Blame it on hormones. Or Mercury in retrograde. Or the children. I don’t care.
I honestly don’t know why I thought it was the ideal moment to try backing up the RV for the first time.
(I know. I did all that practicing for the upgraded driver’s license last year, but that was with a friend’s flatbed trailer, which I could see behind. That’s not possible with our 5th wheel, which is why I’ve heretofore been too chickenshit to try it.)
Anyway, our site was a giant parking lot at a remote casino in northern CA, for a quick overnight.
There was only one other vehicle in it.
Sure, it was after dark, but there was plenty of room beside that big rig, and all I had to do was go straight back.
I knew I could do that.
In fact, I’d already done it quite successfully on the opposite side of the lot, but after Tim guided me all the way back, he realized he’d backed me up to a closed gate, and we didn’t know if or when someone might need access, so we moved.
I declined Tim’s offer to spot me in the second location, because I knew I’d be done when my front end lined up with that semi’s cab. Easy peasy!
But also a big mistake.
That is when we were reminded that some big rigs are shorter than others.
Some are even shorter than we are.
Like this one.
I didn’t feel it — at all — but Tim definitely saw it when he got out to check my position.
If I’d pushed any farther, there’d have been some flattened fencing — and two red-faced Rohrers exchanging insurance information with the casino manager come morning.
The truly embarrassing part was that I know better. I paid more attention to my overconfidence than to two critical rules. (Hell. I couldn’t even see those rules, blinded as I was by that sparkly outfit Overconfidence was wearing.)
- Take extra safety precautions after dark.
- Always — always — use a spotter when backing up. Yes, even if the lot is the size of Connecticut. And especially after dark.
So now my sense of embarrassment is the size of Connecticut.
There’s no photographic evidence of the actual smoosh, but I took a morning-after shot, showing that I’d had to make a forward roll of shame.
Oh, and one showing where I’d scraped the paint off Tim’s bike frame, although that might actually be from a far older boo-boo. Neither one of us is sure.
And uh, one showing that I bent our bike rack pretty good. Dammit. We really like this one, and it took no fewer than three prior duds to get to it.
The fence took no damage; my ego sustained a fairly large bruise.
And that’s why I’m sharing this story.
Let it serve as a reminder that things like this can happen to any RVer, new or seasoned.
It could have been worse, and thankfully, Tim and I go easy on each other when it comes to such incidents, by which I mean we know full well that we take turns being the bonehead.