Baby Across America Tour: Nightmare Road

Third in a multi-part series of taking a 7-month-old baby and two dogs halfway across America in a minivan. Read earlier parts here.

Daddy’s Log: Day 4, St. Louis metro 

Go big or go home

Finally, I made the call with a threatening sky looming in the west: Back that van up! Annnd we juuuust barely made it. After driving about 2 miles, the unseasonably chilly July day set up another delay: The tires needed more air.

With rain falling again, I ditched the idea of having anything on my feet at all. The good folks of St. Louis County can just be happy I was trying to get moving, because a whole lot more may have come off had I not been trying to make up lost time.

Except for steady rain, the first hour passed with little trouble. As we headed into rural Missouri on I-70, the rain became much heavier, and the outside temperature gauge read 62. In Missouri. In July.

I’d have asked what circle of hell that was, but I’d always heard hell was a tad on the warm side.

Full disclosure here: I have yet to have anything remotely close to a good – or even uneventful -- experience driving I-70 through Missouri. Granted, I had only driven the stretch once, but, well ...

(Very) long story short: While driving for a cross-country move in 1999, my barely operating car broke down on I-70 in the middle of Missouri at night. That brought about, in order: A tow truck belching oily smoke and holding two oil- and sweat-stained men each weighing at least 350 pounds, a 10-12-mile ride in said tow truck spent straddling the gear shift, a question of how much I’d like a “nice, hot bath” delivered with a creepy laugh, and a night at a desolated motel/convenience store/restaurant/truck stop complex, complete with powder burns on the carpet and reddish-brown stains of unknown origin throughout the bathroom and near the vanity near the bathroom.

That now ranks No. 2 for Troubling Reddish-Brown Stains for me on I-70, which forever more I shall call Nightmare Road.

Not the first onesie of the day for this rock star.
Not. Even. Close.

Poopapalooza

With the heavy rain making visibility tough, even at 50 mph, an unmistakable scent wafted up from somewhere behind me. Was that gas from one of the dogs? Our headliner? My wife? Me? I mean, it could well be me.

Ah, crap, a traffic slowdown. No time to worry about that.

“Hey, we need to stop. Like, now.”

Considering construction had both shoulders closed, that clearly wasn’t happening.

“Oh, no, it’s coming out!”

So, clearly that wasn’t gas.

“Well, the lion’s toast.”

Our first casualty: The car-seat toy that’s done a wonderful job of occupying the boy for months.

“Oh, God.”

The urgency in my wife’s voice and the growing stench made it clear this might be one for the ages.

“It’s on his FACE! … NO! Don’t put your hand there!”

Still soaked, stuck in heavy rain, traffic and at least a couple of miles from anywhere to stop, I offered these reassuring words:

“I know. I’m trying to stop, but I can’t just create an exit. Unless we’re OK with the dogs on cleanup duty again.”

Not ideal, of course, but also not without precedent, sadly. (See also the Christmas Day Diaper Debacle.)

After finding a truck plaza and taking the nearly mile-long winding detour to get there, it was time for the Daddy Doo-Doo Recovery Crew.

NOTE: The more squeamish among you really should skip ahead to the next big subhead. Go ahead, I don’t mind.

OK, ready for the gore?

This wasn’t just a standard poop blowout. This was a warm butterscotch-like fondue fountain that had overturned and flooded.

He had defiled his car seat (of course), a blanket that was on him, the lion toy, his face and arms. That said, after grabbing the entire car seat and rushing him inside, the real horror didn’t hit until we had gotten into the men’s bathroom.

Upon extrication, I lifted not only my son, but also a giant stream of gooey caramel-colored awfulness hanging off the side of his diaper that dangled about two feet toward the floor. Holy hell.

Fortunately, this bathroom had a nice changing station. Unfortunately, it was wedged between a urinal on one end and the door of a stall on the other. Which meant using the station also left those two spots unusable.

The horror wasn’t done, though. The boy, already past the point of poop saturation, decided to share the stink, waving his arms around, reaching for my shirt and face. Oh, son, I love you dearly, but that instant was a love most foul.

Finally, after getting the diaper off, he decided to stop wiggling and squirming. Thankfully. While keeping a hand on our 18-pound poop factory, I tried to reach down and grab every wet wipe we had, new clothes, and anything else from the diaper bag on the floor that I could find to stem the tide.

At one point, paying $15 to toss both of us into one of the shower stalls crossed my mind, but I didn’t feel like trying to corral a squirming kid on a level surface, let alone a shower with who-knows-what on the floor.

