Please excuse the title, but I’m all about truth in advertising. Most of the time, anyway.
About 15 years ago Studly and I took a big motorcycle trip with our good friends Guy and Janice. When I say big, I mean we rode from Great Bend, Kansas, to points in South Dakota and Wyoming including Sturgis, Mt. Rushmore, and Devils Tower of “Close Encounters” fame. it was my first major ride on my own bike, a 650 Yamaha V-Star. The V-Star was an absolutely beautiful cruiser with next to no horsepower. Keeping it at 65 mph took constant effort. I was fairly miserable for much of the trip–a combination of first ride nerves and no oomph.
The ride, though, was incredible after we escaped from the wind tunnels commonly known as Kansas and Nebraska. Once in South Dakota we rode through a cluster of wild burros in Custer State Park. Had I the inclination and temerity I might have reached out a tentative toe and nudged a buffalo in the park, as well. I was that close. It was that scary. We came within five feet of the Bighorn Sheep that were clinging tenaciously to the mountainside. This indoor girl experienced wildlife overload. Perhaps that accounts for the buildup of abdominal gas I experienced, as well.
We didn’t have reservations at the lodge in the state park, but we decided to stop by and see if there were any vacancies. The setting was breathtaking, and I kept my throttle fingers crossed as we pulled into the parking area. Sure enough, they had a suite available consisting of two bedrooms with a shared, “Jack and Jill” style bathroom. It wasn’t ideal, but we were all saddle sore from the day’s ride and decided we could share the facilities for one night.
We dined on steaks and baked potatoes that evening in the massive common room featuring a soaring ceiling and chandeliers fashioned from antlers. Then we took a walk outside to take in the wonder of the park. That’s when an embarrassing case of the walking farts set in. Every step I took resulted in a “pfffft,” a “thhhhhht,” or a “vvvvvv!” at full volume. At first we all tried ignoring the sounds emanating from my behind, then someone snorted a laugh and all bets were off.
I tried to rein in my flatulence, but the harder I tried the worse it got. Finally we decided to return to our rooms. My walk back to the inn sounded like, “step, pffft, step, pffft, step, pffft!” I could have generated power for a small city.
In the middle of that night I felt like I could dispense with some of that pent up gas, but we had a shared bathroom and I didn’t want to impose the sounds and potential smells of my relief on anyone else, so I dressed and went to the lobby bathroom. Ahhhh. Redemption.
The next morning as we gathered for breakfast I related the tale of my midnight expedition to Studly and our friends, only to learn that each member of our group had done the same thing. Apparently, friends don’t subject friends to smelly bathrooms.