Pissing On the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge (Pt 2)

It is frigid. 
Cold wraps our arms,
Our legs and face.

The sky is grey.
Covered in fog.
Like a thin cloud.

And it’s all up hill; we can’t think too much about the scenery. There is business to attend to and right now the task at hand is the steady incline our legs ascend. 

This bridge feels miles long. Is this real? The city limits start to render in front of us. And then it hits us - not unlike group think, but more… private.  “Don’t it always seem to go, ‘You don’t know what you got ’til its gone.’?” 

Funny, there are no porta pots on this bridge.

We descend off the bridge and as the structures curve and wind around us, there appears the original toilet - greenery. Grass and trees line the bridge before the shoulder and it doesn’t take long before lines of runners hop the concrete guarder. 

Biting the Big Apple. 
Pissing on the Verranzano-Narrows Bridge.

We aren’t even done with the first mile yet. 

Some of us wait. 
In due time, we approach an aid station. 

This being the first wave, one may think we were looking a pristine portable toilets - at the very least, a lightly used set of Johns. NOPE.

These toilets have seen some shit, literally. We aren’t the only thing running today… (get it?) Don’t even try to sit in there - the pile is flowing out of the reserve. 

That was just the first door. 
Next, locked.
Next, locked. 
In between those two, of us couldn’t wait any longer. She crouches and lets loose. She’s up and back on the course. Efficiency. This was not her first time.
Next, locked.
Next, green! Give it a tug.
Another tug. It’s jammed. Someone slammed this shut. Two of us, pulling on this door, trying to pave the way for future runners. We nearly topple the entire mess over. 
Next, locked.
Next, loc - someone is out. 

What a relief.

***

In case you’re wondering where all that waste goes…