It was around 3 p.m., I was passing mile 500 for the day, and my knees were screaming.

I’m doing lots of driving these days. Fortunate enough to be able to retire in my 60’s, and in possession of a car that sips gas sparingly and a cat that tolerates solo stints, and with both sons grown, I used my PERA check in June to go see my mom in the Pacific Northwest, and do a bit of traveling for fun as well.

Sometimes I talk my partner into coming along, but mostly it’s just me, bombing down the highway at the speed limit (80 mph in Idaho!) and seeing the USA. Often, I even camp. It’s a freewheeling good time, catching 1970’s classics to sing – well, yell – along to, arguing with the surprisingly well-spoken right-wing and Catholic broadcasts, and glimpsing the flabbergasting vistas the Conestoga wagon folks fell in love with, almost 200 years ago.

It’s a freewheeling good time, that is, until you need a break.

The highways of Washington and Oregon, and even Idaho and Utah, feature beautiful, well-kept, leafy rest areas every 50 miles or so. I take full advantage – my chief strategy, on long drives, is to stop at least every 100 miles, stretch my legs, say a few words to whoever is around and looks friendly, yeah, use the bathroom, and stare at the map a little. Sometimes the car needs to be fed as well, but often, I just need a rest.

And that’s where Colorado, Wyoming, and New Mexico seem to have a problem.

There used to be rest stops between all the major cities on the Front Range. There was one just south of Castle Rock, and another between Colorado Springs and Pueblo. They were well kept and well used, and neither exists now. The one in Castle Rock had a reputation for being used to procure drugs and sex workers; construction vehicles parked there for a while; now apparently it will be available just to put chains on.

The Pinyon rest area, north of Pueblo, shut down during the worst of Covid, and never reopened. It’s a well-designed building, sitting blindly by the highway. We’re told it would take many millions to obtain water for it, and there are truck stops nearby that travelers can use.

I used both of those rest areas, a lot. When my kids were little, and just figuring out how to control bladders on long drives, and even when I drove to Denver after having one too many cups of coffee, they saved time and trouble, and embarrassment.

Truck stops don’t cut it. To get to the restroom, you often have to buy something, the parking is inconvenient, and there’s nothing to rest your eyes on but temptations to consume sugar- and fat- laden snacks and junky souvenirs.

For years, we bragged about Wyoming and New Mexico, which seemed to hold onto their rest stops. But last year, several of New Mexico’s rest areas along I-25 were closed – no reason was given, though we talked to an attendant who complained that many truck drivers, instead of using restrooms, simply urinate in water bottles, then deposit the filled containers in the rest stop trash cans. You can’t blame them, really – opportunities are limited, and drivers’ pay is structured so that time really is money. Wyoming, which used to have beautiful rest stops, has shut many of those along I-80 down.

So on that June afternoon, having driven many miles in the single lane left by construction, tailgated by a red SUV whose owner appeared to believe that driving the speed limit was way too slow, I told my screaming knees not to worry, a rest stop was coming.

Except it wasn’t; the rest area promised 41 miles ago had a “closed” sign in front of it. I cursed and eventually pulled into the nearest truck stop. It was strewn with trash, parking involved snaking around huge puddles in the broken pavement, and the bathroom had a sketchy lock and a dirty sink, with no paper towels or soap and an overflowing garbage can. But I had no choice.

Eva Syrovy, a Colorado Voices writer in 2010, is Czech immigrant, a retired teacher, a mom to sons, and owner of a 120-year-old house in Colorado Springs.

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