You own a vehicle that was meant to drive over small villages without spilling your latte from Starcrooks, sucking up gas like a Hertz rental fleet. The tires on it are bigger than most compact cars, the shocks more costly than the national debt of Argentina. Yet you need to go 2 miles an hour over these little railroad tracks and hills, holding up traffic for miles. Really. I am not judging. Miss Lexie would never judge. Perhaps you are carrying a dozen sleeping infants and two dozen sleeping puppies. Or maybe organs on the way to be transplanted in those sleeping babies and puppies. I am sure it's not that you are afraid of hitting a bump with your tank and breaking something. That would just be silly.