Real Athletes Poop Their Pants
I run half marathons for many reasons. a) I enjoy the physical and mental challenges each race offers. b) Runners are some of the friendliest folks around, so although I prefer to train alone, I have met some of the kindest and coolest people at races and in my running clubs. c) My internal motivation is super in the toilet, so it’s a safe bet that I won’t exercise without a race on my calendar. d) The world is full of blissfully ignorant fools. Harsh and unkind words, I know. But seriously, how often do you hear ridiculous diabetes jokes? How many instances can you think of when the media, a politician, or another individual or group with influence and power spread blatantly wrong information about the disease? I run to prove them all wrong and spread our Truth.
And e) I like medals. I like how they look hanging on my wall. I like how they sound when they clink together. And I love the memories and feelings of accomplishment each one of them evokes. I’m not at all above doing a race for the bling. I did a race in Amish Country one time because its medal was a horseshoe. A horseshoe. It was awesome. And my amazing wife was inseminated without me there because I was doing a race that had a shark finisher medal. (Yes, you read that right. Who knew it was going to take on the first try? I mean, really, what are the odds? Mama loves you, Liam, and I promise I won’t miss any other critical moments of your life.) So when I found a race for which the medal was a grilled cheese sandwich (a local race no less—you go, Connecticut!) you bet your ass I was all in.
Unfortunately, that particular June day in 2016 turned out to be rather rainy. Now normally I don’t hate running in the rain. It’s not the worst thing ever. Sure, putting all of my devices in waterproof bags is less than ideal and a royal pain in the ass, but it’s manageable. While we’re here, how many of you hate that word? “Manageable.” Ugh, gross. It’s almost as bad as “moist.” If I hear one more person say, “Hey, don’t worry, diabetes is manageable,” I’m going to come unglued. I think the world needs a quick tutorial on the meaning of “manageable.”
Aaaaaaaaaaaaanyway. I’m going to reel myself back in. Where were we? Yes, the grilled cheese race. Okay, so there I was plugging along mile after mile when I felt something … below. Like, below, below. In the bottom of my pants below. So I did what any human being who thinks they’ve just pooped their pants would do: I panicked internally for roughly three minutes. Which I know doesn’t sounds like a long time, but do me a solid—pun intended—and take a pause for three minutes. While taking that pause, imagine you’ve just pooped your pants, you’re in a very public place, and you have absolutely no idea where the nearest restroom is. Now, can we agree that three minutes is on the same level as an eternity?
Here was the major problem—not only was the medal a grilled cheese sandwich, but all finishers also got a real grilled cheese sandwich with chocolate milk. I was wicked hungry, and I really wanted that sandwich, but you cannot just roll into the food line at the end of a race with poopy pants. You will make exactly zero friends doing that. So I summoned the courage to nonchalantly check the damage, and much to my relief it wasn’t poop … but my Omnipod. That slippery little sh*t.
My pump! I never thought I’d be excited to learn my pump fell off, but at that moment in time I was damned near ecstatic. It was the first race I’d done in the rain since diabetes, and I didn’t even think to reinforce my pod. Stuck to my upper buttocks, it must have lost its adhesion in the *moist* conditions and slid down. Thankfully I had a pen in the car I could use post-race for my coveted sandwich, now only a short 2 miles away—crisis averted.
In closing, real athletes poop their pants. I’ve read about it on the internet, so it must be true. See here, here and here. What did I tell you? It’s totally, 100 percent a thing. So if I thought I pooped my pants and didn’t slow down (or cry!) … I must be a real athlete, too. Go. Me. And if you’ve ever pooped (or peed) your pants while getting your diabadass workout on, then go, you, too!
