Years ago, before sat-navs, I was driving along some back-roads in France while my mate had his head down, map reading:
“Turn left here..”
I turn left, heading down a short ramp towards a low tunnel under a railway line.
At this point, my mate seemed to have some sort of seizure – his body became rigid in the front seat, arching against the seat belt and he was frantically pounding the floor with his right foot while his mouth was repeatedly opening and closing, doing his best goldfish impression.
I was watching all this, wondering what the hell had happened to him.
He was emitting frantic little squeaks which slowly morph into “The bikes!… The Bikes!…”
Oh, shit!, yeah, the bikes are on the roof!
Cue emergency stop, coming to rest less than a car’s length from the tunnel.
Oh so close…