Earlier in the evening Rachael mentioned that a man had been seen finishing Seattle’s Rock and Roll marathon bespattered with his own waste, the kind of waste my sister Amy would refer to as “the Rhea.” I guess at one point the poor unfortunate was seen attempting to remove the filth using a stick—all that with 28,000 onlookers. How’s that for sobering?
Ever the object of irony, I laughed a full-throated, belly laugh of true delight when Rachael related the account to me. “Poor sap!” I guffawed. “Can you imagine?? A stick. Oh that’s too much!” Then I grabbed my bike helmet and jauntily sauntered out the door.
I had promised to go for a mountain bike ride with my neighbor DJ Sweeney. DJ drives an immaculately maintained Ford F-350 of the super duty variety. The rear chrome bumper bears a sticker that reads: “I’m only speeding because I have to poop.” The signs were everywhere to those with eyes to see.
Seeing the sticker for the thousandth time, I chuckled in a smarmy, self-satisfied sort of way and marched up to the door. DJ opened the door slowly. “Oh man, you’re home?” He said with mild surprise. “I knocked on your door twice tonight. I won’t be able to make it.”
That was fine by me. What I really needed tonight was a run, not another bike ride. So I coasted across the street, hung my beloved Stumpy back up on the wall and slipped into my Saucony’s. After a short stop in the bathroom to clear the lower GI, I forced myself out onto the trail.
Heading east on the pipeline trail, the first three miles were hard fought. Around the three and a half mile mark, I felt myself hitting my stride and with it came the ever present hubris. At about this same time, I crossed the Cedar River heading North and then turned westward and home on the north side of the river.
The pain first struck about a quarter of a mile from the bridge—at the absolute farthest point of my run. I knew the feeling well and instantly it shattered, not only my confidence, but my pace as well. My stride, once steady and long (as long as midget legs can make it), came now in short prancing steps in an effort to minimize the jostling to my innards. Gone was all consideration of form.
The farther I ran, the more intense the pressure became. I began to look around for a cover, someplace I could duck and—as we euphemistically say—“equalize the pressure.” Nothing. The brush, while characteristically dense in Western Washington, was not deep enough to afford cover from passing runners. With buttocks firmly clenched, I forced myself to shuffle another quarter mile to a bend in the trail, a silent prayer on my lips with every step.
When I rounded the bend, my eyes caught sight of a walker, not a runner or a cyclist, a walker. A duck into the trees now would appear only too conspicuous. If only he would walk a littler FASTER! With grim determination I strode on. Behind a forced smile, I belted out a suspiciously enthusiastic “howdy,” then put as much distance between us as possible before seeking another escape route.
Escape materialized only a hundred feet further down the trail. A narrow, little-used path wound into the surrounding dense underbrush bending slightly toward a backwater bend in the river north of the trail. Here the bush filled in thickly around the bases of the trees.
Panting now, I hunted desperately for a clearing in the undergrowth wide enough for the blast zone. But my search met with disappointment time and again. Finally, milliseconds before discharge, I acknowledged my hopeless condition, and resorted to the narrow path itself.
You’ll excuse me for not delving into the sordid details of what came next. To think of it now, causes me to shudder involuntarily. Suffice it to say, I learned that mosses (particularly isothecium stoloniferum and selaginella oregano “Oregon Spikemoss”) work far better for mopping up than vine maple leaves.
It bears noting, however, that neither solution will prevent against chafing, not by a long stretch. And trust me, I know of what I speak. The pain. Is. Real.
I wish I could say that one attack was all it took to atone for my hubris. And yet, only two short miles down the trail, disaster struck a second time. When “the urge” struck this time around, I didn’t even have time to find a secluded bush. Fortunately, divine providence smiled on me and granted me a full five minutes of solitude on an otherwise busy section of the Cedar River Trail.
When I finally stumbled up the walk to the front door, I remembered that luckless runner with the stick. In a small way, I believe I came to know him and understand his suffering during my eventful run. Regardless, I learned first hand that night that it’s true what they say about not judging a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, especially when they're filled with "the Rhea."
