I do not possess a witch's wit, the wise man's words, nor the taleteller's tongue, but I must attempt to honor the spirits who were with me this evening and tell you my story.

It starts, as most runs do, at mile 0. Not just 60 minutes prior, I had hopped off the plane at SFO with my dreams and cardigan, and here I was at the trailhead of a progression long run.

Despite the presumed struggles, I felt fantastic. My stride felt smooth and solid; my legs felt light and quick, my mind sharp, my teeth straight, my breathing even, and yet something wasn't right.

No, no, no... I knew it wasn't right.

And at mile 3, it began. What felt like innocent releases of air boosting me along my boastful beginnings soon turned into evil expulsions of hellish shit spawn.
I was officially turtling.

Oh well, I thought to myself. Only 30 minutes or less to go-- surely this will pass. I quickly came to regret this assurity.
Up until this point, the progression was beautiful. The cut down was mostly even, and I had yet to feel any nagging in the legs or lack of breadth in the lungs. As I flipped from Drake onto Hillside, I began to panic.

I knew I couldn't make it much further and I was growing desperate. As the fecal matter creeping out my behind began to reach the crowning moment of its career, I began to pray. "Please, let there be a porta-potty. I won't make it any further."

I rushed up the initial incline of Cortez, clenching with all I could muster. I crested the hill as what felt like the shit crested the outer-workings of my butt hole. I prayed and prayed, frantically looking around; up every side street, down as far as I could see, for a tall rectangle in green, brown, or blue.

Only when all hope was lost, only when all faith was zapped, only when the embarrassment of shit-stained split shorts was accepted, I saw a blinding light of light brown. A Microsoft font in a lawn green backed by piss-yellow sitting on top of a desolate dry dirt front lawn with 2x4s strewn about. What could feel like mere coincidence felt like an act of pure sacrifice of a higher power.

As I staggered into the hot plastic box I felt prophetic. It was then, on the ornate plastic throne emptying my bowels, that I decided that I would document the power I felt in that moment. A divine porta-potty deity looked upon my wretched soul and felt that I was worthy of continuing the progression long run.
I stepped out of the mirage and back onto Cortez. I managed some quick high knees and a few hops in my euphoric, enlightened state. I looked to my right and saw an older couple. They looked upon me and smiled a sweet smile. I looked back and felt the need to add to my own sweet smile. "That's a well placed porta-potty," I chimed. The older woman smiled and shook her head, glancing down at her shoes. The older man smiled and chuckled to himself. Despite his dark-lensed Ray Bans, I could feel the twinkle in his eye. That twinkle spoke to me as if to say, "I know. I know."

Suddenly I didn't feel so crazy. The love birds continued their walk and most likely will never think about that few-second exchange ever again. But to me, it was everything. It was confirmation that something or someone looked over me tonight, and it communicated with me through this pair of lovey croaks. I wasn't crazy or lucky. I was protected.

As I lay here, mid day-3 lift, I feel only grateful. What may seem like another Sunday long run was much more this evening. I experienced a miracle.

Thank you plastic box. Thank you spirit of spontaneous bowel-movement. Thank you Church of Sunday Long Run.