I thought a little about whether or not this is a suitable topic for a blog post, but seeing as both the books I’m currently engrossed in bring it up I think I’m in good company. The books are ‘Running and Stuff’ by James Adams that I have in hard copy and read whenever I have time, and ‘Call the Midlife’ by Chris Evans that I am listening to on audiobook on my long runs. I highly recommend both. James’ book can be purchased here.
So, back to the story. My Sunday run started like most others with a solo jog to a carpark in Milton Keynes to meet up with some Striders for a few miles and then another solo jog home. The plan was to go for 3 hours with no distance in mind as all the long runs in my ultra plan are time based. As I left the Striders for my run home I contemplated running to the pub on Willen Lake to use the facilities but decided against it. I had a busy day ahead and besides I’d be home in an hour.
I was later to discover that this was a bad decision. I had gone for about another 2 miles when the familiar gastro-intestinal rumblings began 4 miles from home and more importantly my toilet. I don’t think my fuelling choice of Spanish snacking chorizo helped in this matter. My rumbling bowels continued for another 2 miles and I thought I could make it home, but with only 2 miles to go until home it hit me: the unmistakable feeling of ‘it’s coming’.
At this point I was less than half a mile from a fellow runner’s house, but only having met her once despite months of Twitter banter I didn’t think our friendship was ready for a ‘let me in I’m gonna crap myself’ moment.
I had done this route dozens of times and knew that Milton Keynes Museum was about a mile away and would almost definitely help me out. I clenched and jog-walked the mile or so to the Museum. As I approached the Museum I read the huge sign ‘Open Every Weekend 11AM – 4.30PM’. I looked at my watch; it was 10.30AM. Surely there’d be someone there opening up? I wheeled into the carpark and saw the welcoming sight of half a dozen cars but as I approached the glass fronted building I saw no lights or people. I banged frantically for about 30 seconds before giving up; I turned about and began to scan the carpark for potential squatting locations. ‘How about that corner over there?’, I mused. I couldn’t do it. It would stink, and besides I had no tissue and I really liked these socks.
By now I was beyond desperate. In the words of Fat Bastard ‘I had a turtles head poking out’. I phoned my wife and to her infinite credit she was willing to drop everything to come and rescue me. Whilst waiting for my knight(ess) in shining armour I started having contractions. I reassessed the corner of the carpark option before spotting someone pulling into the Snooker Club across the road. By this point I was in agony and in a half crouch position. I waddled across the road entered the Snooker Club and asked in a rather frantic tone if I was able to use the gents. ‘Sure mate; it’s over there’, came the reply. I tried to look as casual as possible as I entered said gents but as soon as I was in the door I threw myself into the closest cubicle, slid the lock across and surely I don’t need to explain the rest. Relieved I sent a text message calling off my would be rescuer, finished up, thanked the proprietor on my way out and jogged the final mile home. Alls well that ends well.