Treeline Journal

A Marathon in Italy, Running Gods, and a True Test of Love

by Chase Parnell — January 7, 2020


Prologue

I wrote this story back in April of 2012. I’d just had my first article published in TrailRunner Magazine so naturally I thought anything I wrote was pure gold and that of course someone would want to publish it — even if the story was about that awkward stage in a running couple’s relationship where they have to get comfortable with the other’s bodily functions. I sent this “piece” to some running magazine editors who all declined to publish it. Generally speaking, they said their readership would just not be interested in reading it. Ouch. One even said, “I often call people’s race reports on their web sites “poop blogs” because they invariably go into details like yours…I am confident that our print readers wouldn’t want to see this in their magazine.” As a young writer, this comment definitely took some wind out of my sails — but hey, here we are and I finally have my poop blog.

The glory of Treeline Journal is that I can post whatever the hell I want on it. There are no gatekeepers, and nobody is going to stop me from posting a story about love and poop. Of course it’s way TMI, and many of you may dismiss it the editors did, but I still love this story and believe it to be a worthy read.

I hope, at the very least, it’s good for a laugh. 

Btw: I received permission from Nikki to post this so clearly she’s as badass today as she was in the tale you are about to begin… 


I recently started dating Nikki Grenier. Our first date was a truly magical November day-trip to the Oregon Coast, which led to exclusive dating in December and evolved into an attached-at-the-hip January and Febuary. By March, I had already convinced my parents that Nikki was the one so in an effort to help me seal the deal, they bankrolled a trip for the four of us to Italy. Baby…I can show you the world. Our trip included excursions to Rome and Venice, hiking between the quaint coastal towns of the Cinque Terre, and finally, we would run together in Nikki’s first marathon in the city of Ferrara.

Leading up to our trip, I knew that our time in Italy would be our relationship’s greatest test to date. Spending 10 days straight together, even in paradise, was sure to lead to some ups and downs. I was really looking forward to seeing all the sides of Nikki and was also praying that she loved what she found in me. 

The Ferrara Marathon, March 25th, 2012 would turn out to be the fateful day that served up a hefty portion of relational discovery; if seeing ALL sides of our partner was our desire, we achieved it in spades. 

I should mention here that I am a firm believer in the Running Gods. They are runners themselves of course, off in some distant ethereal land and much like those of Greek mythos, the Running Gods enjoy testing and tormenting their followers. I don’t think we were properly tithing or something because come race day the Running Gods decided to test our fledgling love affair with an attack, nay a siege, on our poor little stomachs. In layman’s terms, a case of the “oh NO, I’m running a marathon and I need to take a dump…BAD.” I’m sorry for the graphic nature of this predicament but as a readership of runners, bowel movement issues is a motif that runs deep in running lore, everyone has a tale of a close call or near tragedy. 

The start line energy was electric. Two thousand strong, shoulder to shoulder in the shadows of ancient castles and cathedrals from centuries past. The horn sounds and we dash off through the cobblestone streets. The architectural wonders are quickly replaced by picturesque Italian countryside. We are floating, basking in the beauty all around us, encouraging each other with lovey-dovey voices, and hitting our goal pace through 10 miles for a 3:20 marathon — the race was as perfect as our relationship. But then, like a thief in the night, mile 11 was to change everything. Nikki was hit first. 

At this point in our relationship I was still under the impression that Nikki was devoid of excrement, that it must evaporate from within or something. Maybe beautiful women have now developed an internal form of organic composting that relieves them of using toilets. As a man, I wouldn’t put this capability past them as I still go blank in the eyes when I hear mysterious terms like “time of the month.” However, this theory crashed and burned with these few simple words, “….um Chase, I have to go to the bathroom.” 

I respond quickly, “Ok babe, no problem, I’m sure we will see a porta-potty soon.” Although instantaneously I realized we had yet to see anything resembling a bathroom on the entire course. It dawns on me that that must be the reason so many Italian men were just peeing on the side of the road. I begin to get very nervous for my precious little snowflake Nikki.

I needed to data mine a bit further so I cleverly dance around my true intention, “Umm, is this something you can maybe take care of behind a bush?” My implication being that if she couldn’t, she must need to go #2. If she could, it was a #1 issue and my internal composting theory could remain viable. She responded, “yes Chase, of course.” Phew! “Ok babe, let’s keep our eyes out for a spot, I’m sure there will be something soon.” 

Let it be known, again, that our relationship had been blessed to this point without even the tarnish of an audible passing of wind. Let’s be real folks, every couple goes through this. Someone lets one slip, there follows an awkward giggle and the acknowledgement that yes, that really did just happen, and from then on subsequent farts become more acceptable and not so worrisome. I don’t know how we did it, but we had survived many a long car ride, many a late night movie, many a run, without a singular toot; so the tension was high and I ran with a clenched butt more often than not. 

