Column Number Two

Some people–Vanderbilts, Rockefellers, Hearsts– inherit great wealth. Mannings and Andrettis have amazing athletic abilities passed down through the generations, while Barrymores, Carradines and Clooneys display multi-generational talent on stage and screen.

I got a spastic colon.

Apparently my squat, potato-picking, eastern European ancestors passed on many stout traits, but bowel stability wasn’t one of them. While it’s normally a condition that doesn’t really negatively affect my life, there are those times when the call of nature simply cannot be sent to voicemail.

With that simple setup, I will issue the warning that this is the column where I discuss the times I’ve crapped my pants in cars. Consider yourself warned, and save the effort of your outraged letters and emails. May he or she who has never shared my shame be the first to cast stones.

Last chance. There’s 203 other pages in this magazine I’m sure you’ll enjoy.

I see the rest of you are cool, so here we go. Anecdote number one begins behind the wheel of a Mitsubishi Galant. As Mitsubishi has largely decided to remove itself from the American market, I feel the statute of limitations on my relaying this story in print has fully expired.

I can’t remember the exact meal that produced the initial discomfort. Actually, it’s somewhat irrelevant. Typically my gut can take whatever spicy, greasy, lactosey, choc-o-rific concoctions I can push down my throat with little to no drama. There’s just some times, however, when whatever went in needs to take the express train. The train whistle blew behind the wheel of that Galant. I had to go–soon.

Your first reaction upon realizing that—in a very literal sense—shit is about to get real is to assess the situation. Biology, geography and math collide in your brain, and through the beading sweat you do the math on the shortest route to safe harbor. In this particular instance, my parents’ house was closer than mine–and the nearest sympathetic port in my mental navigation menu.

I gingerly removed my phone from my pocket, careful not to flex a single extra abdominal muscle in the process. Thankfully my dad answered on the first ring. I issued my S.O.S.: “Coming in hot. Code brown. Clear a path.” Of course, it wasn’t the first time my folks had been tapped for rescue duty. I imagine by this point in my life they probably had a process nailed down, similar to emergency crews foaming the runway as the wounded jumbo jet limps home on a single engine with 400 souls aboard.

Sadly, this plane never made it to the runway. A few blocks from safety, the event horizon was crossed, and the rescue mission was now a salvage operation. While the event was unfortunate to say the least, I still say it was a legitimate and accurate journalistic assessment of the Mitsubishi Galant.

Anecdote number two–well, technically that describes both of these vignettes–is one that only a select few of my friends and enemies have heard before. So consider yourself an insider. I figured it was time to let it all out.

This one is notable because of the car involved. In a lesser vehicle, this would have been a completely under-the-radar tale of personal failure and shame. But in a swoopy Consulier GTP, it’s an intensely public tale of near-Cronenbergian body horror.

Time and the inevitable development of every buildable inch of Florida coastline has reduced the gap, but 20 years ago there was a long stretch of I-95 south of Melbourne that was essentially a desert. For nearly 60 miles, there were only a few exits and fewer services. And an hour is a long time to stay in what we of the brotherhood know as “the clench position.”

When I finally did make it to some vestige of civilization– and this was long after the initial atrocity had befouled me and Mr. Mosler’s creation, mind you–it turned out to be a closed, abandoned Chevron station. I did my best to clean up the crime scene with goods I found at the forgotten building. This was the day I learned that in the seemingly inevitable event of a zombie apocalypse, toilet paper will be as valuable as 5.56mm ammunition.

The punch line to this condition is that once you have what we refer to as an “episode,” the fun has really just begun. Much like how you feel after an intense workout, your now-stressed colonic muscles are weak, spastic and unpredictable for many hours. This meant frequent stops on the rest of my journey.

Frequent stops in a bright-red, carbon-fiber sports car that attracted a crowd every time it parked. Despite my fervent desire to maintain a low profile, I was beset by throngs of onlookers who probably weren’t entirely sure what they expected to emerge from the Batmobile-like vehicle. However, I have no doubt they understood that the pale, sweaty wretch with the baggy shirt pulled down over the soiled cargo shorts, who came half-sprinting, half-shambling toward the toilets, was absolutely not the Batman.

There. The stories are out. Think of me what you will, and remember our shared pain should you ever find yourself in such straits.

Not a subscriber? Each magazine contains all the latest amateur motorsports stories. Subscribe to Grassroots Motorsports now.

Comments

Displaying 1-10 of 12 commentsView all comments on the GRM forums

You'll need to log in to post.