In 2008 I decided to run in the Mother’s Day 10K in Kanab, Utah. It was strung out along U.S. 89, a scenic byway with beautiful rock monoliths on both sides of the road varying in color from red to salmon, rust to umber, beige to brown. Since it began early in the morning, I figured I’d be okay; I’d not eaten anything. Everyone was bussed out from the city to the starting point at Moqui Cave. It was a cold day and, just before the race commenced, we were dumping our jackets and sweats into a designated spot for retrieval later. Then, we were off. I hadn’t gone more than one mile when I became conscious of the sloshing. It would have been normal for me if I’d had my usual two cups of coffee to begin the day, but I hadn’t. The physical activity was doing it. After about two miles, the sloshing was pronounced. Plus, it was getting heavy and had become a definite annoyance. My determination was starting to flag. I worried about finishing. Then, thankfully, I spotted a Porta-Potty at the 3.1-mile marker, the halfway point. I made a beeline for it, like a dog chasing a stick. Once relieved, I was back into the crowd and finished handily. Then I went looking for my hooded sweatshirt and a cup of coffee.