Marathon #13 – Little Rock, Arkansas – March 6, 2011
“Rules is rules.”
The convenience store clerk stood defiantly, arms folded, behind the counter.
“And only paying customers can use our bathroom.”
He punctuated his final statement by mockingly spinning on his index finger the keyring that held the object of my desire, the Passport to my desperately-sought-after Promised Land whose locked door was a mere 10 feet away.
It was just beyond Mile 17 of the Little Rock Marathon, and never in my previous 12 marathons to that point had I ever experienced such a sudden and urgent need to … uh … let’s just say “jettison some cargo.”
To be clear, multiple times in the past during marathons and training runs I had found creative and discrete ways to “jettison” when the “cargo” was … for example … coffee.
But doughnuts?
Well, that was a whole different story.
While out on the race course just seconds earlier, without warning my internal Stomach Voice suddenly whispered to me, “Hey, buddy, guess what? You’ve got about 5 minutes … 10 if you’re lucky.”
My brain quickly considered the alternatives.
Hadn’t I seen a bank of Johnny-on-the-Jobs not too far back? Surely I could run back half a mile – or was it a full mile? Or was it 2 miles?
With no clear memory of how far back I would have to run, and realizing such a plan would add precious extra steps to the already daunting task of running 26.2 miles, I decided to move on to Option #2 (see what I did there?)
It seemed that the only reasonable option was to very gingerly continue running, and hope that the next set of Johnnys would appear SOON.
Upon turning a corner … a convenience store! Hallelujah! I’d been rescued from this predicament, and not a moment too soon!
Until hearing …
“Rules is rules.”
Now it was time – rapidly and with conviction – to negotiate with the clerk and hope that he would take mercy upon me.
“Sir, I appreciate where you are coming from, and I hate to ask you to bend the rules. But I really have a problem here. Tell you what, if you could PLEASE let me use your bathroom, I PROMISE you that I will come back in about an hour and a half, after running 9 more miles, and buy something. Then I will be a paying customer, right?”
His answer was like a punch to my already reeling gut.
“When you come back and pay for something, THEN you can use our bathroom.”
At this point, a man in line waiting to pay handed me a $5 bill, a cup of coffee, and with a wink whispered, “Here, PAY for this for me. THEN he will HAVE to let you use the bathroom.”
The clerk, seeing right through the ruse, had a response.
“Well, if you PAY for that coffee, then you’ll have to drink it before I could let you use the bathroom.”
Not wanting to take advantage of my new friend’s kindness by drinking his coffee, and knowing that such an act would take time and only exacerbate the situation, I pleaded my case one last time.
“Please, sir. I’m begging.”
“Rules is rules. You gotta pay to use our stool.”
He gave a fiendish grin at his self-perceived witty haiku.
By now, the line of customers was becoming quite agitated with Mr. Clerk, and they began to take up my cause and voice their displeasure in no uncertain terms.
“Come on, man. Give the brother a break. Look, he’s even a blood donor!”
(I was wearing one of the many blood donor t-shirts that comprise half of my “wardrobe” – the other half are marathon shirts!)
“Man, this is a bunch of $4i+,” said another, looking at me almost apologetically after realizing that his use of the word might put me over the edge.
“If this is how you treat people, then I’m gonna start shopping somewhere else,” said another, as he began putting his items back on the shelf.
Feeling moved (oops, wrong word!) by this stirring (again!) show of support, I thought maybe this minor uprising would help change Mr. Clerk’s mind, so I gave it one last push (stop it!).
By this time, I was dilated to about an 8.
“Please, sir. Please?”
“If ya gotta go that bad, you can go behind the store.”
“You mean, you would rather that I go behind the store than use your bathroom?”
“Rules is rules. I gotta do what I gotta do.”
“All right then. Guess I gotta doo what I gotta doo.”
As I grabbed a handful of napkins from the nearby counter and headed out the door, the line of customers roared with laughter and applause.
Sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do.
(Postscript: After taking care of business behind the convenience store and returning to the race course, I about fell over laughing when seeing a whole row of Johnnys around the next corner – probably 200 yards from the convenience store!)
