The Day I Almost Became A Real Runner

Well I have been running again.  Not like I had COMPLETELY stopped, but for several months...I was only running once or twice...which honestly...could be worse for me than not running at all.  But as we know...I rather hate running.  Or jogging.  Or wogging.  I even actually hate walking.  (Although I am extremely grateful that my legs work and I CAN walk).  But, at the beginning of October, we have an obstacle course race, SuperHero Scramble, that we have been signed up for since last year.  And it's 13.1 miles.  A half-marathon obstacle course race.  SO, I decided last month I better lace up the old Nike Pegasus's and venture out for a plodding.  It was terrible.  It felt like my legs were cement.  And for 3 weeks, my pace was around 13:30 min/mile.  Back in my heyday (like February of this year) I was closer to a 10 min/mile. Finally, last week I had the push I needed to speed up.

A prairie dog.

And I don't mean this furry little critter pictured above. 

I mean the kind in your pants.

I was gonna poop my pants. 

Like any good runner in training, I always try and go to the bathroom before I set out.  But for SOME reason, nothing was coming to knock on the backdoor until about 1 mile out.  When you first feel the urge to go on a run, you run (did you like that pun) several scenarios through your mind. 

#1.  You could turn around and go home.
#2.  You will use mind over matter and pretend everything is fine.
#3.  If it happens to be the opposite of something yellow that you could let mellow, much like the situation I was in, you start to think maybe it will just "go back up".
#4.  You start scouting out potential areas that you can make a "natures pit stop". 

I was employing numbers 2-4.  I wasn't going to turn around. I had set a goal of 5 miles...and I was gonna do it damn it.  However, at mile 2...things got touch and go.  I kept seeing that picture that has gone viral of the runner who, I think he was wearing yellow shorts, had a little accident in his pants.

It was either commitment.  Or diarrhea.

Either way, I didn't want to be that dude.

So I started running as fast as I could.

My little legs just MOVING.  Heather usually runs ahead of me and turns back to meet me and run besides me for a second.  She was having a hard time keeping up.  That's how serious it was.  And she wears headphones when she runs, and thus...can't really hear.  So when she commented on my speed, I am yelling "I HAVE TO POOP"...

She still can't hear me.

"I HAVE A TURD HANGING OUT"...

She just stares at me.

So on the way back I had to slow down to a walk and do the "squeeze".  I run for the most part, in a residential neighborhood.  There were no nooks and crannies for bathroom breaks.  I started to get goosebumps...you know the ones I am talking about?  Poop induced goosebumps?

But I made it.  I made it home. 

And thank God I didn't try and go in a ditch.  Because it wasn't really a prairie dog.  It was more like a firesnake. 

I happen to run with a little fanny pack to hold my phone.  I am gonna sneak in a little ziplock of baby wipes juuuuuust in case I am confronted with this situation again. 

A wogger must always be prepared!