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Potty Mouth

Posted by Kerith , August 8, 2012

Although it seems counterintuitive, early summer is better than harvest.  Maybe it’s because June/July pruning is labor intensive and requires a critical mass of skilled workers to get the job right.  After all, it was this past June when I first noticed a hat trick off Kinley Road.  I’d never seen three before, all lined up in a tidy row.  They were gone when I checked last week.  That long stretch between the end of harvest and the first winter pruning is the worst.  You can run for miles without seeing a single one.  It’s so desolate.  And uncomfortable.  Running in the country is very different from running in Southern California.  Up here, I measure the miles by porta potties.

Marathon training in San Diego, I had ample bladder support.  I could loop through 20 miles of bayside lagoons each manned by a concrete public restroom stocked with water fountains.  I was a rest room regular, with specific, favorite pit stops.  A scraggly, homeless guy without teeth cheered me on whenever I passed mile 12.  But in Sonoma County, pubic facilities are few and far between, especially out on country roads.  I rely on a few round-the-year field potties to get me past the inevitable call of nature.

Until recently, I was unaware I was so deeply entrenched in my porta potty geography.  When an out-of-towner asked me about a particular winery, I blurted a reply before my superego could intervene.  “Oh, they are biodynamic and have a porta potty just past mile 9.”  I think he wanted to know what I thought of their wines.  Nobody trusts your palate after a gaffe like that.  Rest room habits are a private matter.  Those lurid details are inappropriate for public websites.  Even classy ones like mine.

Last weekend I had quite a scare.  It happened moments after I emerged from my green cubicle erstwhile rest stop.  A low rumbling interrupted “Call Me Maybe” through my ear buds.  I jumped into the ditch alongside a vineyard.  It was a sanitation services truck with a tow bit.  Oh crap, I thought (no pun intended).  Please don’t haul my bathroom away.  And what if I’d still been in there?  Even the most seasoned sanitation worker is unprepared for a goofy jogger with a headlamp at 6 am.  Surely I deserve a more dignified end than that.  What did mom say about always wearing clean underwear?  The truck passed me a second time some ten minutes later; the trailer was empty.  Luckily it was just some routine pumping.  It’s reassuring to know any DNA evidence gets sucked away on a regular basis.  And kudos to United Sanitation Services for manning their vehicles at 6am on Saturdays.

 

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