Crapping your pants is never fun. When your friend craps his pants it is hilarious. This story is about the time that my friend crapped his pants at Road Atlanta during Petit Le Mans 2015. Long read but worth it...
My friend and I, we will call him Sloan, always go to Petit together. It has been a tradition since 2010-ish. It is always a big deal for us. We used to camp overnight to catch all of the races before the big tamale on Saturday. However, my wife and I built a new home in such close proximity to the track in 2015 that during the race you can hear the symphony of octane from my back patio. Being that my new home is so close, we chose to forego the camping this year and sleep in an actual bed with climate control and warm running water. Now, to be fair, right near the hill at turn 3-4 descending to the esses, there is a bathroom. This bathroom has 3 shower stalls and they have running water, but it gets old when you have a 40 year old man open the shower curtain while you are lathering your nether-regions to ask how long you would be. At my home, the worst I have to worry about is my cats sticking their noses into the shower for a little lookie-loo.
So, Sloan and I woke up on Friday AM, early, drove to the track just as the sun crept up over the hills to the east. There really is something awesome about watching Road Atlanta “wake up” on a cool October morning. This day’s forecast called for rain, and the clouds threatened to keep their promise. After parking my car and walking up to Vendor Village, Sloan told me he wanted his favorite morning treat: Australian Meat Pies. For those of you who have have not had one of these (ie those with self respect), it is a flaky warm pastry filled with different meats and mashed potatoes, or meats veggies and cheese. Almost like a less-shitty Hot Pocket. The owners of this cart know Sloan and I because each year, that is our first stop in the morning. Sloan chose at this moment that three of these pastries needed to be inside of him at once. He downed all 3 like a T-Rex feasting (look how it eats.....) and polished it all off with a coke.
As we made our way through a quiet unopened Vendor Village the rain started. Not a heavy rain, but a light enough rain to look like mist. We continued towards the bridge at 10A/10B. As I was watching the various Porsches pull into the PORSCHEPLATZ, Sloan walked over the the Corvette coral to look at the early-riser, khaki wearing, strong republican, moustache sporting 50+ year old men talking about their new C7s. They all held steaming morning coffee while pointing and chuckling, comparing colors and occasionally clearing their throats when one of the others said something they slightly disagreed with. As I joined Sloan, I heard a faint gurgle, and he burped with a sour look on his face. This should have been my first warning sign.
Fast forward to the middle of the day and after watching the Miata race, looking at the BMWs wallow around in the mud pit they had for parking, and walking pit road to see the Continental cars getting ready, we went back to Vendor Village. While I used my Inevercheckthis@whocares.net email to feign interest in the new Chevy Colorado just to get a T-Shirt, Sloan went after 2 more meat pies. (Warning sign #2). We then popped over to Turn 2 to watch the start of the Conti Race. At this point 2 things happened. It started to rain more heavily,and Sloan’s stomach was making the most god awful gurgling I have ever heard. It sounded like two drunk water buffalo attempting to line dance in a ditch full of thick mud. I looked at Sloan and asked if he was OK. He nodded and didn’t say much. Just an affirmative grunt. We had our umbrellas out and chairs setup, but he was standing looking uncomfortable. One more loud gurgle and he said “I have to go....NOW!” and literally turned and ran to the closest porta-potty. Right by turn 2 on the steep hill decending towards the pits, there is fence. Just a 40-60' long fence. Just on the other side of that fence is a porta potty.
Sloan is a large man. I have never seen him run the way he did. There is something magical about watching a stout man run with a bright orange umbrella while clenching his cheeks. As he rounded the fence I had the chairs bagged up and was giving chase. Not 10 feet from the porta-potty he noticed that there were about 3 people waiting outside of it and it was occupied. Without a word, he turned and ran back, passed me a took off up the hill, breathing like my wife did when in labor. I followed, eventually catching up. He just kept chanting “bathroom bathroom bathroom”. I told him to go to the bathrooms with the showers. We crossed the access road.
The bathrooms were in sight, as we got not 20' away. He stopped dead in his tracks. I knew what had happened. He looked at the ground, his face flushed. He went in the bathroom to clean what he could of the war zone in his pants. He came out, got in the car and we had the most quiet drive back to my house. Sloan thanked me quietly and he went to my guest room to change. Once he had showered we got back in my car and drove back to the track to watch the Trofeo race. As soon as we parked, he said “I want a meat pie”