Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
The Great American Poop Attack of '98
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.