Winnebiko
Man, what a depressing story. From the "Amy" part of the story (<a href="https://microship.com/amy/" rel="nofollow">https://microship.com/amy/</a>):<p>######<p>Suddenly Amy snuggled against me and asked if I had come back to stay with her forever. I held her and glanced over at Kay, but there would be no support from that quarter: she looked at me as if to say, “Tell her, Steve. Tell your daughter you’d rather ride a bicycle than be with her.”<p>I nuzzled Amy’s hair. “No, sweetheart, I have to leave soon.”<p>“I want you to stay here.” She wiggled and hugged. “I love you, Daddy.”<p>“Oh, Amy, I love you too.” My voice was on the edge of breaking. “But I’ll have to go in a couple of days.”<p>“Why?” She looked up at me, her face perfect and innocent, warm in the soft light of the living room. I had a sudden image of a winter night years before, cuddled with Kay before the antique fireplace of that old Victorian house in Louisville. We had gazed into the flames while sharing popcorn and hot apple cider, drawn together in the warm security of our endless love — the sense of family. Now I awkwardly held my little girl and tried to figure out how to explain the lure of technomadic adventure. They both waited for my reply.<p>“Honey, I have to travel — I have to… oh, I don’t know how to explain it. I’m riding my bike around the country and writing a book about it.”<p>“Why?”<p>“Well, it’s exciting. It’s fun.” I almost launched into a whole explanation of the freedom versus security trade-off, but I was talking to a three-year-old.<p>She smiled up at me and gave me another hug. “OK. I’m going with you!”<p>“My bike’s not big enough for both of us, Amy.”<p>“Then I’ll ride my bike.” She started to cry.