text: In the fall of 1996, I was on the cross-country team. Before each race, the team would warm up by running the course. During one such run, I was forced to stop because I almost shit my pants. The key word here is almost. In my youth, I knew not to test fate, so I turned back around leaving my team and headed straight for the restroom. The toilets were metal and disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers. I immediately exploded when I sat down, and I knew right then and there that I would be dropping out of the day’s race. My team, my family, and my friends were counting on me to finish--like always--dead last. Would they be disappointed if I weren’t closing out the race? When I finally emerged from the bathroom, my team (and their families) were waiting for me. Apparently, the story had gotten mixed up, and they were all under the impression that I had actually--in actual fact--shit my pants. There was nothing I could say to make them see it my way. Needless to say, there were jokes. These jokes continued the following week at school when everyone was telling the story. “Troy shit his pants and couldn’t run.” “Hey, Speed Racer, did you shit your pants?” “Keep on walkin’ Shit Pants.” Then, about a month later at the Fall Sports Banquet, I received the Most Improved Award. Now, you might be thinking, “Most Improved? I thought he always got last place.” Well, by the end of the season, I was no longer last. There were usually one or two people right behind me trying to steal my spotlight. As my coach was delivering his introduction of my award, he regaled the audience with the mixed-up version of the story, the one where I actually--in actual fact--shit my pants. So while everyone was red-faced and laughing so hard they were crying, I had to get up in front of all of them and accept my “Depends Award”--my coach’s nickname for it. A very pleasant experience. The truth is on that fateful autumn morning, I didn’t shit my pants. I just sharted a little. &#x200B; \* \* \* &#x200B; In the year 2000, I had gained a little weight after graduating high school. I was a little chunky, not super chunky, but enough to make my belly button talk. So in January of 2001, I decided to start running again. By the summer of 2001, I was full-blown OCD about it, running 5 miles six days a week. One summer day, I began my run like any other day. My course was a 2.5 mile run away from my house. About a mile in, I started to feel a little weird, but as any runner will tell you, stopping is out of the question. As the road straightened out, I noticed a group of guys riding four-wheelers on the old railroad tracks that were parallel to my course. No big deal. Common practice. At the 2-mile mark though, I started to feel cramps--I had been here before. Then, as I was just about as far away from my house as humanly possible, it happened: full-blown bubble guts. I tried to remain calm, but my body wasn’t having it. Why had it come on so fast? Was this some kind of karmic retribution? What had I done? I tried turning around and running back, but I realized very quickly that my colon could not hold its contents at that speed. So I tried walking briskly. Nope. Still about a mile and a half from home, I began getting hot flashes and goose bumps. This was going very, very badly. I was not prepared for this digestive incursion. Some immediate decisions had to be made, and I was not emotionally prepared to make such decisions. What should I do? What could I do? I was already clenching cheeks, tip-toeing on the side of the road like some cartoon bad guy. I could barely take another step. Should I go in my shorts? What if it leaks out and runs down my leg? Everyone driving by will see, and they’ll think, “I knew he really shit his pants that day. ‘Almost,’ my ass.” I decided that my only option was to go in the bushes. Wiping logistics would have to be determined later. I waited for all the cars to pass, then ran off the road and over to the train tracks. I looked around, saw that the coast was clear, then squatted down over some rocks. I’ll spare the details, but just know that the details were very messy...very hot and very messy. Only once I was relieved of my burden did I remember the guys riding four-wheelers just 20 minutes earlier. What if they came back? This operation would be compromised. I don’t know if I could escape fast enough. If I pulled up my pants too fast, I’d have shit all over my back. And what would they say? “Shit Pants is at it again.” “My God, he can’t stop himself.” “Look at ‘im. Just squattin’ there. Little pervert.” Getting caught was not an option. I couldn’t survive it socially. The anxiety set in, but I still had to figure out how to wipe. Should I use my underwear and just leave them there? What if they could be traced back to me? I grabbed some leaves and prayed to God that it wasn’t poison ivy or poison oak. I’ve never wiped so fast and so unthoroughly in my life. I pulled my pants up, checked for passing cars, and when no one was around, I ran back out to the road and walked home as if nothing had happened. When I got inside, I