never bug daddy on the crapper
on setting boundaries in public restrooms
Some people’s children eh?
Dear reader, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.
Everyone is some person’s children and I ran into a particularly lovely piece of work on Sunday.
Sunday was another 100 mile ride. These epic journeys have gone from being something nearly impossible to somewhat of a habit.
It makes sense.
As a 19 year old, drinking a sicks pack of beer was almost impossible and resulted in me being destroyed for the entire next day. Over the years it became a habit.
This is why it’s really good that yours truly doesn’t drink anymore.
But riding a bike an absurd distance?
It’s become my new six pack.
Though I don’t have a six pack stomach, my ass is fucking amazing and my calves are delicious to look at.
No shit.
I spent at least four minutes today embarrassing myself admiring my legs in the window of a store while some teens on the other side of the reflective glass mocked me.
Pfffft… what do they know. They would likely mock Mikey Angelo’s Davey boy too if they saw it. Fucking pheasants.
Anyway, it was a simple, flat hundred miles - an out and back. We rode rail trail from the beginning to the end of the Musquodoboit trail and all points in between. It was essentially a road ride without much of the ‘road’ aspect.
On the way back down along the Musquodoboit river, I began to bonk. My old bonk point was at around 50 to 60k, now it starts at around 85 to 100k. That to me seems like progress.
Even better?
These days, I’m more aware of when a crash is about to hit. Maybe this is an old man thing, but whether it’s riding a bike or putting up with bullshit, I’m much more aware of my limits. Once reached, I’m more than happy to let the world go fuck itself as I take on what nourishment I can find.
Either way, when I’m outta energy for riding or to give a fuck about being polite to asshats that tire me out, I’ve stopped trying to either 1: pretend that I care 2: just endure the shit eventually leading to my own agony or 3: giving a fuck about how my assertion of my needs impacts anyone excepting my family.
If I’m hungry, Zeke can pedal on. If I’m tired of bullshit, the world can fuck off and die. Melt the icecaps, pave the planet, daddy needs a Big Mac.
So?
Along the riverside Zeke dropped me, pedaling off to the community well by the ball field in the harbour. I plodded along. As I went I emptied my water bottles and ate about 450 calories of endurance food. Endurance foods are fancy candies with caffeine, gels with caffeine or little wafer sugar things with… you guessed it: caffeine.
By the time I was reunited with Zeke, my legs felt better but my guts were revolting in more ways than you can imagine.
With a churning stomach we set off for sandwiches at the Uprooted Cafe on Highway 7.
Sandwich?
Good.
Drink?
Kombucha.
All was well.
All was well except the endurance candies wanted to evacuate my stomach.
The Uprooted Market Cafe has four tables and ONE WASHROOM.
Lucky for me, it was empty.
I rushed in, took of my shirt then pulled down the shoulder straps of my bib shorts.
Then?
Then I proceeded to make fog horn noises with my asshole as I destroyed the only toilet in this simple, community based hippie loved eatery.
I had hardly started exploding when the first knock came.
My response?
Occupied.
I was polite. My bowel can be as irritated as I am from time to time and I need to give it some peace.
As my bumpet started in on its second number there came another knock. This one sounded the same as the first, only this was a little more urgent.
Occupied, I chimed politely.
Still my arse had more to offer to the porcelain god. But should I send any down the expressway to septic city, I’d likely have blocked the bog. I wiped a bit, stood up, flushed then sat down for another round of drowning the brown.
The turd pile of rotten old rope fell from me. As it made its splash down, there was another knock at the door.
This time?
I was irritated.
You know, the door will be open when the room is empty.
Moments after that?
Another fucking knock.
Now Zeke suggested this may have been multiple people.
But he didn’t hear the knock. It was increasing in urgency and volume with each approach.
I kept on pooping and this motherfucker kept on knocking.
After the sixth knock, my response was less polite:
I’m having a shit. Leave me the fuck alone. I will be finished when I’m finished.
The seventh knock came soon after that.
Ok arsehole, now you’ve done it. I’m taking my time.
And with that, I stayed in the only toilet in the joint and played a full fucking game of solitaire on my phone.
Now dear reader, was that a bit of a fuck you?
Perhaps.
But they fucked with daddy while sitting on the crapper.
Two rules are true: You don’t put baby in a corner and you don’t fuck with daddy on the crapper if you know what’s good for you.
Satisfied that I’d made someone either piss or shit in their pants, I gave one final wipe, put my clothes back on, flushed for the turd time, washed and dried my hands then left the bathroom
When I got out I glared at every motherfucker in place. My eyes seemed to say which of you fucking shit bags continually interrupted my turd deployment?
No one would meet my glare.
I needed to know what fuck did it so I stood there, almost guarding the shitter.
No one stepped up to use the toilet.
They were obviously the kind of ass wipe who didn’t have the courage to admit that they were the ones interrupting my asswiping.
But still I need to know who they were.
I feigned going outside and getting my helmet on - all the while peeking back into the cafe like Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs Bunny.
Eventually?
The rat appeared.
He was a balding man five years or so older than me with victory lap of a wife who was ten years younger than me.
He wore flip flops and was in my mind the walking talking embodiment of what a douchenozel would look like.
So I waited till he went in and closed the door.
Then?
Then I went back into the cafe and pounded on the bathroom door so loudly they heard me in London?
How do you like me now buddy?
Love the people who love you
And never disturb daddy when he’s on the crapper.
