There I was, stood on the streetlamp lit doorstep of my house, a sweaty 6k run fully complete and a bowel, griping and gurning with a desperate urge to purge.
And no key. Fuck.
After frantically checking every pocket of my overpriced running leggings I checked every pocket of my memory with equal fervour, and my mind’s eyes raced along the winter darkened pathways I had just pounded, taking in with horror the series of events that i now surmised had robbed me of my key.
I have regaled the internet before with tales of how joggers trots can mercilessly sabotage a good run – and also your running pants. It’s a cruel biological prank that blights even the most seasoned professionals – just ask Taylor Knibb – and it was after a previous struggle with my innards and the stringent closing hour of park lavatories that a dear friend jokingly sent me a supply of dog poo bags.
I did not find this a funny gift. I found it a LIFE SAVER! A doggy-doo bag with a neatly folded wad of can rag now accompanies me on every run, forming a Bear Grylls-esque port-a-loo in times of locked lavs and misjudged miles.
And this run was no different; I had packed my port-a-potty and my house key and I had ventured out into the crisp late afternoon, the last of the daylight being choked by the cruelly invasive seasonal dark.
My feet took flight as I filled my lungs and pumped my limbs. It wasn’t going to be a long one, just round the Olympic Park and home before premature night fully took hold and let danger and devilment leer round every corner. It was a route I knew well and a route that would land me at a well maintained public convenience at, conveniently, the 3k mark where my tummy mud would make its predictable request for liberty.
I hit 3k and I had the public lav in sight. Only… there was something else hoving into view. A crowd. A sea of testosterone, Carling and North Face swelling along the bridge overhead, surging into the Olympic stadium. West Ham Utd are home. West Ham Utd are home and that swell of spectators means only one thing. The loo. Is. Locked.
I run on. I run through the jolly throng and begin the return leg of my run. Clenched of buttock and boiled of piss, I press on through the human litter cluttering my pathway and head for the canal path home looking for the darkest, most secluded spot where I might be afforded enough privacy to avoid filling my kit with an unwelcome brown tail.
I lock in on the underside of a bridge. Soft sand muffles my footfall and shadows cloak me as I flick open my canine bag-of-delight and, like the troll of folklore, there under the bridge with feet trip-trapping overhead, I unleash my grimness.
I would call it sweet relief, but honestly, defecating in close proximity to tens of thousands of lagered-up sports fans isn’t the bowel-loosener you might imagine. Regardless, job done and on we go, feet once more galloping like Pegasus through the chill evening air, onwards, to home.
Only, as I rounded the corner toward home I realised that shyness had kept some gut gravy from joining its friends in the canalside evacuation, and it was now furious and threatening violence. But no need to worry, because just a few powerful strides and I would be in the comfort of my own bathroom. And so I reached for my key…
And that is where you first found me. Locked out of my house and locked in a conundrum. I knew where the key most likely was and I knew I would never make it back to it with unsoiled pants and dignity. One thing would need dealing with first and that thing was becoming ever more pressing.
Whatever deity I have not yet angered decided to take pity on me. As I clenched and scurried hopefully toward the park, knowing it closes early in winter, the gate stood welcomingly open and dog walkers and perverts stood clear while an obliging bush gave shelter to an explosive moment of relief.
No time for the sweat to cool on my brow or to ponder the absorbency of single-ply leaves, on I flew, cutting through the familiar blackness of the London eve that had been sliced by my speed mere moments before. With fear in my heart and god knows what under my fingernails, praying that this was not a shit shot in the dark with no hope, I ran a rescue mission for my missing key. .
This tale has a happy ending. With vim in my legs, the torch on my phone and luck on my side, I found that poor jettisoned key lying on the gritty-but-not shitty sand that had recently witnessed my ungainly unloading. A few pounds lighter and considerably wiser, and with an unexpected 10k under my belt, I finally made it to my sanctuary of hot showers and domestic defecation. And the lessons learned? Keep your key separate to your pocket potty. And always double bag.
Pretty Feet, Pop Toe 