Shit

As an avid long distance runner, I have had my share of misadventures with feces in my day.  I still feel a certain sense of guilt over what I did to the bathroom at the Summerlin Kohl's while training for the Grandma's Marathon in 2013.  (I will spare the graphic details, but you can only imagine.)

I've also had my share of conversations revolving around misadventures with feces with my fellow runners.  For some reason, near-misses of the poopy potty variety are just a way us runners can bond.  Because of this, I have a high tolerance for stories of poop, where other bodily fluid details, especially blood, cause me to cower in the fetal position in a corner.  However, even with this level of tolerance, I have my limits.

A few weeks ago, I volunteered to work an aid station at a marathon training run.  We were stationed near a county trailhead along the Platte River Trail, strategically next to a porta-potty.  However, the county had been behind on their porta-potty maintenance and my aid station partner described the inside as looking like a food fight with chocolate pudding had occurred.  I decided to take her word for it and I cautioned each runner who approached it during the event.  I did find great joy in seeing their looks of revulsion and disgust as they emerged from the facilities and kicked their feet to resume their pace.

My morning shit reaction entertainment came to a screeching halt when an older gentleman approached the aid station and asked, "Do you have any Vaseline?  I'm having some horrible chaffing."

If poop is the lead universal uniter of runners, chaffing has got to be a close second.  (Hashtag bloody nipples.)

As I looked at the man's face, I informed him of the lack of Vaseline at the aid station.  I felt a sense of helplessness as at my failure to help this obviously-suffering man.  My mind immediately turned to the emergency stash of Body Glide I have in my glove box.   I could help this man!

Just as I opened my mouth to form the words of relief for this suffering man, he decided to add some new details to his story.  "I've been having diarrhea every mile for the last eight miles.  I need some electrolytes."  The man reached for a cup of Gatorade and gulped it before continuing to elaborate on his shitty story.  "My bum is very chaffed.  I need something to put on my bum.  Do you have anything?"

It was at this point that I was glad that for once in my life I managed to keep my mouth shut long enough to keep myself from getting in trouble.  This man's bum was not getting anywhere near my precious emergency Body Glide.  Although, I still felt a great deal of empathy for this man and his less-than-ideal situation.

The man continued on with more graphic details of his tummy troubles than necessary and I could geel myself being more and more put-off by this man.  Finally, to my relief, he ran off and used the scary porta-potty at the trailhead.  Unlike previous users, I decided I did not want to watch the facial expression of horror as he emerged from the fecal filth.  I had reached my limit for shit empathy and humor with this man. 

The man returned to the table and continued to share details of his condition.  "I just had a smaller bowel movement, I may be on the mend.  Just so you know, I didn't make that mess.  I'm chafing pretty badly.  Are you sure you don't have any Vaseline?  Do you have any toilet paper or tissues or Kleenex that I can take with me in case I have another incident?"

The answer to pretty much all of these questions was no.

This was the day I learned that my scatological empathy for other runners has limits.  No one is ever allowed to shit on my Body Glide.

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