Disclaimer: The next few episodes are full of toilet humor. Pure redneck, disgusting, in poor taste, toilet humor. If you don’t find that amusing, I highly advise you seek entertainment elsewhere!
As per usual we stayed in West Yellowstone for a couple weeks just prior to the race to get the dogs acclimated. This year we stayed out of trouble with the law so I had no material to work with; hence no blog! Seinfeld was able to write hilarious bits about everyday mundane life, but I, unfortunately, have a hard time being inspired with nothing to work with. However, I was not to be disappointed and material soon came forth like a tsunami!
We left West Yellowstone for Alpine on Wednesday and I had been feeling a little off, but figured it was just the altitude. By evening I had no appetite and I relished the idea of less food = weight loss. This was quickly replaced by the thought, “Please God, help me!” There is nothing worse than getting the flu while you’re on the road, except getting the flu while you are racing on the road AND sharing a room with a stranger. Yep, that is about the worse and I lived to tell about it. Anyway, back to the tsunami. After returning from dinner Wednesday night my intestinal track started rumbling like really bad plumbing in an old house. It was gurgling, burping, growling and moaning and dreaded what was to come. Then like an over shaken pop bottle the gates of hell broke loose. So much fun when everyone is only 3 feet away in the same room. I was mortified. Relationships quickly reach a new level in these situations. The three of us quickly became close as we had to discuss my condition in great detail every day. “Do you guys remember what the hell I ate that was red? Please Think! I had to have had something red either that or I’m bleeding internally!” Despite the fact that I was visiting the throne every 5 minutes like I was waiting to be knighted, I didn’t feel too poorly. I quietly hoped it was something I had eaten.
It wasn’t something I ate. On Thursday morning my predicament was a bit worse and I had started feeling poorly. However, we had dogs to run; the show must go on! We ran in to JR Anderson at the trail head and he graciously tried to doctor me up with an assortment of pills and oils. I smelled great, but still felt like doo doo. The day progressed and so did my predicament. I forced myself to eat as I hadn’t eaten anything since Wednesday. This was a mistake!
Thursday night did not include much sleep as I lay coiled in pain. I wondered if JR had tried to poison me. By morning I was a mess both physically and emotionally. It was the start of race day and I was unable to leave the commode for any length of time. I couldn’t believe it; I had worked all season for this race and now I was going to have to scratch because I was stuck on the shitter. It couldn’t be happening to me, but it was. I bawled like a baby to Bruce not knowing what to do and looking for some sympathy. He consoled me in the best way he knows how (very similar to someone patting you on the back with a broom and saying, “There, there!”) Unfortunately, he didn’t make me feel better, but he calmly said stay in bed a few more hours and we’ll head to the vet check later than normal. He ran to get some Ammonium AD as the Pepto was useless. Those precious couple hours and the new drug enabled me to get functioning. I wandered through the entire day on Friday like a zombie sipping my Gatorade and trying not to spread my cooties. In a pure act of stupidity, that afternoon I daringly ate a cup of tomato soup and some bread. Another mistake!
By the grace of God, my system allowed me to make the 3 hour drive to Driggs before it had a major meltdown. We pulled in around 11PM and I was exhausted and running completely on fumes. As if it knew we had made it to the motel room the plumbing started shaking a rumbling like nothing I had ever heard. Bruce and Liz were afraid for me as we listened to the prelude to my volcanic eruption. The tomato soup and Ammonia AD must have had a chemical reaction! Now if I thought the first bout of this illness was embarrassing, the 2nd bout was beyond explanation. This motel had paper thin walls. We could hear folks next to us and above us and the bathroom was like an echo chamber and boy did I make the walls vibrate. I tried to be discrete with the old run the faucet or the vent trick, but quickly discovered it was futile. The 2nd round was going to be a noisy one. When I made a 5 minute appearance from my new office and encountered Bruce and Liz laughing followed by, “Gee, have a little gas?!?!” I decided I had reached an all-time low. At that point, I didn’t care anymore and there would be no holding back. And there wasn’t. All night long I sat alone (sort of since half the hotel could hear me) in a cold bathroom with paper thin walls sobbing and playing my butt trumpet. It was a solo, I never want to repeat.
On Saturday morning I was now lacking nutrition, fluids, sleep and a sense of humor. I was cooked and very worried. I knew I had to have fluids and something to eat in order to get through this race. I ate some more AD. By now there was nothing left to pass and even the anal acoustics had subsided, but I was so weak I could barely stand without feeling like I was going to pass out. Should I race?