Marathon of Poop
(September 8, 2005)

I arrived fashionably late to my friend Gretchen’s party the other night. I sincerely apologised to Gretchen for arriving late

“Oh, it's okay, you are a tad late but Ginger hasn’t even arrived.”

I am not a big fan of Ginger. She's a recreational runner who thinks she is the goddess of marathons. All she ever talks about and does is marathons. I could understand if she ran for cause. There are a gazillion “run for the cause” races in September but she chooses not to participate. She’s all about the competitive marathons. She always says, “The charity runs never fit into my training schedule.” But I think she is lying. I have no proof yet but slowly I'm working to expose her.

“I know you do not like Ginger, but she is my friend. Please try to make an effort tonight.”

Ginger arrives in the next half-hour, covered in sweat.

“Sorry I’m late Gretchen. I decided to run here as a training exercise. Can I use your shower?”

During the shower I tell the girls about my latest misadventures. When Ginger enters the room, the talk quickly turned to running. Running this and running that. I try to behave but seriously does anyone care about the proper pre run meal?

I couldn't keep silent any longer.

“It can’t be that hard to run a marathon. I mean, it’s not like other sports. Everyone knows how to run. I bet I could run one. How hard is it to run at 3 km per hour?”

“Then, why don’t you run with me tomorrow morning? I'm pre-riding the Toronto Marathon course. But you may not be up to it. I run at 6 AM to avoid traffic. I know you are usually in bed all morning long on a Saturday.” 

The girls looked at me. It was no longer a battle of wits but a war of words.

“I can make an exception once in awhile. Besides, the course is downhill - seriously, how hard can it be?”

“Let’s make the run more interesting then. If I win you have to give me your polar bear jumper.” 

There was a hush among my friends. My competitive edge fit a fever pitch.

“Sure. And if I win, you have to donate $1,000 to the Terry Fox foundation.”

You might think the wager is a tad disadvantage but you have not seen my homemade pink whole sweater with a polar bear knitted on the front. It’s worth at least $1000.  Beside she would be out a thousand dollars no matter the outcome.  If she won and chose not to donate, I will have succeeded in exposing her as a selfish marathon runner.

“You are on.” 

Neither of us stayed long at the party, as we both wanted a good night’s sleep before the race. But before we left (separately) the girls agreed to be the officials.

The next morning, I ate my usual breakfast of coffee and raspberry muffins. At the start line, I stared down Ginger while eating another tasty muffin.

Ginger had every runner’s dream devices. She had the $700 running shoes, the waterproof shorts, the sports bra that doubled as a top, and a visor. Around her waist was a utility belt complete with nutrient supplements, energy bars and Red Bull drinking bottle. 

As my opponent looked like a running catalogue, I looked more like a collage of mismatching clothes. I too had running shoes but mine were replica vintage shoes (I bought them for style than comfort). I too had waterproof shorts and a small top however it was my two piece bathing suit. Over top of my swimming suit I wore my polar bear jumper – partly for good luck and partly for spite. Deprived of a runner’s utility belt, my fanny pack contained a water bottle and some raspberry muffins. 

The race began and we kept the pace slow. My initial strategy was to keep pace with Ginger then win the sprint at the end. But as we reached the seventh kilometre, I realised this strategy was not going to work. She was accustomed to training at low speeds. I had to get her out of her routine. The only to do this would be to build a sizeable lead – causing her to chase. I reached in my fanny pack and popped a muffin for energy.

I exploded into the lead. My blistering speed was amazing. I was running so fast that if I had a television in my hands, people would have mistaken me for a looter. 

Before long Ginger was out of my rear sight. I kept up my sizzling pace until the halfway mark. Here, I started to feel the pain of running a marathon. My muscles started to ache and my throat was dry. I reached into my fanny pack and chugged my water bottle. 

At the three-quarters mark, I was still well in the lead but my stomach began to hurt. Initially I thought this was what Ginger described as “hitting the wall” but the pain was different. I felt bloated. Then it hit me. I had to go to the washroom. All the muffins and the water had firmed up my insides. I had to go poop. I turned back to see Ginger. She was gaining on me. There was no time to stop for a washroom break. I would have to hold it. 

“Keep it together Suzy.” I said to myself.

I held it together but it was hard. Every step I took was making the poop process faster. Finally I reached the final kilometre. I could see the girls at the finish line. I turned to see Ginger’s whereabouts. She was closing in fast. I tried to keep the pace but it was no use. 

Going into the final one hundred metre dash, Ginger was about 10 metres behind me. I tried to kick my running into a higher gear but I couldn't. I gave one final load grunt to gain any energy but it was no use. However my grunt did produce something else. 

It made me poop. 

Initially I was horrified, pooping my pants in public like a pre-schooler - but it felt so good. As I let it flow into my bathing suit, I realised it was more than poop but rather diarrhoea. 

I was paying the price for devouring all the muffins and water. The poop flowed and flowed into my suit until the suit could not longer hold the digested muffins. 

My suit exploded causing my poop to spill into the street.

Luckily for me, my street of diarrhoea acted as an oil slick. A slick so slippery that not even Ginger’s $700 running shoes could keep its traction. With five metres left, she slid to the ground and I won the race. 

I jumped up and down at the finish celebrating my victory until my friends made me find a washroom.  Finally I stopped pooping.

My sweater and I had survived the wager thanks to the raspberry muffins. There were delicious raspberry muffins.  You may say they were as sweet as my victory.