Martin felt confident about this race. Aged 24 he’d been competing in large
events like this half-marathon for a few years now ever since the days when
he ran for his college team, and these days he would take part just for the
sheer enjoyment of competition running.
The half-marathon today was slightly unusual in that it was a point-to-point
race whereby all the hundreds of runners assembled at the finish area first
to be taken on by a fleet of buses to the start. Another unusual aspect was
the early time of day: at seven o’clock in the morning the runners were
expected to assemble in the finish area to take the buses to the start which
was due at eight o’clock. This meant that Martin, unusually, would be running
on an empty stomach because he was experienced enough to know not to eat
anything in the three hours before a race. Drinking was another matter of
course: Martin had as usual fully hydrated with water before leaving home and
had another bottle of water and two of energy drink in his sport bag. He knew
from experience that you drink plenty of fluids beforehand, use the urinals
supplied by the organisers in the ten minutes before the start, and finally
drink a bottle of AA as you wait for the starting gun. Once you are running
your body stops producing any more urine because the fluids are needed for
sweat to cool you down.
Not much need for cooling today though, he thought, standing under one of
the temporary shelters provided by the organisers and looking out at the
drizzling rain. He was glad he’d put on his full-length yellow lycra
running tights which would keep his leg muscles warm. Good for supporting
the crotch too, he thought, adjusting his dick absently as he surveyed
the busy scene of runners doing stretch exercises and generally preparing.
“Hmm, I’d better piss again before we all get on the buses” he thought,
and glanced at the portable circular urinals which accommodated six guys
at a time but were still hard-pressed to deal with queues which had formed
by each one. All that water without having had any breakfast was having
predictable effects on Martin’s bladder. He braced himself to venture back
out into the rain and stand once more in the queue. But a voice hailed
him from behind.
“Hey, Martin! I didn’t know you were doing this race. Are you all set for
it?” Martin turned at the sound of the familiar voice of his mate Bernie, a
nice guy of about his own age who had also run with him in his college
“Hey, Bernie. How are you doing, man?” Martin was glad to see him and they
started chatting about their training and recent successes. Martin drank
one of his bottles of AA as they chatted, and the next ten minutes passed
quickly as the two friends relaxed in conversation.
The announcement over the loud-speakers came sooner than either had
expected. “All half-marathon competitors please make their way now to the
buses in areas A and B. Please make sure you have all your kit with you…”
Hundreds of runners started picking up sportbags, adjusting their runner-
numbers and setting off towards the designated area.
“Wow, are we off already?” said Bernie. “Got your stuff?”
“Yeah,” said Martin absently. His bladder was somewhat pressured, he suddenly
realised again, but the queues at the urinals were as deep as before and
Bernie was making to go and board the buses. Well, it could only be a ten
minute journey to the starting area. He’d pee there before the race. Hitching
his sport bag over his shoulder he followed Bernie as they joined streams of
other runners all making their way to a nearby bus-park where about thirty
public-transport buses borrowed from various surrounding regions were
standing, their drivers impassively observing the coming hordes of runners in
Bernie made a beeline for a bus which was currently empty and climbed on board
with Martin on his heels, and the two mates made their way right to the
back and sat down. More runners followed them behind and gradually the bus
filled to capacity. Martin adjusted his position and tried to get
comfortable in the seat as they waited. A slight twinge of anxiety gripped
him for a moment as he noticed that his bladder was really quite full, but
he cast the thought aside with the reminder that it was a short journey
to the start and he’d go for a piss as soon as they got there. He chatted
on with Bernie and more minutes ticked by.
Still the driver hadn’t started the engine. Martin glanced through the
window wondering what the hold-up was. “Why aren’t we setting off?” he said
“We go there in convoy,” answered Bernie. “They’re waiting till all runners
have boarded a bus, then everyone sets off at once. Shouldn’t be long now,
“Mmmm,” mumbled Martin. “Damn,” he thought to himself, “I should have peed
first.” He looked out of the window at the dozens of runners who had yet
to get on a bus. Some of them were still peeing at the urinals back in the
area they had been in. Watching them made Martin long to get back off the
bus and do the same. He shifted his position again in the seat and rubbed
his dick slightly. Then he told himself to stop being silly: they’d be
off the bus at the starting area in no time, and the organisers would have
placed more urinals there. Then he glanced at the new bottle of water which
he had been absent-mindedly swigging as they sat in the back of the bus. It
was still nearly full. “That’s enough of that,” he told himself firmly,
screwing the cap back on the bottle and replacing it in his sportbag.
He’d thrown the empty bottles in the rubbish bin before getting on. A
ludicrous thought occurred to him that perhaps that might have been a
strategic error, but then he put the image of having to relieve himself in a
bottle in this crowded bus aside as too ridiculous.
Bernie started telling him about his previous race in which he had actually
finished in the prize list. Martin nodded enthusiastically and tried to
feel pleased about Bernie’s achievement but inwardly he started worrying
again. While he kept up the conversation he moved his sport-bag onto his
lap and held his dick through the yellow lycra for a few seconds, his hand
hidden underneath the bag. A glance outside the window still showed more
runners boarding buses. He knocked his legs anxiously back and forth and
clenched his sphincter muscle tightly.
