Many, many years ago I took a motorcycle trip to see my brother in Florida. I left Ironton, Ohio at the butt crack of dawn, and my first stop was for fuel and food in Lexington Kentucky. After filling up with gas, and a big ass breakfast/multiple cups of coffee at a Cracker Barrel, I headed back down the highway. Right around the Kentucky/Tennessee line, I feel an urge coming on that I've got to shit...and by urge, I mean a sudden urge! I'm doing better than 100mph to get to the next rest area, and I'm clinching my ass so hard I'm surprised I didn't pull a muscle. All I could think about was finding a place to release this massive amount of crap I'm trying my best to hold back. To this day, I still thank God I made it to the rest area. I get off the bike, and I'm sort of half sprinting, half running to the door. I make it. I'm sweating. It's not even hot outside. I make it inside the stall. Oh fuck...I can't figure out the zipper sequence on the Aerostich Roadcrafter pants! One goes up, one goes down. They're like a jigsaw...but I'm not in the mood for games, as I'm about half a second away from ruining my pants, underwear, my socks, and probably my boots! Now, when I say that I JUST got my pants down, I'm not exaggerating. As soon as my pants passed my butthole, that baby opened up and a force that can only be described as "projectile diarrhea" occurred. I painted the toilet and wall with the most disgusting, runny, brown stench, the likes of which I've never done before or since. Immediate relief, followed by immediate panic...where is my helmet!? I clean myself up, head outside, and right there on my motorcycle seat sits my brand new, black Shoei helmet, and the keys in the ignition. At a rest area on I-75. Twice relieved in five minutes!