I was a couple miles in and I started to feel it coming. Not the clogging feeling of a logjam but the sinister warmth of a soaking hot steamer.

I knew I was about a half mile away from a porta-potty at a job site so I concentrated for a minute and was able to fend off the initial urge. The next impulse hit like a battering ram. Deep breaths and concentrated sphinctal discipline allowed me to temporarily fend off the forceful feces. I could do the math and wasn’t sure I’d make it to the commode before the next bout.

My running form turned into more of a lope and I realized I had an optimization problem. Running quickly would get me there faster, but at the risk of stronger vertical oscillations. Walking would be slower but wouldn’t directly aid the enema at the gates. I ended up speed walking while muttering distraught self-affirmations.

The 3rd attack came as soon as the plastic paradise came into view. No doubt caused by the prospect of respite. A groan escaped my lips as I clenched every muscle in my body into a self-induced rigor mortis. Once again I prevailed, but this time the urge didn’t subside fully. It just stayed there throbbing. Waiting for the wrong step to unleash its unholy fury. Breathing was labored, my eyes closed tightly as I attempted to glide along using the smooth step I’d learned in middle school marching band.

I arrived at the resplendent outhouse and without bothering to knock I swing the door open and struggled with the knot on my shorts. My shaking hands delayed the dropping of the drawers as I spun around. The gravy geyser erupted while still in the action of sitting down.

In my haste, however, I failed to check if the seat was raised.

And so I sat. Squat cobbler. Full moon moon pie. Boston cream splat. It oozed into every nook and cranny from the top of the crack to the middle of the thighs. This pie-sitter cried.

Cleanup was awful and woefully inadequate. Two more stops on the way home rounded out the run. One behind a tree and another behind an electrical box.


All this to say that all these stereotypes about runners just crapping their pants are just pure nonsense.