Pooped your pants while running? (Read 1536 times)


    uhhhh so that is to say that you have on other occasions??

     lol you caught that. No, i was just kidding about that. Well, maybe when i was a kid a few times.


      *raises hand*


      With any luck, my day will come.

       yes. One thing i realize from this thread is you're probably not a real runner unless you have.


      Personally, I'd rather take 5 minutes BEFORE a run to get it out of the way. But apparently many others are a little more flexible in that regard.


        I'm thinking that this thread could have been our meltdown thread. Not sure how it would have happened, but it would have been awesome if it had. Anyone agree with me?

          Reading this thread I'm laughing so hard I'm crying.

          Thats rad

            So, would it be best to only run in granny panties under my shorts? 

             Just bring a grocery bag with you. It's much quicker, and helps not completely destroy your time.




               Just bring a grocery bag with you. It's much quicker, and helps not completely destroy your time.


              Poop bags for runners...genius!

              2014 goals

              Well, there's always next year.

                I can even tell you the date....Last 4th of July...I went fora run after dark. The neighborhood was at war with one another with fireworks going off everywhere,.  Right before the last mile I had a chance to go in a jiffy john by the park but it was so dark out I decided I could make it home and I did but I about passed out on the pot when I got back!!! My sweat got real cold and clamy!!!....Tight lips I made it but missed the pot a little and felt like I was going to die as the fireworks were going off.Dead


                  TC I am still laughing at that story!  I just could not stop reading...


                  As for me...all I can say is that I will never, I repeat "never", have another Dunkin Donuts ice coffee and then decide "what a beautiful day for my long run".  Never.



                     yes. One thing i realize from this thread is you're probably not a real runner unless you have.


                    Personally, I'd rather take 5 minutes BEFORE a run to get it out of the way. But apparently many others are a little more flexible in that regard.


                    Unfortunately sometimes you find out halfway through a run that what you did before the run was a down payment. And the balance is about to come due.


                    registered pw

                      I always try and go as many times as i can to prevent it. But, one day my stomach wasn't 100% and i farted on a run, my ass cheeks weren't happy. Luckily there was an outhouse close by at a ballfield so i stopped there. I was lucky.

                      2017 goals:

                      sub 1:30 half 



                        Never a full load while running, just some leakage 30 minutes after ingesting a gel for  the first time on a long run.  I thought I could make it home. I was wrong. I ended up ruining a tree 1/2 mile from home. Poor tree, it never hurt anyone.


                        I like the bag idea someone mentioned. I'm not sure how much less embarrassing it would be standing by the side of the road, hand/hands and bag down your shorts with that look on your face...

                        2013 -Sub 2:00 for 1/2 marathon

                        Thats rad

                          I offer up another great story for everybody:


                          BRIGHT LIGHTS, BIG SHITTY

                          I can remember a day from the second grade. I was drawing a picture, and as I bent over my paper, I noticed water flowing across the floor towards my desk. I looked over and saw that the “water” came from a girl. Urine dripped from her chair and soaked her shorts and legs. She had an anguished, embarrassed expression. “Please don’t tell,” she mouthed silently, her eyes pleading. I turned back to my paper and continued drawing. Another child soon noticed and yelled out to the teacher, “She pee-peed in her pants!” The class laughed at her.

                          I didn’t tell, I’m proud of that.

                          But I did laugh.

                          This is my apology.

                          Recently, in a relatively public place, I managed to... How shall I put it? Void myself sounds too euphemistic, egestion too scientific, number two a bit childish.

                          I shit my pants.

                          No other way to say it, really.

                          I suffer from a horrific combination of Irritable Bowel Syndrome and Lactose Intolerance. If I even look at a cow, anything in my lower intestine turns to soup that needs to be served immediately. I have, over time, come to accept this as just punishment for dairy indulgence. Why not just give up the fruits of the cow? Oh, I’ve tried. Unfortunately, everything, from cookies to scotch, tastes better with milk. So, instead of actually denying myself something that provokes such violent bodily reaction, I’ve managed to: 1) subconsciously know the location of every bathroom (manufactured or natural) in the immediate area, 2) always travel with sufficient absorbent material to handle emergencies, and 3) develop my sphincter muscles until they’re tight as a frog’s.

                          But the best laid plans…

                          I was at a bar where a friend’s thrash band was playing, happily flailing away in the mosh pit when I realized what was about to happen. In about thirty seconds, I was going to fill my pants.

