Limon

OK, for those with a squeamish stomach, just skip over this entry. Wait for my next one on first getting into the Colorado Springs area and meeting back up with the walking roadmap that is Brandy Campbell.

On day 3 - Monday the 16th, for those who are at home plotting our trip along a calendar and map...and you know who you are - we headed west from Hays into Colorado. Wow. There are deserts, and then there are places that should be deserts. Western Kansas and Eastern Colorado fit into the latter description.

As we got into Limon, Colorado, nature called, and as we pulled off onto Highway 24 for the final 70+ miles into Colorado Springs, I ran us all into a gas station/quick stop for a final stop before the Rockies.

Oh wow.

You know you're in for a story when you walk into what appears to be a very, very clean gas station and quick shop...and there's a long line formed outside of the men's room. Tammy and David took a quick trip into the women's bathroom, but only after hearing a mom (there either wasn't a dad or he wasn't along for the trip) absolutely tear into her kids for apparently misbehaving, not going fast enough, etc - you get the drill.

Well, she and her kids left the women's restroom - "It's been a really long trip," the mom said (we later found out she had a Colorado license...try MY trip, honey - try KANSAS on for size!) - but sonny boy - probably about 6 years old, if our eyes didn't deceive us - was still in the men's room.

Then, when he finally heard her and her small traveling troupe of children emerge from their circus in the women's restroom, we heard eight words that really should've just made us turn around and leave. In a whimpered tone from the men's room, we heard:

"Mom, I need some help with my poop."

Two men in front of us immediately turned on a dime and left.

Jonathan and I, however...not so much.

But, Jonathan did poke my hand and summon me to his level. "Something really stinks," he said. "Oh, it's nothing," I said, unable to smell the horror that my eyes would soon see and nose would soon smell.

Finally, junior left the men's room while walking sheepishly toward his mother. She grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and out they went.

A gentlemen in front of us went into the men's room, and he was in there for, oh, maybe 12 seconds. "Finally," I thought. "Relief is soon in sight."

As soon as he left, in went Jonathan and me, headed for sweet relief just before hitting the Rockies. And then...

Oh my sweet lord...

I immediately and instinctively reached for my BlackBerry to call FEMA. However, having left it in Hannibal to completely get away from my job for a few days, I had no recourse. Face it alone - what doesn't kill us makes us stronger.

Or nauseated.

Jonathan and I walked in and were hit with a landfill stench almost immediately. On the floor, on the wall, on the toilet, in the trash can...virtually everywhere but in the toilet, was...well, use your imagination. What do you think was everywhere - cranberry juice?

Wow. It was as though a diaper disposal service wrecked their truck on the interstate.

Jonathan couldn't wait. So, I led him on a serpentine approach to the toilet, and when he was done, I pretty much carried him to the door and walked out. We bought a soda or two from the otherwise spic and span store, and on the way out, we told the two attendants - two very sweet ladies who unfortunately looked as though they were local chairs of the Foster Grandparent recruitment program - that the men's room was, well, the apparent victim of a bowel exorcism.

"Well, great," the cashier said. "We just cleaned that. Norma!" Norma dejectedly started her long walk to her punishment.

Now, I had two problems. Of course, the first was to head across the street to Wendy's before I personally was the victim of a diaper disposal crash. The second - and more challenging - problem was to get past Poop-Boy's mom, who was having an absolute meltdown outside of her minivan parked NEXT to our CRV.

She apparently had found out little junior's secret - he had a "poop problem," as he so accurately and succinctly described it - and the problem had now apparently spread to clothes, etc. All righty, then.

She was slapping clothes on the floor, throwing bags & suitcases around, yelling words that really didn't exist in the English language - it wasn't any kind of cursing, just unintelligible words - and then throwing around even more suitcases, bags, and other items throughout the van. For any number of different reasons, I'd have hated to have been junior in that car.

We ran across the street, and I set land speed records running into Wendy's. Finally, on my slow walk back to the CRV, I looked across the street to the gas station where we'd first stopped.

As we drove past the station and toward Colorado Springs, I saw that mom STILL slamming things around, slamming the door, and finally getting into the van's driver's seat to drive home. For that kid's sake, I hoped it would be a short trip.

Stay tuned. Our arrival into Colorado Springs and our reunion with Brandy "Mapquest" Campbell is coming up next...