A lot’s changed since April of 2005.  I can’t ski any longer; my brain, afflicted with normal pressure hydrocephalus (NPH), has seen to that.  We don’t own a share of a condo in Vail any more.  My eight year term in the Colorado House of Representatives has come.  And gone.

But the traffic on I-70, especially on weekends, remains an infuriating constant for folks headed to Colorado’s high country on weekends.  But now, that traffic is even spilling over to the “shoulders” of the weekends: Thursday afternoons all the way to Monday afternoons.

Aren’t you glad that all those Colorado boosters at our chambers of commerce have done such a fabulous job attracting those hordes by singing the siren song of our state’s wonders?  Call me a curmudgeon, but I’m emphatically not glad.  But that’s a another post.

Back in April of 2005, we drove up I-70 on a Friday afternoon for a weekend at our Vail condo and some spring skiing.  The traffic was insane.  Under fair, warm skies, for some reason it had come to a near standstill east of Georgetown.  Why?  Several unbearable miles later, we saw that a few of our state critters, Rocky Mountain Big Horn Sheep, had parked themselves on the shoulder of the road and were licking the salt residue left by sanding crews battling ice during the previous winter.  Of course, everyone had to slow down to see the creatures.

Somebody Oughta Do Something

My blood boiled.  And, with not much else to do in the stop and go jam, my mind raced: “What can be done to fix this every weekend nightmare?”  The question had particular significance for me because I’d already begun thinking about becoming the Republican candidate for state House District 37 in the upcoming election.  “And what better way to get elected than to figure out a way to straighten out this mess?” I asked myself.

Three things occurred to me.  One, like there are along many other stretches of I-70 in the mountains, put up fences to keep the animals away from traffic.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Two, make the road lousy with State Patrol to reign in the reckless drivers who cause the wrecks that plug up the narrow corridor for hours.  And have tow trucks prepositioned along the road to clean up the inevitable crashes as quickly as possible.  And, finally, add tolled lanes that could pay for themselves and better manage the high volume of traffic.

The Pen Is Mightier

Honestly, I don’t remember much about what our family did that weekend.  If I skied, it was probably near the last time; you try skiing when merely walking down a staircase-with a handrail, mind you-feels like an extreme sport.

But I do remember sitting at the breakfast table writing-for hours.  True, I no doubt occasionally looked up at the Gore Range to the east.  But even that spectacular view was no where near enough to take me away from my monomaniacal focus. The article that laid out my solutions for I-70 traffic jams eventually appeared in April 15, 2005 edition of the Denver Business Journal-I have a copy to this day.  But don’t even bother to hunt for it on-line; I did and it’s long gone.

I can, however, claim that my suggestion for tolled lanes has either been adopted or is in the works.  But, trust me, my little article from so long ago was not why the sun rose on those lanes.

Toll Road Mania

So, the real takeaway from that weekend?  I was probably in the midst of a Type I bipolar manic break.  As opposed to Type II, which is only the lows, Type I is highs and lows.  And, boy, were both of those old friends to me.  A bunch of the classic symptoms were there that weekend:

• Sleeplessness:  Can I actually remember how much I slept that weekend?  No.  But I’d be willing to bet that the night before I sat down to write the ideas rattled around in my head over and over as sleep refused to come.  And the next night, the finished article replayed again and again as I tossed and turned.
• Abnormally upbeat and wired:  House District 37?  A piece of cake.  Why not Governor or US Senator?
• Exaggerated sense of well-being and euphoria:  Watch out world.  Outta my way!

It’s All Down Hill From Here

The drive back down to Denver on Sunday was, predictably, very much like the drive up:  maddeningly slow.  How could it be otherwise?

But just as predictable?  The other side of my Type I mania:  depression.  Exactly when and what form did it take?  I don’t remember; they tended to run together after a while.  But just like sun set follows sun rise, it came.  Count on it.