The country road ahead: fairly straight and tree-lined, the wildlife area in your rear-view mirror. You know what lies ahead, but the kids in back don't. Nudge the gas a little more toward the floor — 55, 60, 65, don't want the tires to actually leave the ground. The road falls away and the wheels follow, the car floating on its suspension. You momentarily feel like Wile E. Coyote at the instant he realizes he's run out of mesa. Then you're in free-fall — you hear a delighted "wheee!" behind you. But the drop isn't that far, and up the other side you go. You're pulling some G's now. Well, maybe a G and a quarter, but still it glues your butt to the seat till you crest the far side of the dip. The car hugs the road, but you feel as though you're floating again, only the seat belt holding you down, your stomach a little higher in your gut than normal. The road flattens out, stretching toward the river and wine country. "Let's turn around and do it again!" Sure, why not.
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