We started the run at Bear Creek Elementary on Table Mesa Drive, about half a mile from the trail head.  Six people showed up for the run; a mixture of skiing, basketball games, illness and travel and a sundry of family commitments prevented everyone from joining.  The loop was a short one; a mere six miles of climbing, flat, and downhill.  Easy.

The climbing started out okay. It was the day before Daylight Savings Time returned and I could still see where I was going at seven AM.  The temp was a cool thirty-eight degrees and my red fleece-lined shirt was plenty warm.  My Smart Wool gloves were a necessity so that my hands wouldn’t freeze and fall off by the wayside.

None of my usual running buddies were with me.  I tried to dial back my pace but found that I couldn’t do that AND climb at the same time.  Apparently I don’t have enough coordination to apply both forward motion and ease.  I have one speed, and that’s “get to the top of the hill without dying”.

By the time I looked up from the top of the hill I was alone.  I could hear people behind me, so I waited at the turn.  My breathing was even, a little sweat was prickling at my neck, and the body felt good.

We crossed behind NCAR and pounded along the red dirt of the Mesa Trail.  No other runners or hikers were out and I didn’t see hide nor hair of the mountain lion that was spotted directly north of my kids’ school yesterday.  Not that I would notice a mountain lion unless I stepped on it, really, or it started running beside me.  But that’s not the point.

Running along, I was aware of my breathing, the brilliance of the sky, the grayness of the dead bushes and the overall lifelessness of the pre-spring terrain.  With no one to pace me, my legs were doing their own thing and propelling my body forward.  Arms were pumping, keeping time to some internal rhythm.

I took the last corner and started down the service trail that wound around the base of NCAR.  Two miles to the trailhead and it was all downhill from here.

A gentle twinge in my belly told me something was starting to rumble to life.  This wasn’t the “I have to pee” fullness, this was something altogether different.  I’m a grown woman and I’ve had to rush to the bathroom many times in my life with bowel cramps.  I’ve never “not made it” to the toilet and have actually only experienced this sudden, undeniable urge in the safety, comfort and privacy of my own home.

I decided to ignore the feeling and hope for the best.  What else was I going to do?  Wait to get eaten by a mountain lion with my pants down?  I don’t mind a 20-second squat to pee behind a tree, but I wasn’t going to chance leaving an aromatic present that could be traced to my own backside.  However, I decided it couldn’t hurt to let myself hurtle down the mountain just a tad faster.

I let my mind wander in hopes that by ignoring the physical sensations, they would thus disappear.  This was really “mind over matter” in a most literal sense, whereby ignoring the obvious makes it not as real.  I’m sure I’m not the only person with documented intelligence to use this method of wishful thinking. 

Sudden cramping in my intestines told me that the inevitable was not far away and in fact, if I wasn’t careful, I’d be carrying more in my pants to the car than I had bargained for.  I hastily examined my bearings and realized that I was smack in the middle of a treeless path that runs parallel to a full street of houses.  Anyone looking out their back door would see me, as would anyone coming over the rise of the hill.  What was I going to do?  Run faster and find a tree, or just run to the car and get to the coffee shop? 

An ingrained sense of propriety sent me sailing for the car.  I alternately practiced my breathing and letting my mind wander away from my physical discomfort.  Loath to admit that my body was failing me, I ignored the telling signs and kept doing what I wanted.  Even though I knew in my heart of hearts that a mixture of pre-menstrual hormones and exercise was shaking things loose, I nevertheless insisted that I was infallible.  I have always despised being told I can’t do something I think I should be able to do, and even though I’ve gotten awfully good at listening to my body, sometimes I don’t like what it’s saying.  This was one of those times.  I didn’t want to be caught by the side of the trail with my pants down, destined to be one of the recurring jokes that resurface periodically through the months.  My ego was too big to handle the urgency of the situation in an amusing manner, and I thus decided to take my problem with me to the sanctuary of indoor plumbing.

Not two days later the same thing happened, only it occurred three miles away from my house in utter darkness.  No one was with me at six fifteen that morning, and I pooped behind a tree before returning home, embarrassed by myself.  Later that day I happened to be reading “Runner’s World”; this month’s issue has a list of readers’ “most embarrassing moments”.  One reader said that “you’re not a runner until you’ve pooped on a run”.  I had no idea that dropping a load while out gallivanting was a runner’s rite of passage.  Had I known that I wasn’t considered a “real runner” until I pooped in the woods, I would have aggressively worked toward that goal years ago.  Now that I can officially be called a “real runner”, here’s hoping next time I’m close to dense trees.