It happened while jogging, with several cars passing by, I was forced to declare a state of emergency in the middle of nowhere as nature called — what would you have done?
I was just an occasional jogger.
By the time I decided to quit, I had carried out 37 workouts and burnt 18 817 calories with a total distance of 310 km.
In fact, jogging helped me survive a period of mental turmoil. I had set solid goals to keep my health in check. The routine was quite simple: 40 km a week. Four jogging sessions, which consists of two sets of 12 km and two sets of 8 km.
But, out of all the workout sessions, two in particular stand out — the culprits that cornered me into quitting. I haven’t made peace with the surrounding circumstances of how I was robbed of a hobby I grew to love. I had been scared to go back to running for nearly two years.
It was a Wednesday evening, 15 February 2023. As usual, I wore my floral skindi, hoodie and reflector. That day, I burnt 472 calories on one of my 8 km sets.
On the App that I use to monitor my performance, it asked one question at the end: how was your run? “Well, this was a sh#$tty one after two weeks of intermission,” I noted. “Imagine, I first had to deal with itchy veins on my thighs and my butt. What’s that? Meanwhile on my journey back, I had to overcome another major blow: a runner’s trot.”
Let me break it down.
On the first runs, I used to catch a breather at the Verena four-way intersection, where traffic passes from Emalahleni to Kwaggafontein or Bronkhorspruit to Groblersdal. The return stretch, though, was steep and I often took a few breaks while my muscles groaned in protest.
But on this particular day, barely a kilometre into my return, came an unwelcome and frankly humiliating intrusion: a runny tummy.
I ignored it.
Perhaps through oblivion, I was determined that it would just pass. But it quickly dawned on me how much I undermined its resilience. While on the busy tarmac road, with endless cars and pedestrians going to various destinations after knock-off hours, I reckoned that I needed to run to save myself.
Things, if left unattended, would just run their own course!
As I approached the nearby houses at Verena built next to the road, none of them seemed to have any access. The jogging gods and legends, it seemed, were conspiring against me. As the turn of events became volatile, a state of emergency was imminent.
Should I squeeze myself through the fence? Perhaps, let’s try next door. It was a barbed wire. Should I just jump over and explain later if I am ever caught?
Luckily, I found a small gate. Off I went to signal my presence in the yard. A child came out and I asked where might the adults of the household be? They had locked themselves in the room. I stood on the door and briefly explained the situation and sought permission to free myself.
Permission granted. I felt a deep sense of calm. Finally!
The restroom— made of corrugated iron sheet and too small to even stretch yourself — didn’t seem to endorse some restfulness due to the emanating stench. Thus, it did not allow nor afford me the luxury to reflect on the moment. Its mandate was clear: do your business and leave at your earliest convenience.
I went back to the tarmac and carefully looked at my steps while jogging this time. We shouldn’t touch the wrong buttons. We’ve already survived a coup d’état. Yoh, I was nearly overthrown. Nevertheless, I successfully finished the workout.
What kind of savagery is this?
Then came the 22nd of February, another evening run. This time I had taken the 12 km session. I usually take it in the opposite direction, as if I am running towards Sokhulumi township or Bronkhorspurit. I ran for about 2 km around the houses in my neighbourhood, then, came the open space where I enthusiastically trotted towards my 6 km mark.
The road is just a flat surface and has shallow grass. Just about 4,5 km into the run kwang’phinda futhi. Another runny tummy. What kind of savagery is this, I wondered?
In the distance, I could see a small bush. I was reminded of the olden days in the village when we were kids. There aren’t places we didn’t chart: from mountains to forests, either hunting or looking for honey.
I asked myself: what did we use when nature called? I remember quite vividly that toilet papers weren’t even a thing during my time. It was quite a luxury to use toilet paper. So, as the bush is about a kilometre away, do I run slowly and hopefully un-touch the intestinal marathon buttons? Or do I run as fast as I can to hide in the bush? What if the runny tummy outpaces me?
Either way, I was screwed.
Now, I was sweating and shivering. All the security put in place is likely to be compromised: a slippery slope situation. This moment had earned itself a spot in the history books. At least in my books of jogging.
I contemplated disregarding all rules of civility. But even in this deep mess, I had some integrity to protect. Would I have to improvise with whatever tools Mother Nature placed at my disposal?
Sticks.
Grass.
Small round stones.
None of it would do the trick. I never finished that workout. All I know is that this was the nail in the coffin. I am sure you wonder how I overcame this one. As the App asked: how was your run? I will give you the same answer:
“No comment.”
