As someone who fantasizes about shooting a paint gun at Hummers and other suburban attack vehicles to mark them as hazards to planetary health, I recently succumbed to the most scandalous vacation decision. My husband and I were to drive around the Southwest in an RV, dragging two motorcycles – bikes that aren’t even street legal, I might add, only meant for riding at high speed around a tarmac racetrack, burning up fossil fuels just for the hell of it.
“How many miles does this RV do to the gallon?” I timidly asked the man who handed me the rental papers to sign.
“Well, the manual says 10, but it’s more like 7, particularly with a trailer.” He said. We had chosen the smallest camper.