The City Bhey - Part II

Temporarily banishing any bladder-related thoughts from my mind, I surged the Ensign across North Terrace into a vicious crosswind from the West. As the gale blustered the stroller sideways, I recalled that awesome Boeing video of jets landing in savage crosswinds. I thought of applying some opposite rudder, but then remembered I was in a stupid walking event, and not a jet. Pfah! Soon enough though, the gale was at our backs and it was with delight that I found it was enough to propel the stroller along all by itself. T-plus 5 mins and all was well.

By Victoria Square, the first momentous race decision needed to be made - left or right? We went right.

As we reached South Terrace, my bladder send my brain the following message:

This is an automated message - generated at 16/09/2007 08:51:32 We have sent this message in order to assist you to manage your bladder storage.

Your current urine storage for the account admiral_bayls@bladder.urinarysystem.com has exceeded 98% of your storage allowance.

You have the option of :

* finding a public toilet soon;
* pissing in that drink bottle you packed;
* pissing in your pants and hoping none of the 28,000 people around you noticed for the next 2 hours

That was it then, the next dunny was mine. Mine and 48 other weak-bladdered people it seems, as I saw a queue of old ladies dancing on the spot in an incontinent conga line towards three portable toilets in the park lands. There was no way I was queuing for that, so on we powered, the drink bottle in the bottom of the stroller looking more inviting with every step. I looked for other options. There were none that didn't involve me pissing in plain view of anyone in the park lands. The thought of un-holstering my Trouser-Mauser amid the thick bushes of Adelaide's prime underground homosexual hangout didn't fill me with enthusiasm. Even less so, given the temporary lifestyle choice status conferred on my by Tossed's proximity.

By West Terrace, my back teeth were floating and I scanned the surroundings. Great, a water station. One billion cups of water splish splashing little rivulets of water all over the road. People sclurping and spitting, tricking water down their chins, tossing half-filled cups to the ground, each action causing my bladder to threaten an immediate payload release. I looked for a convenient spot to accommodate it. To the right west was West Terrace Cemetery. Privacy: good. Chance of one day getting into Heaven: Poor. Straight ahead was just a sea of bodies. To the left was the scraggy little mini-forest surrounding netball courts. It looked like my best bet.

Mentally assessing the challenge of pissing on a tree and attempting to remain invisible, it was then that I spotted a vague brick outline in the parklands distance. Welcoming this makeshift urinal, I shot a quick "Need a piss!" to the She_Admiral and grabbed my phone. A brisk "ME TOO!" from Tossed, and we were trotting off through the trees. Reaching the de-facto urinal, we found it housed an actual urinal, being a public dunny. Luckily it was sufficiently far from the road that it had escaped the usual influx of runners. It was also far enough away from Veale Gardens that it was fortunately pedophile-free. I raced inside, released Bayls Jnr Jur and fronted the urinal. Like Azureus on a 100Mbit connection, I unleashed a furious torrent of pent-up piss against the steel wall, causing it to flex and buckle with a thunderous drumming sound, filling the air with a fine tan mist. Tossed too was unloading against the stainless steel like a minigun-toting Jesse Ventura in Predator. 120 seconds later, we were empty, and thoughts returned to the race.

I rang the She_Admiral who advised that she was just passing Keswick barracks. I mentally calculated what her velocity must have been throughout operation urination and concluded that she must have been barely moving to have only made it that far. Still, it would take at least a minute of lethargic jogging to catch up, and that was more exercise than I'd done in the last 12 months. Sucking in the guts, we set off, breezing past walkers, bowling through kids, splitting groups of walkers like human log splitters until finally we spotted team WCS. I relieved the She_Admiral of the stroller controls, gave the Ensign a quick sniff to check nappy status, and picked up the pace.

