For women, and probably for men (although I can't speak with authority regarding the opposite sex), the bathroom has historically served two purposes of oxymoronic nature: it's a place to dump all your shit and it's a place to get your shit together. Think about it; you know it's true! The first purpose is obvious and doesn't need any additional explanation. The second purpose doesn't need explanation either, but it's where all the good stories come from.
"Thank God for the man that invented this thing." That was the thought that went through my head during my FOURTH visit to a Porta-Potty on November 3rd, 2012, the day of my first marathon in Savannah, Georgia. My first visit was pre-race as soon as we arrived to the Start Village of the race, where all the runners enter their respective corrals and do whatever it is they do to combat nerves before the start of the race. This was when I took care of some seriously important nerve related business, if you catch my drift. Before entering our corral, the point of no return, my friend Chris and I hit the portable latrines one last time to empty our bladders and hopefully leave any remaining nerves in a bright blue abyss of sanitizing liquid. The lines were so long! When we got close, to the point that you could then define the two or three rectangles your line was feeding, I remember that the end "unit" just stayed occupied. I wasn't the only one that noticed. Some of us discussed how we would burst into applause and cheer for the individual that finally emerged. One lady even tried the door just to be sure it was indeed occupied. It was. Silently I determined that whoever was in there was having some serious second thoughts about what they were about to do and was trying really hard to get their shit together versus let it all hang out (so to speak). Chris announced that he would pass on the opportunity to use the one on the end even if it presented itself. It didn't. Both of us took our turns in the plastic boxes and entered our race corral where we talked a little strategy and basically shot the...no, I won't go there...until the race started and we were off.
Running a marathon is hard. I would like to think that anyone that has completed one would tell you the same. I'm not a particularly fast runner, I'll likely never be an elite runner, but I think anyone that covers a distance of 26.2 miles on foot at a speed that is slightly uncomfortable for them would agree that running a marathon is hard. Distance runners tax themselves mentally and physically at the same time. Mentally they are considering race strategy (if they have one), checking out the runners around them, and checking in with their bodies alternately every minute to every few minutes of the race. The physical taxation is real. Once your body runs out of glycogen stores, you begin to feel like you have the flu. If you aren't careful with your water and electrolyte intake and balance, you have many more (and much worse) things to worry about. As long as you stay in your own head and don't let your body run off without your brain, the main thing you have to focus on is putting one foot in front of the other. Until you have to pee.
I think I knew I still had to pee when I first entered the corral, but I also knew I didn't have time to wait in that line again. I thought I could hold it. I remember doing just fine until mile 9 or so; after that, I was all about finding a bathroom. I knew I needed to drink something, but how could I drink anymore fluid when my eyeballs were already floating in a urine suspension? The half-marathon course split from the marathon course around mile 11.5 and the field of runners grew incredibly smaller after that. Less distraction meant increased discomfort. Then, low and behold, there it was! The blue Porta-Potty line at the halfway mark...and at the top of the hill. I crested the 13-mile marker and afforded myself the pit stop at the very first door. Have you ever tried to hover after running 13 miles? My thighs were screaming, but my bladder was all applause. Funny, I didn't realize how much I had been sweating until I tried to pull up my running skirt with its built-in compression shorts. I felt much better and after a bit of a slow start, I was off and running again.
Something started happening to me after mile 18. Doubt started creeping in. I knew I was getting steadily slower. I had very strange images floating around in my head. I started to feel a little bit nauseous and I was beginning to question the ability of my quads and my heart to cope. I never really considered quitting, don't get me wrong, but I do remember telling myself that walking would be acceptable. I didn't walk, but I did start scoping the landscape for the next available bathroom. My saving grace came around mile marker 23. There was a water station with Porta-Potties available (presumably they were there for the volunteers manning the water station). I suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that my feminine hygiene product was failing me just before I crossed the finish line (which came with the hyped-up "photo opp"). Not wanting to have a "stain" on the record of my first official marathon, I ducked into the last box with permission from one of the volunteers. Now finding it nearly impossible to hover over the hole, I let go of a little trickle, confirmed that my feminine hygiene product purchase was money well spent, and then took a few extra seconds to collect myself. Finally I told myself "Look, if you can handle 43 HOURS of labor, you can handle one more 5k". Whatever works, right? I emerged from the portable shit collection station (feel free to read that either way) with some slightly renewed vigor and after thanking God for the inventor of the aforementioned box, I finished the race strong. I still laughed at the guy that blew by me at the 26-mile marker for his Olympic-style finish, but I finished strong. I finished faster than I thought I would and in the top 26% of full marathon runners. Not too shabby for an old broad running her first full marathon!
I vowed to find out to whom I owed my first marathon finish. God Bless you, George Harding! Now to train for the next one and learn to leave it all on the course instead of in the can. I'm sure I can better my last performance if I can do that!
Something started happening to me after mile 18. Doubt started creeping in. I knew I was getting steadily slower. I had very strange images floating around in my head. I started to feel a little bit nauseous and I was beginning to question the ability of my quads and my heart to cope. I never really considered quitting, don't get me wrong, but I do remember telling myself that walking would be acceptable. I didn't walk, but I did start scoping the landscape for the next available bathroom. My saving grace came around mile marker 23. There was a water station with Porta-Potties available (presumably they were there for the volunteers manning the water station). I suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that my feminine hygiene product was failing me just before I crossed the finish line (which came with the hyped-up "photo opp"). Not wanting to have a "stain" on the record of my first official marathon, I ducked into the last box with permission from one of the volunteers. Now finding it nearly impossible to hover over the hole, I let go of a little trickle, confirmed that my feminine hygiene product purchase was money well spent, and then took a few extra seconds to collect myself. Finally I told myself "Look, if you can handle 43 HOURS of labor, you can handle one more 5k". Whatever works, right? I emerged from the portable shit collection station (feel free to read that either way) with some slightly renewed vigor and after thanking God for the inventor of the aforementioned box, I finished the race strong. I still laughed at the guy that blew by me at the 26-mile marker for his Olympic-style finish, but I finished strong. I finished faster than I thought I would and in the top 26% of full marathon runners. Not too shabby for an old broad running her first full marathon!
I vowed to find out to whom I owed my first marathon finish. God Bless you, George Harding! Now to train for the next one and learn to leave it all on the course instead of in the can. I'm sure I can better my last performance if I can do that!
No comments:
Post a Comment