I was, as I do, having an inappropriate conversation with my friend the other day about my running disasters. I ploughed through some of the absolute worst things to happen to me during my running life and such was my mortification, and the fact I’m about to start this journey all over again, I thought it best to share these ‘moments’ with the world.
So, in at number 10 would be the time I saw my friend, Amie, through thousands of spectators at the Cardiff half, and such was my excitement, I began to piss like a hyperactive spaniel. Just like that.
Number 9 looks like the time I got shouted at to ‘go back to my own fucking country.’ Granted, the idiot in the white van should be the one that’s embarrassed about that little gem, but it certainly made me question my 90’s retro running gear.
At number 8 we’ve got the 8 mile hashtag blunder. I hash-tagged #8mile on ole Instagram after a …ta da 8 mile run, and was inundated with messages from American rappers, Straight Outta Crawley idiots and men who liked to take selfies whilst holding their balls. Nice that.
Rolling in at number 7 we have the time I got pink milkshake thrown at me via a moving car. Again, I’m not really showcasing my embarrassment here, more the oversized, over made up idiot in a Vauxhall Corsa who told me to ‘Fuck Off’ then lobbed her drink out of the window. Although to be fair, jogging back with pink dairy debris down my crotch wasn’t my finest hour.
At number 6, I’ve decided, was the time my little butty Adam had to do my bra up in the college car park before a run. The poor boy shook a lot, there was definite sweating which meant he had slippery fingers, which meant I flashed more than once. In the end it took Adam, our friend Michelle and a bloke that happened to be walking past to get the boys in order and the bra done up. (Adam hasn’t been right since!)
Number 5A, continuing with the boob theme, this little gem happened not so long ago, in my zip up Marks and Sparks suffocation device. That’s how tight this bra is, one cannot breathe in it, so you can imagine my utter dismay when half a mile into my run, there was an awful lot of flapping going on. Out they were, undid it was…
5B (Because there’s more mortification to this tale) then, determined not to lose momentum, so to speak, I paused the Garmin, turned my music off and tried to get the lads back into my £25 hammock. Only of course I couldn’t. It was like getting toothpaste back into the tube. So, I did what any, half exposed woman with a straight-jacket, sports bra, hanging breasts out would do, I took a selfie, only to realise that there was a poor, minding his own business, dog walker aimlessly crossing my path. Obviously I apologised.
Number 4 was the time I got stuck on a fence. Another aimless dog walker tried to assist me in my bid to cut short my run, and as the poor bastard tried to move my wedged leg free, I farted.
Number 3 was the maiden buggy run. I was absolutely tamping that heads looked like they were about to spin off their necks. ‘What is people’s problem?’ I asked my gurgling baby. If it was good enough for Nell McAndrew the people of Merthyr were going to have to get used to a mother running with a buggy. It was only when I got home, and glanced in the mirror, did I see that a pair of my questionable knickers were stuck to my calf.
Number 2 has to be the time the police tried to arrest me for running in a balaclava. It was my first ever run. You can read more about it in No Run Intended if you really want. I still think its one of my finest moments!
And in at number 1, the hands down most mortifying thing to ever happen to me running or otherwise, was the time I shit myself in Gavin Walker’s car after the Cardiff half marathon.
‘Gav, I’ve shit myself.’ I wanted him to know, that I knew I’d shit myself, I didn’t want him to think that me, the poor, breathless dab, didn’t know that I was sat in my own shit.
And that ladies and gentleman is it. My top 10 mortifying running palavers.
Can’t wait for the next 10!