The first thing we passed was team go-kart, their heavy steel vehicle crippled by a solid rubber tyre that had peeled off a rim. One down, I mused, and looked for the removalists and their piano. They were nowhere to be seen until we reached the Anzac Highway dog-leg following Le Cornu, where a slight rise in the road afforded a clear view of the next few kilometres. Looking ahead, there it was. The frickin' piano in its steel cage, cutting a path through walkers like a Soylent Green pickup truck. Squinting, I saw the impossible was happening - they weren't walking, but trotting along pushing their heavy cargo. Feeling relieved that I didn't vocalise my hat eating oath from the starting line, I pushed my own heavy cargo - the tubby little Ensign. Peeling back the stroller sun-shade I peered at my cargo, and it was evident she was having the time of her life. Sitting up, looking around, laughing at people as we passed; a distinct contrast to the handful of infants we'd passed, being unceremoniously stripped of crap-laden nappies or placated with lukewarm bottles of milk. "No Breastfeeders though", I thought happily, aware that Tossed's breast-fetish didn't discriminate.

The remainder of the race was monotonous repetition, which means plenty of interesting things happened, but I can't be arsed documenting them. We were regularly assaulted by paternal grandmotherly types cooing at the Ensign, and doubtless musing about same-sex partner adoption laws. For her part, the She_Admiral did nothing to redress this misconception, avoiding any manner of lewdness, despite the list of "Sexual Suggestions" I'd taped to the back of the baby's bag. At around the half-way mark I was surprised to see several wheelchair-bound competitors heading back into town on the other side of the road. It was amazing not only for the fact that they'd finished already and were effectively doing twice the distance by rolling back into town, but also because they were doing it on the side of Anzac Highway that was completely open to traffic. All it would have taken was one inattentive driver, or someone distracted by the spectacle on the other side of the road and a terrible accident might have marred the event, and worse still, crippled an elite athlete so that they'd never walk again. We also saw several runners, jauntily trotting back into town having finished the event before we'd even crossed the starting line.

It should also be noted at this point that she She_Admiral completely borked her race application, having registered independently of the WCS. Amusingly, she'd registered as a runner, despite her assurances that she clearly specified that she'd be walking with a "pushable object". The net effect of this was a roar of callously accurate laughter by the sea of spectators lining the finishing line, apparently having nothing better to do than to watch en endless stream of strangers amble past. Cries of "pffft, check that one out!" and "Bwwahahaha, there's a runner still going!" eroded any marital pride I'd had at the She_Admiral's perambulatory accomplishment, and it was something akin to relief I felt as I felt Tossed's tongue snake into my ear with a breathy congratulation as we crossed the line.

After guzzling the free Powerade and collecting my free Sunday Mail, we located the rest of the WCS, huddling in the gale force winds under a pine tree. Consisting solely of women, they were 10 degrees colder than everyone else. Although happy to loudly voice their displeasure at the freezing conditions, not one of them was thoughtful enough to harden a single nipple for the edification of the breast-obsessed Tossed. Still, at least we'd made it, and it was time to plot out evacuation of Colley Reserve before the impending deluge eventuated. I whipped out the mobile and rang Admiral's_Mum. As usual, the first call went to voice mail and I could picture the typical scenario on the other end. First, confusion that there was music coming from whatever receptacle was holding her mobile. "Strange! I don't remember packing a wireless!". Then sudden recognition that the handbag wireless was a telephone, and lo, 'twas ringing! Then a fumbling extraction of the device followed by confusion that there was no handset to lift followed by my call going to voice mail. I dialled again, and she answered, happily proclaiming that she'd finished in 1 hour 40 mins. This contrasted sadly against my own 2:00:06.

Bigging adieu to the WCS crew, I hitched a ride back into town with Mrs_Salad to collect the car, enjoying a frigid downpour as I covered the distance between the drop off point and the car location. It was then a spirited drive back to the bay to collect the three generations of febayls and off home to enthusiastically undo any enhancements to health provided by the walk, by ravenously devouring a couple of Whoppers and a handful of chilled brewskis.