Bottom line: It took a full half-hour peppered with 110-decibel bouts from the automatic hand dryer and toilets to clean the boy, myself, and to get the hazardous waste bagged. Naturally, as we finally left the bathroom, my son flashed his twinkling blue eyes and patented million-watt smile and instantly made fans of two obvious trucking vets just trying to rest.

Stunningly, neither my wife or I were quite as happy. Amazed, yes. Happy? Good one.

Wiper? We don’t need no stinkin’ wiper!

We raced back to the van with rain coming in nearly sideways, and despite grabbing a clean shirt as quickly as I could, keeping it dry wasn't working.

Once inside, it became clear we had to turn on … the heater? Yep. The temperature had dropped to an stunning 59 degrees, and it was just before 2 p.m. What was going on here?

Slowly, we wound our way back to I-70, aka Nightmare Road, and worked back into traffic.

Seriously? The wiper flew off? How nice sun would have been at this point.

We decided we’d slog our way for another hour or so to Columbia, which my wife knew well from her time there during the mid 2000s, where we could stop for some food and switch drivers for a little while.

Fast forward 10 minutes later. Rain still coming down at a heavily horizontal slant. Wipers on as high as they could go. Wipe, wipe, wipe … and then, the driver’s side wiper kind of just kept going, high and far to the left in a tight spiral an Olympic diver would watch with pride.

That sucker was gone, man. An involuntary donation to Nightmare Road. No one was in the left lane behind us as far back as I could see, so given its trajectory even with air resistance, I’m fairly certain it didn’t hit anything other than whatever was in the median.

I had never seen that before, and neither had my brothers-in-law, one of whom spent years as a long-haul trucker, and one a longtime auto mechanic.

We made history! I mean, we’d noticed that blade seeming to “catch” along its path every now and again on this trip, and I knew we’d probably need to replace it soon.

Just didn’t think it would be that soon.

Still in an area with nowhere to stop, I was able to see through the middle and right side of the windshield for the next 2 miles or so until we found an exit.

Oh, this trip was going swimmingly. And by swimmingly, I mean it may have been easier and drier to work our way up the Missouri River.

Once off Nightmare Road, the provisions looked somewhat promising. The first stop: A gas station that had nothing but a couple of drink options inside and clerk who said maybe the next place just down the access road might have something.

That place: A small building boasting of bio fuels that stood remarkably close to a giant fireworks tent. Hope faded quickly.

When asked where one could procure a windshield wiper, the young cashier, clearly not prepared for anything of this nature, eventually told the promises of a Walmart that “everyone around here goes to.”

Hey, OK, I could work with that. Where was this oasis of automotive salvation?

“I suppose it’s about 16 or 17 miles down the road.”

Mirage! Uh, which way? An arm pointed to the east.

Oh, bloody hell. Do you know anywhere else near here or at least to the west?

Blank stare. I see a prosperous career as a concierge in this cashier’s future.

As I turned to leave, a man who had been standing with a few others having coffee stepped in and told of  another gas station about a half-mile away that had at least a few wipers.

A few minutes later, we parked there. Let’s go through this again. Yes, there were wipers. And also a laugh from the cashier, who said, “I mean, technically yes, we have some wipers.”

The display looked like the water aisle at a Publix two days before a possible tropical storm. I saw about 10 metal hooks, maybe six wipers total, and what was there looked it had been bought from some Russian manufacturer and sold by a guy in a trench coat in a back alley: Sizes, shapes and branding that screamed 1978 at best, and nothing remotely close to the size I needed. Uh, do you have any others?

“Sorry, hon. Wish I could help.”

Anywhere else you know of that sells them?
“Nothing within 15 miles.”

Well, crap. When we could get a cell signal, the radar images showed solid rain across the entire length of our Nightmare Road.

So, already wet, tired and now strangely cold, the best option was to switch the shorter wiper blade on the right side over to the driver’s side, and find something to cover right wiper arm so it wouldn’t score the windshield glass. Not fun, but also something that usually takes only a minute or two.

Yeah, that’s not how it worked. For whatever reason, the latch wasn’t clicking like it had in the past, my fingers were getting numb in the chilly rain, and despite having a loaded minivan, we couldn’t find anything to that would stay on the naked wiper arm at highway speed.

It’s a good thing everyone nearby was inside a car or a building, because whatever patience I had was gone, and a powerful, loud cascade of swear words came rushing out.

Not a proud moment, but I’d already been through Poopapalooza and knew the drive was going to take a lot longer than even the high-end estimate. Which meant it was almost certain we were in for a lot of crying on the last part of this leg.

The Nightmare (Road) continues

No, it isn't lost on us a sign that says
"Gas" is prominently in the background.

