My Central Park Shit Story

In the nearly fifteen years since it happened, I’ve told this story countless times but I have never recorded it for posterity until now.  Surely it goes without saying that any story with “shit” in the title runs the risk of being overtly scatological, so if you have a problem with anything involving human feces, well, perhaps you should give this post a pass.

I had just gotten off a red-eye after a week-long vacation featuring the most decadent meals imaginable.  Between all of the sinful eating and the way a plane can wreak havoc on your bowels, I hadn’t had a sufficient movement for probably twenty hours, give or take the six lost changing time zones.  This is most unlike me; my system, like most things about me, is pretty darn regular.

Upon landing, I was pretty anxious to get a run in to make up for all the damage done on my cheese-soaked travels.  As most runners know, I thought it best to wait until I had a mid-morning constitutional before I hit up Central Park.  I drank coffee to no affect.  I napped.  I ate an avocado omelet.  I waited hours, and nothing.  The morning turned to afternoon, and I saw my window of opportunity for daylight dwindling.  Against my better judgment, I headed out.

I always entered the park through the southwest corner at Columbus Circle and typically ran clockwise against the flow.  I’d like to say it’s because I’m a rebel who laughs in the face of convention, but really it was because the hills seemed easier in this direction.

The first three miles I was fine.  It was right when I started running up the hill in Harlem that my stomach began to feel uneasy.  I tried to ignore it, but within minutes I felt what must have been the fecal equivalent of a week’s worth of pasta, bread, cheese and one avocado omelet literally drop like a thud into my pelvic bowl.

With no bathroom in sight, I considered discretely running into the woods but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.  I have actually had the misfortune of running past someone publicly pooping near this very spot, and on the Venn diagram of life, I did not want to have any overlap with that kind of crazy.  The only bathrooms I could think of were by the boathouse, about two miles away.  Liquid matter was starting to seep, but I was squeezing with all my might in hopes that I could make it.

I’d like to say those were the fastest two miles I’ve ever run, but honestly, how fast can anyone run in such a delicate condition?  I will say that the boathouse could not come fast enough.  When I finally got to the entrance, I was devastated to see there was a line out the door.

At this point, I was desperate.  I was sweating, and crying, and almost doubled over in pain.  I pleaded with all the women in front of me, most of them scowling Eastern bloc tourists who clearly were missing their borscht and vodka, “Please!  Please!  Can you let me go first?  I’m desperate!  Please?”  They all pretended not to understand a word I was saying.  I continued to wait in line, shaking.

It was finally my turn.  With the absolute worst timing ever, on my way to the vacated stall, within feet of the prize, my poor tired sphincter could fight no more.  Out it came.  And there was a lot.

What could I do?  I entered the stall to survey the damage.  I placed my Walkman – yes, Walkman! – on the ground since there was nowhere else to put it, pulled down my pants, and sat on the toilet.  I looked down in shock.  It’s true, my underwear and pants were in a sorry state, but I was pretty surprised by actually how little there was.  I mean, it certainly felt like a massive load, but the evidence simply didn’t support the suffering.

I decompressed on the toilet for a while, cleaned myself up as best I could.  I threw away my soiled underwear and tried to rectify the pants situation with wads and wads of one-ply toilet paper.  Finally I was decent enough to leave.  I bent down to pick up my Walkman and discovered on the ground, mere millimeters away, was a gigantic, soft pile of shit.  Yup, there it was.  It must have fallen out when I sat down and I was too traumatized to even notice.

I tried to clean it up as best I could, but to be honest at this point I was so disgusted with myself and everything in the gross public bathroom around me that I did, well, a crappy job.  As I left the stall to wash my hands thoroughly, I heard the woman entering after me let out a high-pitched scream.  I scurried out of the bathroom.

I walked delicately home and took the longest, hottest shower ever.  I probably should have also sterilized with alcohol, but I drank it instead.  At least my Walkman was unscathed.