Racing is all about precision, endurance, and timing. So is … well, let’s call it “gastrointestinal maintenance.” Unfortunately for me, these two disciplines collided in explosive fashion at the Thunder Ridge 25-Hour endurance race.
It all started in the paddock, just an hour before the green flag. My team, Gassy Motorworks — an unfortunate name in hindsight — was making final adjustments to our battered endurance car … a 15-year-old BMW that had seen more zip ties than oil changes. I was feeling jittery, so I grabbed a bottle of what I thought was an electrolyte drink from our cooler. Big mistake.
Unbeknownst to me, one of our team members, Chuck, who had been battling some “personal plumbing issues” had brought along a bottle of ultra-strength industrial laxative. It looked exactly like my electrolyte drink. Same brand. Same color. Same bottle. Because, of course, Chuck had poured it into an electrolyte container to “make it easier to carry around.” I guzzled the whole thing in one go.
T-Minus 30 Minutes: The Realization
About 15 minutes later, something felt … off. A slow rumble started in my gut. Not a regular hungry-stomach grumble, but a deep, primordial warning signal from my intestines. Something ancient and furious had awakened.
“Uh, hey, anyone else’s electrolyte drink taste kind of … chalky?” I asked.
Chuck, looking up from his tire pressure gauge, froze. His face drained of color.
“You didn’t …” he whispered.
“What?” I said.
He ran to the cooler, picked up an identical bottle, and squinted at the fine print on the label. Then, like a man who had just realized he left the oven on before going on vacation, he slowly turned to me.
“Oh no,” he said. “Oh no.”
I grabbed the bottle from his hand and read the microscopic text:
“Maximum strength bowel cleanser. NOT FOR CONTINUOUS USE. Effects begin within 15 to 30 minutes.”
I checked my watch. It had been 15 minutes.
T-Minus 15 Minutes: Panic Mode
Desperation set in. The bathroom was a quarter-mile away, but time was running out faster than a Formula 1 pit stop. I sprinted like my life depended on it, which, frankly, it did, barging into the single-stall porta-potty like a SWAT team on a hostage rescue mission.
This was not a simple pit stop. This was a full transmission failure. I did my best to “lighten the load,” but with only five minutes to go before I had to strap into a race suit and sit in a vibration-heavy racecar for a two-hour opening stint, things were looking grim. My crew chief, Anthony, banged on the porta-potty door.
“Two minutes, Gary! Let’s go!”
I emerged pale and trembling, wiping sweat from my brow. “I … I don’t think I can do this.”
Anthony clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t think about it.”
I was only thinking about it.
Green Flag: Hell Begins
The cars roared off the starting line, and I immediately realized I had made a grave mistake. Every bump in the road was like a mini seismic event in my lower intestines. The five-point harness strapped me in tight … too tight, applying a level of pressure that was not helping the situation.
I gritted my teeth and clenched every muscle in my body that I possibly could. My team radioed in: “How’s the car feel, Gary?”
I reached for the button, but had to prioritize my hands for other things. “G-Good,” I croaked.
By lap three, the pressure was becoming unbearable. Sweat dripped down my forehead as I went full Zen, trying to focus on my breathing and not the cataclysm brewing inside me.
Lap five. Code brown imminent. Lap seven. God help me. By lap 10, I realized I had exactly two options: 1) Pull into the pits and sprint to the bathroom, humiliating myself forever; 2) Hold it, white-knuckled, for the next hour and 50 minutes.
I chose option three: Internal denial.
Lap 15: The Breaking Point
I hit a pothole. My soul left my body. A noise escaped that no man should ever make. A sound that should never be heard over a roaring race engine.
The radio crackled. “Gary, you OK?”
I fumbled for the button, barely able to form words. “I … I … I have to pit.”
I screamed into pit lane, barely making it to a stop before launching myself out of the car with a speed never seen before in motorsports history. The Flaming Redhead — a.k.a. my wife, a.k.a. my biggest critic — watched in confusion as I yeeted myself toward the porta-potty once again.
I barely made it. My teammates? They were in tears laughing. My wife? Filming it for future blackmail. The officials? Less amused.
“Driver 44, is everything okay?” the race marshal asked, knocking on the door.
I didn’t answer. Some things are best left unspoken.
Aftermath: The Legend of Laxative Gary
Eventually, after exorcising my demons, I managed to finish my shift in the car — though I suspect the seat may have needed a deep cleaning afterward. The team never let me live it down. For years, I was known as “Laxative Gary,” and my “unscheduled pit stop” was immortalized in racing folklore.
But hey, I learned something that day … always read the label!
This is a work of fiction for humor purposes only. No racing seats were harmed in the making of this story. — Ed.