threw my underwear and shorts away, then got in the shower and rinsed off. I was an animal that day. &#x200B; \* \* \* &#x200B; For years I was fine. Life was good. That is, until yesterday. For the last month, I have run/jogged/walked a five-mile course two or three times a week. Yesterday, I decided that I would run once it cooled down. I figured 6 pm would be good. It would be cool enough, but the sun would still be out. Last time I ran at night in San Pedro, two men--on two separate occasions--swung at me as I ran past them from behind. One of them even said, “What the hell?” as he swung. Apparently, in San Pedro if you are running toward someone at night, you don’t have good intentions. I also had to make sure I got past a certain spot in the bushes by the beach while the sun was still out. That is not a place where I want to frolic in the dark. Last time I was there, the city was doing construction, and I saw a woman with a stroller go into the bushes down the very manicured dirt path (kind of like a little side park). I thought, “This gentle mother must know a way around the construction,” and I followed her only to realize too late that I had just been led into a homeless encampment/drug den trap by its supplier. That wasn’t a baby in that stroller. That was crystal meth. Thank God I had on running shoes because running is exactly what I did. I have no qualms about openly running from people. I do it all the time. Prior to yesterday’s run, I had drunk a total of 8 espresso shots and had eaten only a bowl of cereal, two hard-boiled eggs, and an apple with peanut butter. I didn’t consider the consequences. Years of peacetime had made me forget the scourges of my rectum. It wasn’t until right around the secret homeless encampment/drug den that I realized something was wrong. My insides started to twist; my mind started to panic. Again, I was at almost exactly the farthest point from my house. I decided that I had to just keep going. I only had to make it back. And, actually, that seemed to work for a little while. My future started to look brighter. Then 23rd street hit. I had been walking for a little while at this point, and I thought I would run a little more since I was only about a mile from home. After about 10 steps, I realized that running was now off the table. If I ran another step, I would dump. Up until this point in my life, I’ve never had to clench so tight. You know when you swallow air to make yourself burp? Well, it was kind of like that but heavier, considerably more miserable, and on the other end with a lot more fear and regret. A group of misfit teenagers were on the other side of the street. Two seemed to be arguing and the rest watching. Was a fight about to break out? As a teacher, I’m used to intervening in these situations, but a gang fight might be just the distraction I need if I suddenly find myself with shit running down my legs. With all the attention on them, I might be able to clean myself up with a sock or something before anyone notices. Maybe they’ll all get involved and it’ll really become a scene! However, much to my dismay, they stopped arguing and went on their way. I was left with 13 more blocks to go. My head down, my breath heavy, my pace quickening (as much as my clenched butt would allow), I charged on. Every few blocks or so, I would get a wave of severe cramps with the understanding that I could blow at any second. I thought maybe if I sat down it would help, but that was also chancy since my body might interpret that position as a command to release. So I kept going, wincing and whispering “Oh my God” over and over. About five blocks from my house, things got really serious. I walked over a piece of upended sidewalk (from tree roots) and the bubble guts came on so hard that I almost just let go, but this was not Bellaire-Neffs Road. There were no train tracks or bushes to hide in. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen out in the open for everyone to see. I pulled from deep down inside me. This will not be the day that I shit myself in public! I held it in as hard as I could knowing that I was probably causing irreparable bodily damage. My poor lower intestines. They don’t deserve this! Just a few blocks from my house, I walked--head down in full panic--past two men standing near their stoop. Judging by my demeanor, they knew something was wrong. What was that in their eyes? Sympathy? Disgust? I couldn’t dwell on such matters. I rounded the corner and arrived home. I entered the code to my building, ran up the stairs and into my apartment, and tore my shoes off. Side note: I just bought these shoes, and they are half a size too big. So in addition to battling a severe case of diarrhea, I also went running in essentially what might be described as Asics clown shoes. Needless to say, when I was finally on the toilet, something really, really special happened. I literally screamed when I finally let it go. And then I--out loud--thanked God for bringing me home to glory. &#x200B; Not again bubble guts, not again. &#x200B; P.S. Is this why they call it “the runs”? &#x200B; P.P.S.