When the cart won’t wait for the horse

Ghostrider doing a flyby: "Coogs" seems to prefer the missing man formation.

A few things have become clear since I went solo last week: 1)When it rains, there’s no support car on the shoulder; 2) it rains every afternoon in the Rockies; 3) my super cool, red Cougar Chariot 1 (don’t call it a baby cart) has a mind of its own. Twice today, I turned to find “Coogs” had split without me. At the bathroom in Sonic, I emerged to find it gone. Just gone. Did someone steal the whole 75-pound cart in 10 seconds (and did they want a baby, but got a tent and beef jerky instead?) “Hey, buddy! There’s a baby cart cruising through the parking lot.” And so it was, backwards, as drive-thru customers quick-steered clear. In Pueblo, I stopped to take a picture of a house adorned completely in Denver Broncos colors, signs and logos. As I turned to share the shot with “Coogs,” I saw him doing 30 in a 25 mph zone, barreling down High Street. At least he was in the right lane as I gave chase down the street, to the horror of irate motorists who thought my baby was opening it up. All right, Coogs. All right. I’ll pay more attention. It’s you and me out here, buddy.