Another DNF

In February of 2023, just four days after turning the chin-graying age of 37, I ran, so to speak, a 31-mile race up to the highest point in Alabama, USA. This is how I remember it. (Note, the language in this report is not suitable for children.) I could feel my quads shudder and buckle against the slightest decline. They were like my arms whenever I overdo it with the free weights and then try to lift a carton of milk. “They’re blown,” I whispered. Running on blown quads is sort of like driving on a flat tire: You’re carrying around a few dozen pounds of useless shock absorber that keeps going, “Thump – Thump – Thump – Thump,” and you’re left wondering how long it will take until you’ve damaged the rim, which, in this metaphor, might be the hips or knees.   I stared at my watch. “3.26 miles,” it said, which meant that I still had 28 miles left. And I remembered something I had overheard on the bus to the beginning of the race: “The hardest part of the course was the last three mil...

It unfolded exactly as it had in my nightmare. I pressed down the lever again. This time the bowl began to fill, pushing the wadded up toilet paper closer to the rim of the toilet.     “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” I said to the line of shivering runners who were waiting behind me. “But it seems the toilet is stopped up.” I considered explaining how nervous constipation had kept me from contributing to the plumbing problem, but decided in the end to keep that part to myself.    Below the concrete slab I could hear pipes groaning. The urinal on the wall started gurgling. In the women’s room next door I could hear toilets as they continued to flush. That’s when the drain on the floor came alive.    The nightmare had reached its crescendo. “It’s a stopped sewer line! Stop flushing!” I yelled. I went out and found the RD, John Kilpatrick.   “I’ve got some crappy news for you,” I said, and then I told him the news about the bathrooms next to the race...