Twispted Reality

Hell on fifth wheels
By Patrick Hannigan
“I might be slow, but I’m in front of you.”
–Bumper sticker on a Siesta Sprinter RV in Winthrop last weekend.

    A generation ago, the bowels of those living along the highways and byways of America turned to Jell-O at the sound of a throaty-howled pack of approaching Harleys. Back then, the echo of rolling thunder meant just one thing: Depraved wickedness in the form of a barbarian band of Hell’s Angels was arriving and stuff was about to get super ugly real fast.
    Times have changed. Nowadays when the merchants of the Methow hear the growl of motorcycles, they hear the ka-ching of the cash register. Instead of shuttering their businesses and hiding their daughters, they rush to stock the shelves with Diet Pepsi, Michelob Ultra and Geritol.
    Today, the gangs of Harley-riding baby boomers that swarm the Methow each summer are composed primarily of tax accountants, mortgage brokers and Microsofties. In exchange for promising to mow the lawn and visit the in-laws next week, their desperate housewives allow them to dress up and play outlaw for a weekend with the boys.
    The bikers squeeze their pear-shaped selves into form-fitting leather chaps, don badass bandanas and proudly reveal strategically-placed tattoos that can be hidden under the required “business casual” dress code of loafers and polo shirts at the office on Monday.
    These modern road warriors travel around Winthrop revving their engines, each rumble a plaintive cry for help that screams, “Look at me! I’m a middle-aged middle-manager suffering from a midlife crisis, a crushing suburban mortgage and embarrassing erectile dysfunction issues! Hear me roar!”
    OK, so most motorcycle gangs can’t measure up to the hell-raising standard of yore, but there is a new terror rolling down the roads all across America. They are called recreational vehicles – or RVs for short.
    As a rule, RV model names fall into three basic categories. The aristocratic class of RV models is designed to appeal to high-end customers and have snobby names such as the Ambassador, the Admiral, the Chateau, the Imperial, the Majestic, the Monarch, the Presidential, the Regal and the Royal Villa. Nothing says “I’m royalty” like the ability to poop in your own house while flying down the interstate at 25 mph.
    The second class of RVs have aggressive, vaguely predatory names like the Conquest, the Dominator, the Entimidator, the Captiva, the Gladiator, the Viking, the Sabre, the Bullet, the Prowler, the Shadow Cruiser and the Rampage. Judging by this creepy collection of model names, these RVs are apparently marketed to heavily-armed, serial-killing stalkers with anger management issues.
    Finally there are the RVs that are named after agile animals such as the Dolphin, the Cougar, the Grey Wolf, the Eagle, the Cheetah, the Artic Fox, the Golden Falcon and the Gazelle. I don’t know about you, but gazelles or cheetahs are the last images that come to mind when I’m stuck behind a 40-foot wheeled behemoth lumbering down the highway. I suppose nobody would buy an RV called the Obese Hippopotamus.
    As a general rule, RVs are piloted by people so ancient that they should not be licensed to operate a walker – much less pilot a 30,000-pound wrecking ball of steel and fiberglass such as a Kountry Komfort Vista Aire Deluxe Kruiser. At least most RVs drivers go slowly – actually so slow they can enjoy the beauty of the changing seasons all on a single trip from Mazama to Carlton.
    For the few younger families that go RV camping, the experience is a distinctly double-edged sword. On one hand, it’s nice to have all the comforts of home on the road. But along with familiar comforts come the same old familial squabbles, like the battle over whether the satellite TV should be tuned to NASCAR, Oprah, Harry Potter or Hanna Montana.
    A campground dominated by RVs is an eerie place at night. Instead of circling around campfires, RVers gather inside their lighted cocoons, drawn like moths to the cold blue flame of their televisions. Outside, halogen lights illuminate empty whitewashed fiberglass alleys that echo with canned laughter from the latest sitcoms.
    It used to be that camping was a chance to unplug and get away from the stresses of the world. Now we have a compulsive need to bring all of it with us wherever we go.