(literally) Holy Shit

I don't know if i ever posted this here before, but I just told someone this story.

One year i did the Seaford Road Race as my first race of the year. It's 100 miles long.

Between the morning coffee and the first hard effort of the year, my stomach was rumblin' and bumblin' pretty good by mile 30. I figured that after a while, if I ignored it, it would just go away. If I had to stop, there was no chance of me catching back up to the 100 man field.

I was wrong.

As the miles ticked by, things got worse and worse. 40 miles in I had since given up on the idea of finishing the race and had resigned myself to just relieving the pain. To compound matters, Seaford is in southern Delaware near the shore and is as flat as a pancake. There are few houses around, and the ones that are there are the type of places that shoot first and ask questions later. If they catch you taking a dump on their lawn that probably changes to shoot first, set you on fire second, then ask questions. The course is 10 miles around, but the start finish is at a church and the cars and bathroom facilities are another 5 miles back into town. In short, after ten more miles of suffering, I could not find anyplace to go. I figured I'd have to hold it and trek back to town.

As the finish line approached it became obvious to me that I was not going to make it back town. As the riders rolled through I quickly yelled to the officials that I was dropping out. As discreetly and hastily as possible I made a beeline for the back of the church...it was my only hope.

In a panic I tore off my jersey, ripped down my shorts, and relaxed as best I could. What happened next can only be described as Vesuvian. I'd use Mt. St. Helian but that doesn't flow off the tongue smoothly.

It then occurred to me that I had no toilet paper. It also quickly became apparent that the main foliage in southern Delaware consists of pine trees. I had briefly considered some unique uses for a pine cone, then thought better.

I was about to sacrifice one of my socks when I realized that i had a race number on. Perfect ! I took care of business and pulled my shorts up.

When i turned around I was stunned by the evil i saw. The back of the church was besmirched with a horrible brown stain that stood 6 feet tall and 4 foot in diameter. I was repulsed ( and oddly proud) and what I had created...and ON A CHURCH no less. Ashamed and surely damned to hell I started to clear out as quickly as possible....then I remember the number.

If they had my number, they could trace the crime back to me. Sure it was a longs shot, but better men then me had been taken out by far less.

With unequalled disgust I retrieved the number. And with great care I folded it and placed it into my jersey pocket. Then I snuck out the other end of the church lot, and so no one could see me, rode the long way back, shamed and broken.

There are times I miss bicycle racing. This, however, is not one of them.