Road trip, part B

FYI, Colorado, Nebraska, Iowa and Illinois are unendingly flat and you don’t get to Denver until you’re on the freaking other side of Colorado. I can only imagine the thoughts of the first settlers who’d travelled for months or maybe years across the “Great Plains” to God-knows-where-they-thought-they-were-headed and then, after all that flat, there were suddenly mountains. “What the fuck??” was probably the first thing that skittered through their minds. But, you know, that’s just my guess. But it’s no wonder Denver is there. They got to that point with the wall of purple mountains majesty and thought, yeah, OK, whatever, this looks good.

We left Nebraska after a night in Kearney, wedding capitol of the state apparently, and entered Colorado, exiting at the first city where there was a marijuana dispensary and I foolishly bought some products. The price here just across the border was twice what it was at the stores (dispensaries, la-di-da—apparently, not stores) in Denver.

I was getting pain relieving ointment but there were other, you know,  products that looked interesting and I got a couple of those too. And then it was on to Denver. (We arrived just in time to meet my niece in a Wisconsin sports bar for the Packers’ half time. Ugh, that game.) And then it was on to the dispensaries. They should not be called “dispensaries” they should be called bedrooms because that’s what they look like, teenage boys’ bedrooms. The clerks (perhaps in dispensaries they are called amanuenses for a more, you know, high falutin,’ dispensary-ish tone) were high falutin.’ Well, high anyway. 

As it turns out, there is a limit to how much you can buy. One ounce. There are sprays, cremes, ointments, drops, rubs and patches for pain relief. I don’t know what they think people are going to freaking do with pain relief ointment. It’s not like you can smoke it. My niece, god bless her patient soul, got tired of waiting while the red-eyed clerk attempted to figure out if I was over my limit and she stepped next door to a bike shop rather than endure the confused mathematics of the clerks, er, amanuenses. All those milligrams (every product has a different amount of THC) got confusing. Seriously, 3 people got involved and in the end the saleslady was just like, fuck it, fine, OK, whatever. Being descended, of course, from those first settlers.

Fast forward. We left Denver (yes, only one night) and headed back to Wisco, stash in the trunk. We had a lot of expensive pain relieving ointment (some more expensive than others) and a few other issues and items as it were. Once on the road we were listening to Belgravia, a book written by Julien Fellowes, the creator of Downton Abbey. (It’s a great listen, BTW.) cruising along I-80 towards Kearney…ta ta ta…just like that, movin’ and a-groovin,’ very Easy Riderish except that, no, we were not high. We crossed the interminably wide state of Colorado and were back into Nebraska about 15 miles or so, then…huge sign: State Patrol Search Ahead, and a quarter mile later signs on either side of the freeway: Drug dogs in use

Alarm is a word I could use. I could also use the word consternation or dismay, dread, freaking terror and a number of other synonyms the thesaurus provides but they still could not adequately describe my emotional state. Loralyn’s sudden death grip on my forearm was a little distracting as was her sudden loud mouth breathing so that helped. My options were: A.) Make a U-turn into head-on traffic and take my chances—it works in movies. B.) Pull over and run screaming into the Nebraskan void. C.) Blame her. I opted for C and continued driving imagining myself calling apologies after her as they hauled her away in handcuffs, although I did reduce my speed to a mile under the speed limit and attempted to hide behind semi-trucks, so, you know, making an effort on her behalf. Eventually after 2 or 3 exits when there seemed to be no searches, check points or vicious barking dogs on the horizon (and you can see for fucking miles) I was able to calm down to the point where I stopped sweating and visibly shaking enough to see the road with both my eyes open but I was perpetually on the look out for those dogs assuming that I was trailing a marijuana vapor that was nearly visible it was so pungent.

I could say that all went smoothly after that but it would not be true. More on that later.

One Reply to “Road trip, part B”

  1. 1. What are you doing!?!?! All this driving for a little creme??
    2. I'm very interested and would like a full report.
    Ton amie, Jean

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