Nacho average ride home

Had a roadtrip this weekend.
I won tickets to see the St. Louis Cardinals take on the Braves in Hotlanta Monday night.
Newscoma and I took off Sunday morning and decided to stay in Chattanooga since it would give us a headstart on coming home on the Fourth.
Saw Pujols swat a double and a home run. Saw Smoltz work out of jams.
Drank beer. Took pictures of Newscoma with Johnny Bravo. Ate a hot dog (the actual frank was fine but at Turner Field they serve it on an entire loaf of bread instead of an average bun. It was similar to a hoagy bun. Way too much bread) and later, against the advice of Newscoma, ate a load of nachos smothered in jalapenos. I don't normally partake of the green, heat-producing slivers, usually just the orange gooey cheese. But I thought what the heck, I'm at the ball park.
Go for it.
Cards were losing and didn't look like they were going to recover and we had to drive back to Chattanooga so we took off after the end of the seventh. Normally I would protest the early departure, but I thought it just made sense this time.
I had developed a headache I attributed to the heat. Once in the car, over the counter medication eliminated the throb from my frontal lobe and kept my right eyeball from exploding out of its socket and splattering on the inside of the windshield.
I thought I'd feel better, but the intense headache was only masking my other symptoms - extreme nausea.
Once the headache departed, I could now focus solely on the tsunami waves rumbling from my inner core and working their way up my gullet and down through my colon. Now instead of perspiring from the 90+ degree heat of an Atlanta afternoon and evening, I was sweating despite the auto's air conditioning cranked to the max.
Trying to be a trooper, I drove for a while before I finally conceded and allowed Newscoma behind the wheel. I thought it would be better out of the driver's seat, but once in the passenger's area, I now had nothing to focus on other than my intestinal misery.
Before we made it back to our hotel room, I pleaded with Newscoma to pull over to the side.
Door opens. Projectile yakking ensues. Jalapenos and hot dogs rapidly evacuate the Squirrel Queen's gastrointestinal trac.
A word to the uninitiated. If you think jalapenos can burn your lips and tongue on the way in, just imagine another bout with them after they've stewed in hot, steaming gastric acid and are charging like the cavalry up your throat, back across your tongue and over your fever-parched lips.
That burning sensation sticks with you for a while, no matter how much water you swish around in your mouth.
It was my only purging, but I was nauseous the rest of the way home and considered requesting another visit to the breakdown lane on more than one occasion. The waves receded, each time leaving a tidal pool of gastric juices bubbling much too close to the surface.
Newscoma navigated us back to our temporary home where I immediately konked out despite a bout with chills.
After sleeping like the dead, this morning I awoke fearing a continuation, but felt fine.
Unfortunately, my traveling companion Newscoma had now been bitten by the bug that way-layed me the night before.
The good news is the bug's evil life span apparently covers only a few hours before the recovery process begins and we still managed to leave Chattanooga by mid morning.
Don't let this post fool you. It was a great trip. Good to get away.