Gregory Desperately Trying to Outrun “The Runs” Mid-Run

With no restroom, porta-potty, woods, or hole in the ground within a 3-mile vicinity, Gregory Bachman III is absolutely terrified he’s gonna shit his pants before making it home from running.

Ever the multitasker, cardio isn’t the only activity Gregory’s fragile body is engaged in. Gregory’s leaky bowels are under far more stress than his tired legs, on the tail-end of a 10-mile “long” run — a distance many wouldn’t even consider long. Amid knife-sharp stomach pains and heavy bullets of sweat, Gregory fears it’s a wicked bad case of “the runs.”

Despite approaching mile 7, his “toot” count, astoundingly, isn’t too far behind his step count. He’s engrossed in a dangerous—and gross—game of fart or shart: it’s like Russian Roulette but you risk shitting your brains out instead of blowing them out.

Every runner’s been there — “there” means on the verge of muddying your shorts while running. You’re a bigger liar than Pinocchio if you say otherwise. But typically, one’s able to make it home from pounding the pavement before shit hits the fanny. If only he wasn’t wearing the heaviest shoes in his rotation; not that it matters —running faster would only bring “the runs” faster.

Look, there’s no denying everyone poops. Hell, Author Tarō Gomi wrote a whole kids book to relieve shame and embarrassment around the act of defecating. But not everyone poops their pants, and that is certainly shameful and embarrassing — especially as a 41-year-old.

If only Gregory could take his mind off feces. Alas, it’s like the universe is conspiring against him.

The clock just struck 2 o’clock and his urge to go is only exacerbated by listening to Green Day’s 1994 album Dookie. One look at the road, he realizes he’s never seen so many skid marks — aside from the ones in his underwear (Gregory never did learn to wipe properly). What’s more, he’s spotting an abnormally high number of dogs squatting to “fertilize” a lush green lawn.

Worst yet, his running mantra of “This too, shall pass” is having the opposite effect — it’s actively encouraging him to “pass” bowel movements. Not to mention the “too”-“two” (#2) connection. Speaking of, he’s currently on an unimpressive two-day run streak.

The cherry on top of Gregory’s shit sundae? He’s running on Deuce Street which has a considerable elevation drop.

Pale-skinned Gregory knew he shouldn’t have devoured that entire Chipotle burrito last night—or any of that Chipotle burrito last night. He just had to get all three salsas and the new chimichurri sauce. No White Angelo-Saxon Protestant can handle that much spice! It’s science!

It’s quite the ironic predicament. Clueless Gregory usually has heavyweight bouts with constipation due to perpetual dehydration and a diet heavy on processed junk and light on fiber.

With just one mile to go, he’s come so far, yet still has a lot to go—in more ways than one. Any runner worth a damn will tell you the last mile of a poop-plagued run is the toughest. Thinking you’re home free, the brain sends a message to the body to relax. It’s like a desert mirage.

At press time, Gregory just barely made it home unsoiled — only to struggle undoing the extremely tight knot on his new shorts before sullying himself in the bathroom. Adding insult to injury, his visiting in-laws could hear everything in the next room.