Let’s Take A Trip Down Folly Lane (Or The One Where I Nearly Shit Myself)
I nearly shit myself on my half marathon today.
It culminated in me having to waddle down Folly Lane at Walthamstow to prevent a definite fart and shart that would have been catastrophic for every one involved.
I made the mistake of leaving for my run without going to the bathroom first. My digestive system was rumbling but it didn’t seem that urgent. It was kinda like a dog with a sore belly that’s hesitant about going walkies.
I thought I could handle it.
By 5km I knew I was in trouble. You know when you get that bitter existential fear when you run? When you suddenly panic for no reason and then you realise that your arsehole is about to open up? Well that happened at 5km and every 2k afterward.
I tried to pray to God to give me guidance on the matter, but I think He has more pressing issues like the Syrian Civil War rather than worrying what happens with my asshole on a day to day basis.
I had thought about stopping in at one of the pubs up in Chingford but most of those toilets are for customers only and the last thing I needed was an argument about really needing a shit and then shitting myself in front of a livid Cockney.
No, I did the best thing on soldiered on. I tried all sorts of marching formations to try to keep my stomach settled but every 2km it just seized up and I had to slow down to a crawl in order to keep my legs pink.
The worst was yet to come.
At 10 miles I knew the end was in sight and my bowels got their hopes up. I got to the down hill section of Folly Lane and I knew that at any moment it was all gonna start flooding through my shorts.
I stopped for a few seconds and began walking as the pains in my stomach were so great. It looked like I was gonna have to jog through Tottenham Marshes covered in my own shit and I’d soon be labelled as the incontinent town clown forever.
I thought about stopping the half marathon attempt altogether and retrying later in the evening, but there’s little chance that I’d manage a 10 miler and a half marathon in the same day.
No, I plodded on and tried to ignore the fact I had an asshole at all. I tried to block out the world around me and found my happy place for about 3km.
The most frustrating thing about it is that I had lots of energy but when you’re arsehole is on fire it becomes your weakest link unless you’re happily oblivious to whats coming out of your exhaust.
I got home and recorded my worst ever half marathon time but I don’t care.
Today, I did not shit myself and that has to be construed as a true fucking victory.
12 half marathons in a row. Always shit before you run. You never know when you’re gonna go to brown town in this cruel game.