There are a number of factors that potentially contribute to gout, including diet, weight, age and gender. Men are more susceptible than women before age 60. My own experience includes an episode that occurred when traveling in Florida years ago. I don’t blame the state itself. But, a pizza parlor in the Florida Keys was primarily to blame.

Awaking the morning after gorging myself on the best Philly Cheese Steak Pizza ever made, my feet felt stiff and a bit tender. Having experienced it before, I knew it was the onset of another case of gout. By mid-afternoon I was hobbling worse than Dennis Weaver playing Chester on “Gunsmoke.” When the sun went down, so did I.

The pain became so bad I couldn’t walk. A call to my physician brother-in-law netted an unwanted lecture on root causes of gout along with a prescription. Traveling all alone during this trip, I was lucky neighbors nearby journeyed to the pharmacy to retrieve the gout medication needed. I read and followed the pill bottle’s directions for doses to continue every two hours until pain subsided (an error my brother-in-law denies was his).

An alarm was set in case pain from the bed sheet resting on my feet failed to wake me in time. By morning, feet felt better. But now, thanks to an overdose of gout medicine, partially digested pizza raced through me faster than the Five o’clock Express to Omaha. Walking problems gave way to episodes perched on the bathroom stool every quarter-hour until afternoon. It was hard to know what to worry about most — feet or fanny.

Things had settled down enough by early evening for the same neighbors to risk ferrying me to Key West for a rental car I had reserved for a drive to the Miami airport the following day to head home. When the agent offered a new Mustang convertible for the same rate as the clunker I had reserved, feigned reluctance triggered his offer to pay for the gas. Sleep came easier that night.

I awoke to a gorgeous morning – and felt renewed. With the “stang’s” top down and suitcase in the trunk, I headed out on the Over Seas Highway toward the Miami airport — a trip of 125 miles. Near Islamorada Key, I sensed abdominal gas accumulating. With the top down, no worries about that, I thought, as wind whipped my hair into knots. I rolled a bit sideways and hiked one cheek up to relieve the pressure. It wasn’t gas after all.

You might say “the plot thickened” about then. It wasn’t clear if clean clothes needed before boarding the plane were packed in my suitcase. Arriving in Homestead on the Florida mainland, I pulled into a convenience store parking lot and found a remote spot that enabled covert search of the trunk and my suitcase. Luckily extra trousers and underwear were retrieved, rolled up together and tucked under my arm before nonchalantly entering the building. Encountering customers, I did my best Mark Hamill imitation and skated around them, first sideways then spinning backwards to avoid discovery of my sunken treasure. Spotting the men’s room, I made like Olympian Apolo Ohno, skating at break-neck speed in that direction.

In the car and headed to the airport once more, I called Rita with breaking news about triumph over certain catastrophe. Never shy about snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, Rita asked, “Were those seats in the Mustang made of perforated Corinthian leather? Do you have time to clean them before turning in the car?” I wasn’t sure of the answers. “Whatever you do now,” she added, “don’t fart.”

My mind flashed back to childhood when my mother explained to me what that word meant. “Bubbles in your pants,” was her description. In an odd way, it came as a surprise that it took more than sixty years to validate the truth of what she warned me about in 1956.

Sommers is a retired Minot orthodontist, violinist with the Minot Symphony and author of the book, “Retirement? You Can’t HANDLE the Truth!”