Two miles later we found an embankment that she could run down to hide from the view of other runners. Nikki was out of sight for roughly 60 seconds, just long enough for me to think, “Hmmm, well she didn’t explicitly say she didn’t need to take a poo, just that she could in fact take care of it behind a bush. Right at that moment when my suspicions were peaking, she emerged, looking fresh as a daisy, and as I saw her angelic smile, I thought, “nah, definitely #1.”

It was at mile 15 that the Running Gods shifted their focus to me. I was completely blindsided by this intestinal attack. I cursed Italy and the stupidity of not having bathrooms along the course! Porta-potties and road races are like peanut butter and jelly for goodness sakes! As the abdominal pangs reached their crescendo, I scanned the countryside looking for all possible drop sites. Like a frightened deer, I was tense, ready to bolt at any moment. I adjusted my stride but knew it would provide only temporary relief. I was getting desperate — screw it, time to break the barrier. 

“Babe, I’m going to have to make a stop — to go to the bathroom — and not the pee kind.” It came out as a whisper. This line was harder to say than the first time I said I love you. This act was a greater showing of my heart than any other up to this point. I was wide open for ridicule, embarrassment, and shame. She glanced over at me with her wonderfully beautiful blue eyes and responded, “…me too.” I fell in love all over again. 

Our pace had fallen off but we could still manage a sub 3:30 if we handled our business and got back to racing. But when I suggested a few minutes later that we go search for a bathroom inside a supermarket about 400 meters off the race course she responded with, “No, I can hold it!” I felt betrayed! “But Nikki! Babe! This is not going to go away. There’s a lot of race left!” The silence was deafening, we waddled on. 

What happened next was truly amazing. There was a recycling bin of sorts a couple feet off the road that was about twice the size of your typical neighborhood garbage can. Somehow, incredibly, her desperation must have reached sufficient levels to convince her that this relatively small container could sufficiently conceal her and her doing of the business. It was an absolutely valiant move. The next thing I know, without saying a word, she jumped off the street, drops trou, puts her palms to the ground, extended her legs into a reverse plank like position and just went. Yup, right there in plain sight. At the last possible second I diverted my eyes so as to not witness this sacred act. Instead I shifted my eyes in a protective manner towards the men that were just behind us. I felt pity for poor Nikki but also an interesting sense of jealously that these men might in fact see my girlfriend in this way. I didn’t want them to see a bare thigh or a butt cheek, regardless of its circumstance and accompaniment. Amazingly, as my piercing stare followed the eyes of the four men that passed, not one of them even noticed what Nikki was doing. Well done Nikki, well done. So proud of you. 

Upon completion, she jumped back on course, now enjoying an elongated stride and smiling like she just landed a triple backflip off the high bar. Wow, I thought, she is hardcore.

Well, it was now my turn to step up to the plate. If she could do it, so could I! My opportunity arose, a row of bushes were calling, “Keep running babe, I’ll catch up.” I dash off and do the deed next to some poor person’s mailbox. Special delivery!

I sprinted back up to Nikki and we started cracking up. We had officially reached new levels of comfort in our relationship. We even spent mile 18 theorizing excuses for our “stomach issues.” She blamed the fact that the aid stations only carried fizzy mineral water while I blamed all the pasta, pizza and gelato from the night before.

After our stops, we were able to really pick up the pace. The last 4 miles were the fastest of the entire marathon. We ended up running 3:30:10 with Nikki finishing as the 18th woman and first in her 20-24 age group! 

Following a post-race shower and a delectable feast of Italy’s finest, we were feeling good and soaking in the sense of accomplishment that the marathon provides. I looked across the table at the girl I could now more confidently claim to be my future wife. She silently mouthed the words, “Ti Amo Bello” which is Italian for “I love you, handsome.” 

Somehow, despite the travails of the race, we’d grown closer together. The final barrier between us had fallen and our bond was stronger for it. As I mouthed the words, “Ti Amo Bella”, I realized then that maybe the Running Gods were not in fact terrorizing us, but instead — finding favor. 


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8 thoughts on “A Marathon in Italy, Running Gods, and a True Test of Love

    1. Lol! Thanks Melissa, didn’t get in. Sad. The search is on for something similar in Alps around the same time. Maybe we’ll still go to UTMB though and just cover it for the site! We’ll see. Thx!

      1. Neither did I (for OCC). I do think that there should be more trail running adventure content on the TMB trails outside of the race if you’re still going to go out there. Husband and I did a good chunk of the TMB when the season started last year and I loved it so much I may go back and do it again this summer!

        1. Ahh, bummber. I’m leaning towards Grossglockner 110k instead. And yes, I’d love to create some content around trail running out of Chamonix that’s not centered around the races there. Hmmmm, could be a fun project!

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