How To Almost Shit Yourself In A 3 Hour Long Half Marathon From Hell
I was feeling adventurous so I decided to try to run a half marathon tonight like back in February 2015. It was easy then. I never thought I’d ever properly shit myself and now I know what my arsehole is capable of, I start to panic whenever there’s even the slightest of movements in my stomach.
The run started off easily enough. It wasn’t until about 5k when I knew something was off.
My stomach wasn’t rumbling or anything. I just felt a foreign presence in my stomach. I wasn’t gonna risk anything so I played it safe and stopped at the Southgate M&S Food Hall.
It was such a great decision.
The bathroom was extremely tidy. Only one toilet available which meant I had to be quick as I didn’t want anyone disabled outside to shit themselves all because I can’t control my eating impulses and thereby my shitting impulses.
The depressing thing is nothing came out apart from a large blast. For a minute I thought the IRA was in my arse.
There’s something anticlimactic about going to use a toilet in a hurry but nothing comes out. I knew that once I started running again the need to go to the toilet would appear.
It’s like one of those ghost documentaries you see where the ghost hunter is having his brain possessed by some sad old granny from the 17th century but the moment the skeptic walks into the room all of the supernatural phenomena stops.
That’s a long way of saying that I think my arse is haunted.
On the way out I pretended to look at some M&S Chicken Wings to make it look like I was in for something other than a shit. I don’t think anyone fucking cared. Probably should have stolen some Percy Pig to at least have an incentive to put a step on.
My verdict on toilet break number 1. Excellent toilets, bad arse.
I carried on with hope that I’d got through the worst of the stomach turbulence. It wasn’t to be. Towards Winchmore Hill I was gripped by more panic. I didn’t want to run into a pub and use their facilities as I’m pretty sure most Londoners are still wary of nervous looking Irish men storming in to their premises with their ‘bad news’ face on.
I knew there was a Sainsbury’s on Green Lanes just outside Winchmore Hill so I made it as quickly as I could to the car park. This time I didn’t even pretend that I was gonna buy anything. I went straight for the toilets and this time it was even worse. The pressure remained and all I could get out was blasts of hot air.
Shit attempt number 2. Bad toilets, terrible arse.
From here I thought “fuck it” and just ran for home. I didn’t care if I shit myself. If I kept stopping in every fucking superstore bathroom I’d have still been out there now.
I seem to be the only runner out there who actually gets fucking slower the more I run. I’m blaming it on my arse and the new diet. It’s like running in jelly once you’ve exhausted most of the carbohydrates in your body.
I think I’m gonna need to up my fibre intake and start watching more Murder She Wrote. That gets me shitting like it’s Christmas.
Seriously. I’m never eating those fucking Atkins bars ever again. They are ruining my insides. I’m constipated as fuck right now and when I shit it’s gonna be like Renton out of Trainspotting.
The stress I experience when I need to shit like this is not normal. Every shit panic feels like I’m playing golf blindfolded on the streets of Aleppo.
I’d talk to a therapist about this but I’d probably shit myself whilst telling him or her about it.
If you’re impacted by any of the issues mentioned in today’s post then please fucking donate to my Isle Of Wight fundraiser.