Just Be Farts

Warning/S(p)oiler Alert:  

If you are averse to or offended by toilet humor or potential TMI situations, you should probably skip this post.  Or, while you're at it, go ahead and skip this whole blog 'cause you're no fun anyway.

I have a confession to make.  Over the past couple of weeks, I've had a few runs where I've had some close calls.  And by close calls, I mean more specifically that I came within milliseconds of pooping my pants.  Now I understand that after the first close call, it should be ridiculous for it to have happened again . . . or to continue to happen.  But I sheepishly admit:  it has.

I'm not sure exactly what the root cause(s) is/are, but it can probably be summed up by some combination of the following:  bad coffee timing, impatience (lack of wanting to wait just a tad longer after the first poop at home to make sure nothing else is waiting in the pipeline), sensitivity to whatever my pre-run meal or snack was, plain old run jostling of the digestive system (read:  rocket launch activation), and even less exciting, plain ol' bad luck.

One of the worst parts of these episodes--aside from the very fact that they exist--is the sheer swiftness upon which they render me helpless.  From quick twinge to hard pang to oh-shit-here-it-comes panic.  Luckily, I am often in close range of an emergency pit stop location on my runs (bar, restaurant, grocery store, gas station), although never as close as I'd like it to be.

Anyway, on my run tonight, I began to feel that quick twinge, verging on moderate pang, and I realized something.  I have become a cowering, servile minion of my own butt.  I realized that I was pleading to my butt for it to just be farts in there, and not something more sinister.

Many runners have their own personal mantras that they create and repeat to themselves to get them through tough runs when they need a motivational pick-me-up.  Many an elite has one, and many a coach recommends one.  I, however, have always bordered a little too close to that OCD boundary to voluntarily have a phrase repeat in my head for hours.

Tonight, though, as I begged my butt to hold on for that one last mile until I got home, I realized that I had indeed created my own mantra.  "Just be farts."  Before I knew it, the phrase formed on my lips over and over as I came closer to home.  Just be farts, just be farts, just be farts.

And what do ya know, it actually worked.  I got home safe and sound with no need for a pit stop.  Maybe there's something to this mantra thing.