                          What was it that brought me low? Pizza, ice cream, a simple glass of cold milk on a warm summer’s day? Whatever the culprit, he was demanding his due. I fought my way from the sweating mass of dancers in the mosh pit into the sweaty mass of drinkers at the bar. I rapidly elbowed through the crowd until I was at the portal of sanctuary, Men’s. Mercifully, there was no line. I flung open the door and stepped inside.

                          It was literally the most disgusting restroom I’ve ever set foot in (and I’ve been to Europe!). The uneven floor was an inch deep with pools of overflow and urine. The toilet was Marine style, with no separating partition from the trough urinal, the seat missing. The walls were filthy, splattered with what I hoped was mud. Almost gagging, I was fully prepared to do my duty, but...

                          There was no toilet paper. There had been, as obvious by the wet dirty wads that dotted the walls, casting a great deal of doubt on that “mud” theory of mine. In the corner a roll—a full roll!, one of those giant industrial-sized mothers!--that some evil joker had rinsed down with his bodily fluids. Evacuating my bowels in such a hellhole was something I thought I could handle, but not wiping afterwards was beyond the pale. I exited the restroom, frantic now, waste products insistently knocking at my colon, and ran to my car, conveniently, almost auspiciously, parked right outside the front door.

                          I began to search for the emergency toilet paper kept on hand. (A lesson hard-learned after an incident on the Washington DC beltway at morning rush hour on the way to a job interview). But I could only find a few fast-food napkins and a dishtowel. I slammed the hatchback shut and decided against returning to the restroom. No, I would go au natural this time.

                          Feces al fresco.

                          I shuffled towards the next building down the street, an abandoned warehouse. I tried to increase my pace, but it’s physically impossible to break into a run while clenching one's anus. I stumbled around the corner of the building and stopped in the shadow of a large propane tank.

                          I leaned my back against rusty metal, lowered my shorts, and unclenched. After a few moments, it became apparent that the napkins I held would be insufficient to handle the cleaning-up. I let nature continue to run her watery course and began to cut the dishtowel into wide strips. God bless the Swiss Army.

                          From my shadowed hideaway I watched a Corvette drive up and park in the lot in front of the warehouse. Two people got out of the car, their footsteps echoing off the road behind me. I wasn’t in plain view, but the incessant running of my bowels was a sure attention-getter. I squeezed myself shut and it was like a fist hitting my colon.

                          “I can see your penis!” a woman cried out in a sing-song voice. She began to repeat it like a nursery rhyme. “I can see your penis,” nanny-nanny-boo-boo. I looked down. What the hell was she talking about? I could barely see my penis. What kind of sick freak sees a man evacuating his bowels in public and only comments on his exposed genitalia? Hearing a rustle in the woods across the road, I carefully leaned out for a peek. A man stepped from the trees and into the woman’s arms and they walked away towards the bar. It wasn't my penis that interested her after all.

                          Bowels empty at last, and still undetected, I faced the challenging task of cleaning myself with my meager supplies. I decided that the napkins were too flimsy to use first. Save them for the delicate work. I began with the dishtowel.

                          I had cut the towel into six strips. After I’d already used two, I could see that I had cut them too big: there wouldn’t be enough. I cut the rest in half and tried to use as much of their surface area as possible while keeping my fingers covered. By the end of the towel pieces, I was pretty-well cleaned up. I used the napkins to deal with slight collateral damage.

                          I confess I left the feculent towel scraps and napkins where they lay. After managing to void my bowels outdoors with nothing more than rags to wipe with and coming out clean, I wasn’t about to tempt Sterculius, the Roman god of feces, by removing his offering.

                          I spied something on the ground as I made my way back to the bar. Tears filled my eyes as I picked it up. A moist towelette. Lemon-freshened. I tore open the pack and rubbed the citrusy tissue over my hands. Clean and disinfected, I went back inside.

                          Ten minutes later, having fought my way to the front of the stage, I leapt back into the frenzied mosh pit. Ten seconds later I was leaping out. Now, I didn’t care about the condition of the bathroom.

                          But there was a line this time, a deep one. I hurtled through the front door and into the parking lot. I glanced at my car. I would have torn up the upholstery, but I didn’t have time. I ran towards the warehouse. Just as I was almost past the line of parked cars, I was doubled-over by a clenching in my intestine.

                          “Step away from the car!” a voice commanded, coming from the Corvette. “You are too close to the car!” The voice paused for effect. “Protected by Viper!” The car alarm continued to yell at me as I staggered along its length to the front door of the warehouse.

                          The entranceway was an enclosed brick awning, half-hidden in shadow. It would have to do, I thought, scrabbling at the buttons to my shorts, my back against the wall in my patented crouch.

