Anyone who knows me, knows I love a good poo story. Not to mention the fact that, well, I have had my fair share of "close calls". Needless to say, when I read this article, I just couldn't resist re-posting.
It happens
"Uh-oh" moments are more frequent in sports than fans realize
AFTER RACING NEARLY 140 miles, first through the ocean, then across the blackened lava fields of Kona, Hawaii, Julie Moss crested the final hill of the 1982 Ironman Triathlon alone in front, hovering near delirium. She was also about 45 seconds from becoming, as she remembers it, "the ultimate, giant, chocolate mess."
Since the 16-mile mark of the marathon, Moss, a vivacious 23-year-old with a shock of red hair, had managed to hold back the field as well as the considerable contents of her intestines. Suddenly, like a beacon in the Pacific twilight, a Sizzler steak house appeared, cool and inviting, atop the hill on Palani Road. Almost a half mile from the finish, Moss had a gastronomical gamble to make. She gazed back and forth, evaluating her options -- relief by way of the Sizzler bathroom in front, an evaporating lead in the inky darkness behind -- all the while contemplating the ultimate unspeakable taboo almost every elite athlete faces at some point.
Do I stop? Or go?
Continue reading here.
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