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.