Not for the weak of stomach.

It's almost time for the Broad Street Run--Philadelphia's famous ten mile race straight down Broad Street in the height of spring. It attracts runners from all over the country. They cap registration at 30,000 people, which usually happens within days of opening.

Last year, my debut on Broad Street, was a learning experience. So as I prepare for my second go, I feel it's a good time to reminisce and remember the lessons of the past...

It was May 1, 2010. I'd trained hard. I bought special socks that help prevent blisters. My playlist was all queued up. I started loading up on electrolytes 48 hours before the big day. I woke up that morning feeling invincible. There were a few butterflies in my stomach, but nothing could stop me. I ate my protein bar, grabbed my vitamin water and proudly flashed my bib to the SEPTA attendant who nodded and let me through the subway turnstile without charge.

All decked out in my spandex pants and tank top, I fit right in with the rest of the runners waiting for the next car. I decided the night before to skip the undies. Race day happened to also be the start of an unexpected heat wave, with temps in the high 80s for the first time of the season. My pants were the sweat-wicking kind and I didn't want to risk the extra layer of underwear causing any discomfort.

When I got to Olney, I was even more charged up after squeezing shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of anxious runners, all basking in our pre-race adrenalin. Herds of us lined the roads. The number 30,000 didn't mean much to me until I stood there amongst that many others all waiting to embark on a serious adventure. Thirty thousand became even more tangible to me when I turned to find a row of about twenty porta-potties, each behind a line of about a dozen people, all eventually morphed into one giant eager cluster of people waiting to use the potties.

Thirty thousand divided by twenty...assuming everyone shows up and uses a toilet at least once...minus the guys who pee in the woods is, well.... not pretty.

I figured I'd waste no time and get myself in line. After a half an hour or so, I finally got my turn. I took a big breath, squatted and finished my business as quickly as possible. And breathed. Whew. It really wasn't that bad.

I resigned to a shady spot under a tree and starting stretching. And all of the sudden, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. I took a deep breath, stretched...it was still there. Exhaled. The pain was quickly replaced by lurching feeling and a low grumble. My hand instinctually patted the spot on my tummy. I knew this feeling. It was roughly the same feeling I had the day after eating at the city's spiciest Chinese restaurants and far too much wine and beer.

All I could think was with such immaculate care I had put into my diet and workouts the past months, how could this be happening? But there wasn't much time for coulda-shouldas. I had to get back in line.

Start time was getting closer and the length of the line proved it. Several people ahead of me, I noticed a couple women holding what appeared to be baby wipes or paper towels. They must be germ-conscious, I thought, brining their own hand-washing materials.

I tried to hide my discomfort with a confident smile as I made idle conversation with other waiting runners. "Oh this is your first time doing Broad Street, too? Me too!" (Nervous laughter to cover my lower intestines' wail.) Until finally, a mere thirty minutes before start time, it was my turn again. Relief, even in a porta-potty, was wonderful. Until I looked to find a bare cardboard roll where the toilet paper used to be.

I froze, mid-squat, spandex around my ankles. My mind raced. I started to look frantically around for something to use as a substitute, as if I really expected to find some kind of reasonable alternative inside the portable plastic bathroom. I seriously considered using my canvas baseball cap, but could not bring myself to it. Finally, I swallowed my pride, unhinged the empty cardboard roll and did the best I could with it. Which wasn't too great.

I'm sure the shame on my face was obvious when I finally emerged from the bathroom in front of hundreds of leg-crossed runners. I darted far away from the crime scene and resumed stretching. I scanned the nearby trees for a spot secluded enough so I might be able to clean myself with a leaf, or maybe even a handful of grass. But the crowd stretched as far as I could see. I realized there was no getting rid of the remains of my bathroom debacle for at least ten more miles.

Finally, it was time to group in our corrals. There I stood, crammed like sardines with thousands of people, the morning sun scorchingly hot and bright--commando--with a mess in my pants. I was convinced those near me could smell me. Since things didn't seem like they could get any worse, I thought to myself:

Shit happens. I guess I'm just going to have to run with it.

And that I did. I finished the ten-mile race in about two hours. The low point was when some spectators sprayed the passing runners with a hose for relief from the heart--and I brought completely new meaning to the term "swamp ass." The high point was my third and final potty break at mile marker nine, where I had a second bout of what I now know is called "runner's diarrhea"--and finally found a full roll of TP.

So here's to learning (the hard way) to bring BYOTP--and to a successful race for 2011.