise and too many cars.
Maybe he was under one of the cars parked nearby.
I started checking and found him under an old Buick Electra.
He was breathing heavily, obviously upset.
I got down on my hands and knees and tried to reach him. He growled and spit at me.
I knew I had to get him, so I belly crawled toward him, but he just backed up.
“What you doing mister?”
A voice behind me.
“Hey mister, what you doing under my mother's car?”
I didn't answer.
“Hey mister, if my brother finds you under my mother's car, he'll shoot you!”
That got my attention. I wriggled back out from under the car.
Standing behind me was a young black boy – probably about twelve years old. He was wearing long black pants, a white shirt, and a tie.
He pointed again at the car.
“What you doing under my mother's car?”
I sighed heavily. “My cat escaped. Ran up under the car. I'm trying to get him back.”
“You're not going to get him that way. Cat's don't like it when you grab for them.”
Smart kid.
“Yeah, I'm finding that out. But I've got to get this cat back. He belongs to a friend.”
“I can do it for you. If you pay me a dollar.”
“Kid, if you can get that cat back in the motorhome, I'll pay you ten dollars.”
“OK, it's a deal. Just do what I say.”
The kid asked, "Which car is yours?"
I pointed to the motorhome.
“Nice. Go over and open the side door and leave it open.”
“Then come over here and stand on the other side of my
Surprisingly, the coach handled well. Not much different than a large truck.
The few cars on the road were running seventy five miles an hour and faster. My instinct from years of driving was to try to keep up.
But that's not a good idea in a motorhome. Instead, I followed Jack's recommendation. Keep it under sixty five, and you won't have problems.
It took me about an hour to get from Conway to the other side of Little Rock. Then another ninety minutes to get to Pine Bluff where I left the interstate behind.
For the next one hundred forty miles it would be rural roads with a maximum speed limit of sixty five.
Easy driving, not too much traffic. Just me, the motorhome and Bob the cat.
When I got to Lake Village, Arkansas, the last 'big' town before heading into Louisiana, I pulled into an empty parking lot. The sign above a vacant store read Piggly Wiggly.
I'd been driving for almost four hours, making good time. No need to kill myself by spending too many hours behind the wheel without a break. I needed to get out. Stretch a bit.
I located Bob. He was in the back, asleep on the bed. He didn't acknowledge me.
Good. I might be able to get out the door, take a walk and get back in without worrying about him escaping.
I snuck out the coach side door. Locked it behind me. Walked around the coach to make sure all was good.
We'd picked up some road grime, a few bugs on the front, but other than that it looked good. Made me proud to know it was mine.
Checked the parking lot and decided a brisk walk around the perimeter would get me ready for the next five hours of driving.
After ten minutes of walking, I headed back to the coach, and noticed a few cars now parked in the lot.
Maybe one of the vacant storefronts was used for something after all.
It didn't matter to me. I was ready to hit the road again.
I went back to the coach, unlocked the door and opened it. Bob was there and jumped out the door the moment he saw daylight.
I tried to grab him, but he was too fast for me. He was gone.
This was bad. Real bad.
I looked around and didn't see Bob anywhere. My guess is he wouldn't run toward the road – too much noise and too many cars.
Maybe he was under one of the cars parked nearby.
I started checking and found him under an old Buick Electra.
He was breathing heavily, obviously upset.
I got down on my hands and knees and tried to reach him. He growled and spit at me.
I knew I had to get him, so I belly crawled toward him, but he just backed up.
“What you doing mister?”
A voice behind me.
“Hey mister, what you doing under my mother's car?”
I didn't answer.
“Hey mister, if my brother finds you under my mother's car, he'll shoot you!”
That got my attention. I wriggled back out from under the car.
Standing behind me was a young black boy – probably about twelve years old. He was wearing long black pants, a white shirt, and a tie.
He pointed again at the car.
“What you doing under my mother's car?”
I sighed heavily. “My cat escaped. Ran up under the car. I'm trying to get him back.”
“You're not going to get him that way. Cat's don't like it when you grab for them.”
Smart kid.
“Yeah, I'm finding that out. But I've got to get this cat back. He belongs to a friend.”
“I can do it for you. If you pay me a dollar.”
“Kid, if you can get that cat back in the motorhome, I'll pay you ten dollars.”
“OK, it's a deal. Just do what I say.”
The kid asked, "Which car is yours?"
I pointed to the motorhome.
“Nice. Go over and open the side door and leave it open.”
“Then come over here and stand on the other side of my
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