[MikeSid]

I was in the middle of a marathon and had that moment that all runners dread. No stopping the train at this point and no where to go. I was literally on a freeway bridge. In other words not a bush in site. And it's June. And hot.

I barely make it to the offramp, and as I turn the corner I see a row of about 10 porta potties that were set up for the race. They looked glorious! I was damn near in love.

I race to the first one, and it is completely unused and clean as a whistle. It looked brand new. I figure I must be dreaming. What incredible luck!

Business is done almost instantly but it's hotter than hades is this thing and I am sweating like Patrick Ewing in the 4th quarter. I mean steady drips of sweat - pooling on the floor. And my legs are covered with sweat so much so that I can't get my shorts back up. And the struggle to do so just makes me sweat even more. I begin to have a personal understanding of what Carl the Floorwalker means by "A night in the box."

I finally get myself righted and escape my own private Florida penitentiary. I leave with a new found belief that there is no such thing as "Porta Jon Etiquette." Use of that convenience is never convenient. It is battle conditions.

I'd like to believe I left the place in a decent state of affairs. But I'd guarantee the next guest would assume the puddles on the floor were something other than sweat.

On the bright side, I think my mile splits for the next 5 were the fastest of the race.