Finally back on Nightmare Road, my wife found enough of a cell signal to find the nearest place likely to sell wipers: Columbia, which was at least 40 minutes away.

About five minutes in, every stroke of the wiper brought a harrowing high-pitched scraping noise. Crap. That damn thing was beginning to score the windshield. I used the wipers as little as possible, but the rain wouldn’t relent.

At long last, just 3-1/2 hours into a trip that should have taken a little less than two to get to this point, we found an auto parts store, fixed the fiasco and switched drivers.

Now it was a hope to find something with a drive-through to get something to eat on the drive. Nothing nearby looked good, but as we went, indecision combined with the realization the city had changed more than expected wound up with us back on Nightmare Road with no quick way to return.

My wife and I both figured, screw it, just keep going. We’ll find something eventually.

Finally warming up a bit, my wife happened upon Tone Loc’s “Wild Thing” on the satellite radio and turned it up (clearly, she wasn't feeling like herself at that point). That, of course, led to an impromptu back-seat rap and dance session which had both me and the kid rollicking with laughter all the way through.

Shortly afterward, we pulled off at Booneville and my wife, still reeling from a brutal cold, drove toward a Taco Bell.

“What the hell? Are we stoned? Is it 2 a.m. already? Wait! Are you pregnant?”

Both of us laughed, especially after realizing how Taco Bell would eventually affect the van’s aroma. With the temperature being so moderate, we could leave the dogs comfortably in the van, and took a much-needed breather, both of us taking the kid inside and eating at a luxurious McDonald’s.

I took the wheel again afterward, and though it was far later than we had hoped, the rain became much more spotty the rest of the way on Nightmare Road.

Even better, as expected, as we hit the turnoff for I-29, the weather cleared dramatically and beautiful, especially for July: mid-70s, low humidity, light breeze. I had forgotten how nice cold fronts could be. And how nice it could be to have regular exits with amenities right off an interstate highway.

As the sun began to sink and our tour bus still in northwest Missouri, we had settled into a comfortable uneventful ride until the Cubs-Cardinals game on the radio was interrupted:

“We need to stop.”

The tone made clear what had happened. “Again?”

“Yep. Soon as possible.”

The next exit had exactly nothing anywhere near I-29, except for a turnoff into a wide expanse of asphalt and concrete from what had been a gas station, maybe during the 1990s.

Time to improvise again. This time, we got to the boy before he defiled the seat or anything outside of his diaper. Mommy put the changing pad directly on the concrete and put a third onesie on the boy (man, rock stars really are demanding when it comes to wardrobe changes).

Meanwhile, on the other side of the van, I figured it was time to get rid of the pistachio shells I had dropped while eating and driving. But as I shook out the floor mat, I heard a stark, loud metallic ping from below.

What the … oh, hell, where’s my wedding ring? Well, that’s just the perfect fit for this day. After a few minutes of frantic, tired searching with the light fading, I found it on the other side of a tire.

And then my wife and I both noticed how nice the weather was and how spectacular the sky looked with fiery oranges and yellows streaking across the heavens from the west. Through seven-plus months after leaving the hospital, we hadn’t yet taken a good picture of us as a family, so after lifting the boy a few times and getting some laughs, we actually wound up taking a pretty good selfie. Maybe going through the battlefield does strengthen the band.

Two massive diaper blowouts, a lost wiper at highway speed, a really long day and yet, a good family selfie.

As the sun finally dropped out of sight, we tangled with single-lane stretches thanks to construction, a Burger King that couldn’t take anything less than a $10 bill because of computer problems and idiots who nearly backed into us at an Iowa rest stop.

Finally, at roughly 11 p.m., we crossed into South Dakota, which was about the time our son decided he’d had enough. His first tooth was clearly about to break through, and he rightly figured that 11-plus hours strapped into a car seat was plenty.

Though I knew it would kill our pleasantly good gas mileage, I dropped the hammer and took full advantage of South Dakota’s 80 mph speed limit, finally pulling into my parents’ driveway at 12:10 a.m. as a huge wave of relief, fatigue and excitement crashed over all of us. Longest 614-mile trek ever.

Daddy’s Log: Day 5, Sioux Falls, S.D. 

Miles: 1,779, Engine hours: 33.2. Clear, 76 degrees.

While playing Minivan Jenga the next day to get the nonessentials out of the van, guess what I found in one of the under-floor cargo areas? Yep, a spare wiper blade I had put there a few months earlier after a change, thinking that it would come in handy if something weird happened. Because, of course I did that.

Baby Across America Tour: Behind the scenes

Part 1: Promotion and the launch party
Part 2: Diaper Drama

Part 3: Nightmare Road/Poopapalooza

Part 4: We're HOW far away?