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“What just broke?”
If you haven’t barreled down the interstate and asked your travel companion that very question, you haven’t been RVing.
Few things in life spike your adrenaline quite like steering a 32-foot RV (plus a towed car) through the ultra-narrow lanes of a construction zone, boxed in by towering cement barricades with nothing but a line of flimsy orange reflector posts separating you from oncoming traffic.
No matter how securely you think you’ve battened down the hatches, that inevitable crash, bang, and [insert another catastrophic sound effect here] reminds you that life on the road is a wild ride.
It didn’t take me long to learn why the 3:2 rule exists in RV culture. For those unfamiliar, that rule basically suggests you travel no more than 300 miles in a day, arrive by 2 p.m., and stay put for at least two nights. I ignored that rule and paid the price. Here’s how:
I bought my RV in October, and within three days, I was driving it 1,300 miles from Milwaukee, WI, to Apopka, FL. In just five days.
What happened during those five days, you ask? Buckle up. Here we go.
Day One: Love’s RV Stop, De Motte, IN (161 miles)
We hit the road around noon (mistake number one). It was my first real drive in the RV, aside from the short ride home from the dealer. So, of course, we found ourselves in the southern part of Chicago (aka construction hell), with lanes so narrow I could practically hear the paint being scraped off the sides of the bus as we screeched past the cement barricades, all while dodging rush hour traffic.
Midway through, I noticed a black thing flapping outside my driver’s side window like a demonic bird trying to crash its way in. Turns out, it was the window gasket slipping out from between the window and its frame, whipping around like the devil himself was holding the other end—good start, right? I’m white-knuckling it, praying not to scrape a semi, when BANG. The loudest, longest crash I’ve ever heard. I freeze. The fridge and freezer doors flew open. It was like a food explosion in aisle four: cans of Carbliss are rolling, the ice has gone rogue, and our Tupperware has utterly failed us in epic food fight fashion. My trusty co-pilot (hi, Mom!) leaps into action like Lucille Ball trying to prepare dinner in “The Long, Long Trailer,” bouncing down the aisle as we sped down the road.
Finally, we made it to Love’s after dark, stumbling out of the RV in a state of blurry-eyed exhaustion, as if we’d just completed a marathon while being chased by angry raccoons. Our clothes were disheveled, our makeup was a mess, and Mom probably had more food in her hair than what had been repacked into the fridge. After shoveling dinner into our mouths, we hit the sack and slept like the dead.
Day Two: Grand Ole RV Resort, Goodlettsville, TN (400 miles)
The cat went missing. Well, technically, she found a cozy spot under the driver’s side console. Naturally, we panicked and called Winnebago. The rep reassured us she couldn’t Houdini her way out. Funny thing about that—my mom, still incredulous after looking up Winnebago schematics, called them again.
In a glorious moment of red-faced embarrassment, we got the same customer service rep. He laughed but patiently confirmed that the cabin was a completely sealed box and that if our little escape artist had wedged herself under the console—which apparently happens all the time with cats—she was definitely onboard.
We hit the road. Nevertheless, for the entire nine-hour drive, I imagined every worst-case scenario. Had she escaped into the wilds of Indiana? Was she roasting like a rotisserie chicken by the engine? Or worse, was she being bounced around under the console like a tiny, terrified pinball?
At some point, the microwave decided to join the chaos by flinging its door open, sending the glass plate hurtling through the air like a frisbee of death. That distraction was almost enough to take my mind off the cat—almost.
We over-journeyed, of course. While Google Maps may claim that 400 miles equals six hours, in an RV, that distance is closer to nine.
Time moves differently in an RV. Miles move differently in an RV. It’s a law of nature that seems to defy the laws
of physics.
Anyway, we reached our destination after sunset. Again.
And just as soon as we parked, out popped the cat. Purring. Tail up. Completely happy, as if nothing had happened at all. My mom, on the other hand, burst into tears and told her, “I had been mentally writing your eulogy all day!” I echoed the sentiment.
Day Three: Gunter Hill Campground, Montgomery, AL (300 miles)
Finally, a good day! We drove a comfortable six hours and actually made it to our destination with plenty of sunlight to spare. We kicked back and enjoyed the gorgeous sunset over the Alabama River, with the comforting scent of campfire smoke drifting through the air. It was perfect. Well, almost. An improperly secured gallon jug of water slid off the counter and exploded in a spectacular Bellagio-fountain fashion, soaking everything within a ten-foot radius.
Day Four: Big Oak RV Park, Tallahassee, FL (200 miles)
By now, we’re pros. The cat’s chillin’ in her carrier, and after some, uh, “digestive delays,” everyone’s feeling lighter (including my mom, who hadn’t pooped since Day One). Cue the check engine light 55 miles out from Tallahassee. We pulled over because my co-pilot didn’t think you could drive with that on. Spoiler alert: you can, as long as it’s not flashing. Roadside Assistance with Good Sam never showed up, so we powered through. Turns out it was just an old, stored code.
Day Five: Lost Lake RV Park, Apopka, FL (260 miles)
Nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. No explosions, no breakages. Just peace and quiet. Of course, the universe couldn’t let us end on a high note—we arrived after dark, and the RV park had no lights. But compared to Days One through Four? That was a win.
Lessons Learned and the Road to Redemption
That very first trip to overwinter in Florida was a whirlwind of chaos, and boy, did I learn why the 3:2 rule exists.
I pushed through endless miles of road, fueled only by caffeine and sheer willpower, and by the end of it, I needed a solid two weeks just to recover.
So, come winter, I dove into planning for the trip back north and stumbled upon Thousand Trails. Their campground membership seemed like the perfect solution for my long journey. I opted for the cheapest tier, which granted me access to campgrounds spaced about 250 miles apart—just the right amount of distance to make the drive feel less like a never-ending marathon and more like a manageable road trip.
When spring rolled around and it was time to hit the road again, we fell into a blissful rhythm: pack up at a leisurely pace, drive during the off-peak hours, arrive before dark, and kick back. We had three full days at each stop to recover from the previous leg. Everyone was pooping on schedule. We couldn’t have asked for more.
The Thousand Trails system became my road trip savior on the way back, and I’m definitely planning to renew my membership. There is, however, one catch: my membership level only allows me to make reservations 60 days in advance, which means sometimes, sites are booked. The workaround? Call regularly, and you can often switch from a retail reservation to a member one. A bit of a hassle, but worth it to keep the trip covered under my membership fee.
So, if you’re ready to join the ranks of RV road warriors, just remember: when something crashes, bangs, or explodes mid-journey, smile. You’re RVing.
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with or paid by Thousand Trails for this post. The opinions expressed are my own based on my personal experience.