The Porta Potty Podium

The running life never ceases to surprise.

Photo: Anastasia Wilde Photography

As a runner, the bang of a porta potty door slamming shut has always been a familiar harbinger of pre-race nerves and finish-line relief. Whether you run 5Ks or ultramarathons, you know what I mean. But this time, it heralded something different.

Still rubbing a squirt of sanitizer over my hands, I was chasing my two-year-old, elated by the day’s victory. It was Mother’s Day, and with my husband’s encouragement I’d signed up for a local trail race at the last second—Brendan and Jay would drive out to meet me afterward for the kids’ race and pancake brunch. Hitching a ride with a friend that morning and lining up at the start without my son and husband there felt a bit odd at first. I’ve been running and casually racing for most of my life, but the past couple years since becoming a mom have felt different. It’s a bit rare to feel like “just me” anymore.

At each switchback on the five-mile course, I expected to downshift to walking but found the trail grade frustratingly runnable and my legs feeling pleasantly fresh. It was a small-ish race at a retired ski hill, with other running events going on at the same time—many of the more elite runners were already on the mountain for the 25K race or one of the relay legs. The pack I’d started with soon thinned out, and my legs and motivation surprised me. With Rihanna from the loudspeaker replaying in my head, I rode the wave of motivation, thinking back on the runner I had been in high school, then college and my 20s and 30s before becoming “mom.”

I have a few medals and some podium memories from small-town high school track and cross country, but since then my distances have increased and so have my times. In the last decade, my racing goals have been closer to finishing under a cutoff than winning. Still, it feels good to push myself.

Hammering down a steep, rooty descent and then chugging the final half mile through the uphill finish, I registered the announcer saying my name and something about my finish time. Past the arch, I caught my breath and strolled anonymously through the crowd of glistening, smiling runners, enjoying the freedom and also missing my guys a little.

Giving Brendan and Jay sweaty hugs when they arrived, I thanked them for the gift of the morning to myself but soon was whisking Jay down the hill for the most high-pressure moment of the day: We had recently ditched diapers, and a race-day porta potty is basically a toilet-training black belt.

The race director’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, but I couldn’t make out what he said from inside the plastic box where I was doing my best to stay calm and positive. When we finally burst back out into the sun, mission accomplished, I beamed with victory. “Good job, buddy! I’m so proud of you! I knew we could do it!”

I flashed back to a documentary film clip Brendan had played for me where the interviewee was talking about ice climbing: “You're never going to feel better in life than you are after you've pushed yourself to the absolute physical and mental limits, maybe past what you thought you had, and you pull it off … that's beautiful.” Chuckling, Brendan had said something like, “I’m not sure that person ever experienced the joy of a toddler finally going No. 2 in a toilet.”

Feeling, thus, like a true champion as I emerged from that porta potty, I saw my friend Kevin walk past. “First place!” he shouted, pumping his fist at us. Yes, I thought—he gets it—he understands the true weight of this accomplishment! Victory is ours!

But as Jay and I rejoined the crowd at the award ceremony, I learned that wasn’t what Kevin meant at all: The muffled announcement I’d heard while I was percolating sweat, hovering over a porta potty hole with an anxious toddler, had actually been calling me to the podium—I’d won my age group. I could only laugh.