“Oh this is ridiculous,” he thought. “I can’t need to piss this badly. It’s
only my imagination.” But as he tried to relax again in the seat his bladder
contracted again with a clear message of urgency.
Martin squeezed his cock once more under the bag and looked out of the window
again as Bernie was talking about his sprint finish in his previous race.
Bernie paused as he realised that he no longer had his mate’s attention and
asked “You OK, Martin?”
Martin moved the bag off his lap. “I’m gonna have to get off for a quick pee
before we leave,” he replied in what he hoped sounded a matter-of-fact sort
of tone. “Could you save my place and look after my things for a moment?”
“Sure,” said Bernie in surprise and took hold of Martin’s sportbag. He noticed
as he did so that Martin was squeezing his dick, and he gave his friend a
supportive grin. He knew from his own experience how quickly you could
need a piss when you’d been hydrating before a race.
But even before Martin could get out of his seat there was a rumble and
vibrations as the engine of the bus fired into life. A hiss of air announced
the closing of the doors at the front, and with no further ado the bus
moved forward and joined a line of others which were ready to set off.
Martin groaned and put his hands in his groin.
“Oh well, looks like we’re on the move then,” said Bernie lightly but looking
at Martin with a touch of concern. “It isn’t a long journey, quarter hour or
twenty minutes at the most, I reckon.”
“Twenty minutes?” echoed Martin. “You’re joking, aren’t you!?”
“Oh… I don’t know…” replied Bernie lamely, the realisation hitting him
that his friend must be absolutely bursting if that was bad news. Seeing
that Martin had gone pale and had a serious expression on his face, he
collected himself and reassured him: “You’re right, it’s only a few minutes.”
The mental calculation that told him this was nonsense for a distance of
some 20 km was not one he should share with Martin at this point.
The two of them fell silent for a couple of minutes. Bernie felt for his
friend as he sensed the mounting panic but could see no way that he could
The guy sitting on Martin’s other side looked across as the bloke in the
yellow tights next to him, who he’d overheard telling his friend he had to
piss, started knocking his leg against his own repeatedly. He sighed and
tapped the guy on his shoulder. “Could you stop banging my leg mate? It’s
too cramped in this bus, just sit still, will you?”
Martin didn’t answer but obliged by sitting forward in his seat and
pressing his knees together. He shuddered as he felt his whole body
starting to prepare to urinate. Bernie’s sharp rebuke to the bloke “Shut up,
man, can’t you see he’s desperate for the toilet?” which was intended as
support, failed to register with him. Shakily he rose from his seat
muttering “I’ve got to get out” and started hobbling forwards past rows
of other people who, he knew, were all staring at him.
The bus was driving at some speed by now and Martin staggered as he moved
through, finding himself repeatedly leaning heavily into seats and people on
each side of the aisle. This was secondary, though, to his teeth-gritting
efforts to keep his sphincter closed and hold back the torrent as he
approached the driver. All conversations in the bus seemed to die away as
people watched him struggle to the front. As he spoke it seemed as if
everyone was listening, not just the driver.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry but I’m very very desperate for the toilet. Could
you just pull over because I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer.”
“We’re in convoy, mate, I can’t stop,” came the short reply. Martin refused
to believe his ears. A jet of pee escaped and he rammed his hand on his
“Please, I’m wetting my pants. Stop now, it’s an emergency!” he gasped.
Another jet of piss spurted into his lycra. And another. “Quick, I’m losing
it. Can you pull over here?” Tittering sounded from the runners behind who
were all evidently listening to this. Martin summoned all his strength and
stopped the flow, hand in his groin, and readied himself to jump out through
the front doors the moment the driver had them open.
“Could you sit down please,” said the driver. “I told you we cannot stop.
We’re arriving in ten to fifteen minutes.”
Martin stood stock still as he felt his sphincter open and the warm wetness
gather in his groin and on his hand as the lycra turned wet. In a moment
he felt a river of piss running down his legs into his socks and sports
shoes. A dripping sound followed as a puddle of pee gathered on the floor
of the bus around his feet, snaking away in several directions as it spread
out. Gasps of horror from all round filled Martin’s ears and a cry of
“he’s pissing himself, look at that, he’s totally wet himself!” made sure
that everyone knew the situation.
Still peeing uncontrollably, Martin turned round slowly to make his way
back. Looking up abjectly he spotted Bernie coming up the bus-aisle to meet
him. His face looked serious but compassionate. As the two guys met each
other Bernie wrapped his arm across Martin’s shoulders saying “It’s OK, it’s
OK. You’ll be OK. Come and sit down.” Continuing this banter, Bernie led his
dumbstruck friend back to their seats. The other runners watched, most of
them in awe-struck silence, a few tittering and gesturing.
Both Bernie and Martin had a good race. Bernie saw to it that Martin felt
alright. The rain on the course soon mixed with the urine stains on Martin’s
gear and by the time he crossed the finish line no-one could see any
evidence of his accident.
Martin and Bernie remained great friends after this incident.