A Meditation On Running And Needing To Go To The Toilet For A Poo.
One of the worst things about jogging regularly is that it makes you a little more……regular.
On many occasions the sudden need to crap will hit when I am half way through my run. It will all start with the much dreaded internal question.
“Do I really need a shit this time?”
This really gets the ball rolling. My mind works in overdrive. The possibility of shitting myself on the pavement becomes a grave possibility.
When will I shit? Where will I shit? How will I shit?
“Will I shit?”
Panic hits my gurgling monster of a stomach.
I scout for a toilet. Can I really call into the church and promise that I’ll attend their services if they bail me out this time and stop myself from shitting myself right there and then?
No. It is best to stay away. If I shit in the church I will contaminate all things Holy. Christ Himself will weep. The angels will collapse from the clouds with aneurysms like fainting goats.
I convince myself that it will be all OK. I straighten my back and slow down my pace.
I meditate on the these words and these words alone.
“You fart, you shit”
Eventually a fart will leak it’s way out when I’m caught off guard. Maybe I will have hit a bump and dragged my foot. Maybe it will be a black cat crossing my path.
Maybe I’ll recall the time in Amsterdam when I shat like a king in a stall that had no spare toilet roll and was close to wiping my ass with a 5 euro note after a 15 minute impasse.
Either way it will tear its way out all soggy.
“That was definitely more than a fart”
I can’t stop to check.
I can’t do the two finger test in public as people will think that I am a monster.
I try to see my predicament in context. If I’ve already shit myself, what have I got to lose? The chances are that if I’ve downed the brown, I will already smell bad enough.
If I shit myself twice on the same run, that will surely be some sort of Olympic record.
Not even Paula Radcliffe was that hardcore.
If anyone asks if I’ve shit myself, I will say that it was a political statement and not because I ate 5 Frosted Strawberry Pop Tarts for Breakfast that morning.
But I haven’t shit myself. The sweat from running is playing havoc with my brain.
Besides, every experienced runner knows the following as gospel.
“Just because your ass is wet, don’t mean you’ve shit.”
The doubt lingers.
I try to ignore the nagging part of my mind that reminds me every 6 seconds.
“WE NEED TO SHIT NOW, PLEASE STOP!”
My run will end and the need to poo will disappear with the adrenaline rush. I will go to the toilet to inspect my undergarments.
The all clear.
Now it is almost certain that I will not defecate again until the next Queen is sworn in.
I live to fight for another day, safe in the knowledge that I have not soiled myself in front of an unwilling audience in the Great Outdoors.
Have to disagree ,for me one of the best things about running is the very regular bowel movements.Before running was a constipated couch potato with a bloated stomach.
Finally someone with the same problem! I dread going for longer runs because of it. What can I do?? Thanks for posting this!
LMFAO This is one of the funniest things I have read and refreshing to know that other people have this problem. Great read.
happened to me on every run for about a week last year, i’ve no idea why it started or stopped happening, this included a half marathon.
From mile 8 i was in agony, the toilets at mile 10 were on the horizon and i happened to glance my garmin, 2 mins ahead of PB time (possibly caused by my need to evacuate my insides, as fast as i could) … i can make 3 more miles? i ran past and regretted it almost immediately, the last 3 miles were misserable pain, I finished a full 74 seconds faster than my previous PB, and snatched the medal off the young boy scout who was handing them out, i snatched it like a baton in the 4x100m olympic relay final, and after 13.1 miles i accelerated to a sprint as i saw the porta-loo’s at the end of the road, where ..upon reaching them i did a pretty accurate re-enactment of the dumb and dumber laxitives scene, It was more satisfying than smashing my best half marathon time.