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It is difficult to get through the summer without a road trip or two. When faced with loading the car past the recommended loading capacity, purchasing gallons of overpriced gasoline and battling interstate traffic, you might as well make the most of the experience.

Long stretches on the open road are the perfect opportunity to hone your road kill identification skills. On a recent trip that took me through eight states, I became quite adept at identifying road kill as I whizzed by at 70 miles per hour.

Having lived most of my life in North Carolina, deer and possum have always been easy to identify. However, the further west I drove, the better I became at identifying deceased armadillos. About midway through Arkansas, the carcass of an unfortunate raccoon challenged my abilities for a moment. However, in the end, the fluffy tail gave it away.

It became apparent to me that while the Southern chicken crossed the road to show the possum it could be done, the Midwestern chicken crossed the road in an attempt to demonstrate to the armadillo that it could be done.

Road trips are also a great time to tweak math skills. Thanks to a plethora of mapping programs available to the organized traveler, one can print detailed directions that include times, mileage and estimated costs based on the current price of gasoline.

However, since perfect driving conditions are not achievable, something will occur to throw the traveler off schedule. When that unpredictable traffic jam, missed exit or longer-than-planned rest stop occurs, the detailed itinerary must be adjusted. New arrival times must be calculated. Fuel cost estimates must be updated.

Although I certainly could use a brush-up on algebra and geometry, I didn't have a lot of adjusting to do thanks to my dad's ability to account for nearly everything. Dad painstakingly calculated my road trip data. His directions were detailed. He incorporated construction delays and routed me through cities well before or after rush hour.

According to dad's information, I was supposed to cross the border into Mississippi at 1:46 p.m. In reality, I crossed the border at 1:44 p.m. I used the extra two minutes to stretch out the third of four preplanned 10-minute rest breaks. Those two minutes were just what I needed to eliminate the stress of feeling rushed on a scheduled break.

That fact that my bladder cooperated perfectly with Dad's scheduled breaks is a testimony to the thousands of miles my family traveled when I was growing up. Clearly Dad had the appropriate skills and experience to accurately incorporate vital breaks.

Summer travelers also have the time and means to test the limits of Murphy's Law. It does not matter that I packed an umbrella for my trip. When I took advantage of some down time and headed into a mall, the umbrella was neatly packed in a bag at the bottom of the trunk of my car parked a mile from the mall entrance. I felt it appropriate to extend my shopping excursion when I heard the rumble of thunder.

When the rain tapered off, I headed back to the car with a couple of shopping bags. I threw the bags in the trunk and then double-checked my notes. According to Dad's travel data, there was no rain in the forecast for Memphis that day. Dad must not have considered that I might leave the umbrella in the car.

On another hot afternoon, as family members and I floated down a narrow canal in Oklahoma City, I was confident that even though there was a 60 percent chance of an afternoon thundershower, which I understand is rare for the area, I was confident we would make it through our event without a drop.

Sure, there were dark clouds on the horizon. And yes, my sister and brother-in-law's herb garden could have used a sprinkle. But my theory tested true. I remembered to put my compact umbrella in my pocketbook before we left. If I was actually prepared for rain, there was no chance we would actually get caught in a downpour.

The road trip that led me halfway across the country and back did not seem all that cumbersome. I was too busy identifying road kill, interpreting and following detailed travel plans and testing my theories about Murphy's Law to notice I spent over forty hours in one week passing dash after endless dash of road paint.

Subconsciously, though, the monotony of the open road must have had an effect. When I got home and parked my car in the driveway, I suddenly had absolutely no desire to drive anywhere, including the grocery store a mere mile away, ever again.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@earthlink.net