To our loyal and devoted readers (all 3 of you), I must apologize. I've been absent from these pages lately. I'm sorry.
Now, the Poop:
I must confess, I've got some issues (I know, Fred, you're saying, "no shit"). My guts give me trouble from time to time when I run, and it ain't pretty. I've reported on this before, but it continues to trouble me. It seems that running is quite "motivational" for my bowels. This is especially true of my morning runs (no pun intended) when I haven't had a chance to fully "download."
I've tried lots of things to deal with this...especially on race day. I've employed coffee, extra early wake ups, extra fiber, no fiber, oils, unguents, and once, I shudder to admit this, a pre marathon enema (that was a disaster as it led to more stops not fewer). The bottom line here, nothing has worked except for waiting to run until after the "clear out."
Well, this morning I did not have the luxury of a post dump run. Al K and I had an 8 on tap and we both had to be at the coal mine by late morning. We were kicking off at about 9, so the schedule did not accomodate my needs too well.
Things began nicely. It was a gorgeous, sunny, earlry spring day, and we were loving it. We trotted through the first 2 miles at a leisurely 8:30 pace. Then the cramps started. I warned AL K at about 2.75 that things were not good. At mile three I knew that "Houston, we have a problem."
I peeled off from Al K, hoping to walk back and find a bathroom or, if it came down to it, a big tree to grunt behind. I started duck walking the almost 3 miles back to Al K's house just praying for some divine intervention: LOOK, A MOBILE PORT O POTTY! No such luck.
When I was a mile from base camp, I saw a movie theater--DOOR LOCKED! Then there was a service station--NO BATHROOM! Squeezing my sphincter muscles for all they were worth, I shuffle-stepped to the deli across the street--OUT OF ORDER! At this point, I began to have that feeling one gets from time to time (besides the "oh god, I'm about to shit myself" feeling). I had that feeling that, somewhere above, someone was having a good laugh at my expense.
At this point, self-fouling seemd imminent. But I saw a last bastion of hope ahead: the train station. Like a power walker trying to hold a clementine in his ass while striding (I'm told this sort of thing goes on), I legged it the last quarter mile. As I approached the door, I had a horrible thought: I'm going to pull on this door and it will be locked. Then, in about 5 seconds, I'll be standing here in my own filth. But oh! Sweet reversal of fortune. The door swung open and there, ahead of me, was a Men's room.
I sped inside and dropped 'em. There was no time for a prophylactic papering, so I went into squat and squeeze mode (which, of course, was more of a squat and spray).
What a difference a few moments make! How is it that some simple (though severe) intestinal pressure can so dramatically effect one's whole worldview? I went from struggling in despair, defeated and despondent to exultant, rejoicing in my victory in just seconds. So simple, so silly.
See you on the road.
