Warning: The post you are about to read contains graphic content, viewer discretion and spastic colons be advised.
Coming off the halfway point I have seen and experienced quite a few things during my training, but nothing in my Marathon for Dummies book warned me about this most recent event. During one of my midweek strolls over the Williamsburg bridge I caught a case of the BG's or as anyone who knows how to gross me out with the full version, Bubble Guts. Yes, I was mid bridge with last nights chicken quesadilla fighting to see the light of day and no bathroom for the next mile.
The night before, was a normal affair, failing a crossword puzzle with a beer in hand and hoping the Yankees would contract ebola before the playoffs. I ordered dinner from a local spanish joint, one where personalizing your meal is a choice between red and green sauce. Devouring the dish was no problem and I had just enough room in my stomach for a night cap of Frosted Flakes before bed. I had planned to run before work the next morning but forgot to set my alarm so I awoke later then expected with a sense of urgency to get my run in time, throwing some clothes on and rushing out the door. A mile in, I was aware that I had skipped the all important morning meeting with my friend John, but I was feeling pretty good and kept on trucking to the base of the Williamsburg Bridge passing some morning commuters on their bikes (cheating much?) and made my way up before hearing the dreaded rumbling sound in my stomach, similar to the idling of a 18 wheeler or a quiet thunder foreshadowing inclement weather. The steady climb up the bridge was then again disrupted by a series of muffled internal cries, like a man being held under his will in a trunk of a car. The running slowed to a walk and I assessed my situation. Continue to walk with clenched determination until I reached Manhattan, or run and risk pulling a Paula Radcliffe all over the bridge. I pictured a doctor in a delivery room yelling at me, "Either way you like it it's coming out!" The rumbling continued and I knew I had to let some of the quesadilla back into the atmosphere. Like a trained assassin putting a silencer on a gun I squeaked a few brow arching gems and continued. Around the top of the bridge my threat alert had turned from Amber to Red, and I picked up my pace. My facial expression must have been an obvious indicator of my troubles, cause I caught a pitied glance from a woman who obviously had previously gone through a similar affair, but had taken her time this morning primping her hair, eating breakfast and relishing in her morning BM. Damn you I thought as I stumbled like a wounded soldier down the back half of the bridge. I was getting closer. I could see a row of fast food restaurants about 500 yards away and spastically kept my pace. I tried to will myself to salvation, muttering positive reinforcements out loud; "You can do this, you are a strong person, this is nothing, just a little pain, all part of the process," but the conversation quickly turned to "Please don't shit your pants!, for the love of god hold it in!" I crossed into Manhattan territory and waited for traffic to pass as patiently as a man can be before having a quesadilla baby and darted to McDonalds thinking I was in the clear only to have the restroom occupied. I rushed past Burger King fearing the same and made my way into a local pizza place. Using the bathroom required a purchase and I bought a water with a sweat infused dollar bill. The man behind the counter reluctantly gave me the key probably figuring he had just enabled some strung out addict safe haven for a quick fix. But screw him. I had made it, key in hand, nothing to stop me. I opened the bathroom door and went in.
I had that meeting with John that morning, a very long one, and ran home with a smile on my face like boy acing a school exam only I don't think I'm gonna put this victory on my refridgerator... just a blog.
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