                          I almost made it.

                          It’s one thing having soupy stools spraying into the open air. It’s quite another when they hit the back of your boxers. I knew instinctively that I had to save the shorts. The underwear was history, but the stain must not be allowed to penetrate to the surface layer of clothing.

                          I yanked the shorts down, carefully separating the underwear away. I lowered the shorts first, stepping out of the legs, then held them up to check for discoloration. They were clean. My boxers came off next, leaving me naked from the waist down. All the while my intestines continued to pump. I don’t know where they were finding it. Perhaps I was finally processing the eight pounds of undigested meat we carnivores carry in our bodies. Always look for the silver lining.

                          “Step away from the car!” the metallic voice of the car alarm demanded again. “If you do not step away from the car in ten seconds, I will sound my alarm.” The voice began to count down.

                          I scuttled about, crab-like, in the entranceway, frantically trying to find a spot hidden from the car’s sensors. “Seven...Six...” I edged along the wall, painting it. “Five...Four...” I moved into the light of the street lamp. The voice stopped. My back was still against the wall, my torso in shadow, but my legs, feet, and everything else I considered important were exposed.

                          From the direction of the club, I heard the approach of voices. Since the view to the road was blocked by the presence of the now-silent car, and my colon was quiet, too, for the moment, I relaxed, even as the voices came closer. Forty feet away, thirty, twenty, ten.

                          Then they stopped.

                          “Step away from the car!” The car was yelling again. But I didn’t move, I almost called out. I looked into the parking lot and there, at the end of the Corvette, was the couple I had seen arrive earlier. They were passionately kissing a car length away. My legs began shaking as I pondered the humiliation of being discovered. My bowels suddenly decided that I hadn’t been humiliated enough, and prepared a new onslaught. I clenched like I’d never clenched before.

                          “Step away from the car!” The couple broke their embrace. The man put his hand in his pocket and brought out his keys. He pointed the keyring at the automobile, which made two beeps and became silent. My stomach gurgled loudly in protest.

                          He got in and leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. The roar of the bored engine nicely covered the sound of my bowels finally letting go, but I knew it was only a matter of seconds before I was discovered. I moved back into the darkness of the corner. He turned on his headlights. High beams. I was caught like a deer, the light filling my hideout. I pressed my face back into the darkness, absolutely ashamed. There I was, wearing a T-shirt, shoes and socks and nothing else, squatting, legs shaking, bowels disgorging. I must have made quite a sight.

                          And the car backed up and drove away. I don’t think they ever saw me.

                          Now I needed to escape. I inventoried my supplies. None. I looked at my soiled underwear. If I were careful—very, very careful—there was a good square foot of clean material there to use. I picked up the boxers and carefully folded them. I used my Origami skills to utilize every inch of fabric. But it wasn’t enough. In the end, the last bit of boxer came away dirty, a disgusting fetid Flying Crane. I needed something else.

                          I looked down and saw the answer. My socks. I carefully removed my shoes. For the first time, I rued the fact that I like footies. If there were ever a time to wear knee socks, this was it. I slipped the socks over my hands like mittens.

                          They worked wonderfully. The thick cotton protected my skin and on the last wipe they came away as clean as the day I bought them. I was now unsullied and completely, absolutely, hopefully, empty. I put my shoes back on, sans socks, then stepped into my shorts. I left the entranceway and looked back at what I had done.

                          It wasn’t a pretty sight. It was an even uglier smell. Suddenly I noticed a sign in the doorway, advertising the warehouse’s hours of operation. It wasn’t abandoned after all. Someone was going to have a fun Monday morning.

                          I found a plastic grocery bag and, using a stick, placed the soiled articles inside. I wrapped the bag as tightly as I could and walked back to the club. My friends were gathered around my car, the show over.

                          “Where you been?”

                          Where had I been? I leaned over and picked up my discarded towelette, still slightly moist. I could smell its lemony goodness cleansing me, body and soul, as I pondered that innocent question. I’d been to the edge. I’d just lived through what primal man must have experienced when he left the safety of his cave and ventured out into the darkness to answer Nature’s oldest call. I’d faced my personal demons, and conquered them. I’d pushed the envelope. I’d been there and back again. But I said none of these.

                          “Taking a shit,” I answered simply.



                            Top_cheddar, great story!

                            Wandering Wally

                              Came very close to returning home sockless last night. However, I made it in the nick of time.

                              Run!  Just Run!


                              Trail Runner Nation Podcast

                                Obligatory... this thread went this far without this pic??