The unspoken reality of race day

By: LOUISE ESOLA - Staff Writer | Friday, August 19, 2005 10:59 PM PDT ∞

It was while standing in line to use one of the smelly Portojohns parked near the starting line that I felt the same pangs often experienced by Marine recruits in their very first days of boot camp and newlyweds who discover their soul mate snores like a bear in winter.

That's when it hit me: What had I gotten myself into?

Some of you might recall that in a June column, I had promised to sign up and complete America's Finest City Half Marathon in San Diego: 13.1 miles of scenic hills, bay breezes, and downtown pavement. This was to be my first race.

In more time than it takes to watch a feature film (or perhaps drive 30 miles on Interstate 5 in preholiday weekend rush hour), I dashed in all my glory across the finish line.

Two hours.

Nine minutes.

And 49 seconds.

As an aside, I am not quite sure if you know this, but the marathon originated when the legendary Greek messenger Philippides ran the 26.2 hilly miles from Marathon to Athens to deliver a message of victory. Then he died, the story goes.

On Monday morning, when the skeletal and muscular impact of joints pounding the pavement over and over for 13.1 miles had set in, I felt ... half dead.

For those who think this achievement is a major feat, you have no idea. Really, you don't. For it was not the mile upon mile of running, the hills, or the seemingly endless pain felt in my legs days after, that really got to me.

Quite simply, it was the bathroom facilities.

Call me naive or prissy, but nobody ---- the friends and readers who encouraged me and gave me tips ---- thought to tell me about the Portojohns, and, frankly, I am upset about it. All they told me was to stay hydrated with lots of water and Gatorade. No one seemed to want to talk about what comes next.

For the record, I am a girly-girl and I am not a fan of restrooms that are as technologically advanced as your standard office wastebasket. Most women, by informal survey, share these feelings.

(And by the way, the bathroom logistics on race day didn't occur to me because I was too busy figuring out how I was going to run 13.1 miles. I complain if I had to drive that far.)

Excuuuse me, this wasn't in the colorful brochure, or on the fancy Web site advertising the event.

Next to "begins at history Cabrillo National Monument, with its majestic view of both San Diego Bay and the Pacific Ocean ... winds through downtown San Diego .... ends in beautiful Balboa Park," perhaps someone should have thought to write: "Portojohns will be the only means of relief."

True, this should have been obvious. When you have more than 6,000 runners participating in an outdoor event, the usual three restrooms with proper washing sinks, mirrors and hand dryers just aren't practical. The solution: A string of big, blue, portable bathrooms lined up like toy soldiers along the beautiful Point Loma landscape.

You know what? I wasn't alone that day in my sentiments for the restroom equivalent of a plastic thermos. As I watched the faces of people as they walked out of the 'johns,' I noticed most people looked as though they had been violated in some way, as though they had just seen a photograph of their grandparents in the nude. Their noses were squinched. Their heads were turned down. Their enlarged eyeballs did not make contact with anyone next in line.

And just about every three miles during the race, I saw them. (Not photographs of my naked grandparents.) The Portojohns. They were everywhere.

Perhaps it was the thought of no longer having to subject myself to this misery that kept me going. Mile 9 for me was 4.1 miles closer to a toilet that flushes. Mile 11 was 2.1 miles closer. And so on.

I know what you are thinking. That I am a spoiled, uppity, snot-nosed woman who runs at the sight of portable toilets.

You shall sayeth what you willeth.

Staff writer Louise Esola covers Oceanside schools. She can be reached at lesola@nctimes.com.