In early March in 2019, while coming home late Sunday evening from a golf tournament in Kentucky, about three or four miles from the Ashland exit our van started making some odd noises. It also started to smell like something was burning, so we had to pull off to the side of the highway. Most of us were not prepared for the wet, snowy weather outside; we were wearing flip flops and light jackets since we’d just come from 60 degree sunshine in Lexington. We spent over an hour outside huddled together for warmth while we waited for a ride to take us home. We were parked right next to the mile marker 182 sign, so now, every single time that I’m driving north on I-71 and see that sign, I just smile at the memory of the hour I was stranded next to that sign with some of my best friends in the freezing cold.
