In the extraordinarily late bit of 1992, I was in a Honda Prelude headed toward New Orleans from Birmingham. It was the model that featured four wheel steering and was supposedly a boon to parallel parkers via the graciousness of Japanese auto mechanics but never caught on because people who learned to drive in cars that didn’t have four wheel steering (everybody) tended to over correct and have to rekajigger and over correct and rekajigger.
We were following a rented Hertz-Penske truck filled with the worldly possessions of a friend and his soon to be roommate and fellow Tulane student.