A few years back, my kayaking buddies and I decided to take a long weekend out in the mountains of Virgina. We were determined to tackle Balcony Falls on the James River, though my ambitions were bit more modest; like tackling a six-pack. The plan was to “caravan” out there, each driver with their boats and cars staying more or less in a pack on the highway during the six-hour drive. The lead car was driven by an older gentleman who was extra, extra cautious and drove well under the speed limit. I wasn’t expecting a prolonged trip and I ran out gas, as did several others, as there was no stopping allowed. (I can tell you about the horrors of trying to use a marine toilet in a car, but that’s another story.) Several calls and a long time waiting for AAA to arrive with gas later, we were on our way. But my 2005 Jeep Liberty (“Libby”), pushing 80 tho and cantankerous at best, didn’t like the sludge she had sucked up at the bottom of the gas tank I guess. She did this bump and grind thing in protest. And horrors! I hadn’t thought to check the straps on my kayak. It’d been sitting on the top rack of my car for almost 12 hours now. The straps had apparently loosed. My bucking car sent the kayak flying off the roof. It rear-ended the car in front me. I stopped. The car in front of me stopped. And once again, the long caravan ground to a halt. The damaged car’s passengers disembarked. I didn’t know them. And they were some really mean-looking, biker, surfer dudes with lots of snarly tatoos. This is when being a “girl” really helps; I flashed a…" did I do that?" grin, which eased some of the tension. My kayak had seriously dented the back of their SUV, damaging the bumper too. I touched it and it fell off. But the carnage didn’t end there. My kayak ended up in the opposite highway lane and got promptly creamed by a semi. I was left with some very interesting wall art, an aborted kayak trip and some really unhappy dudes.