2025 June Tan Time Trial Results

STRIDE OUT

June 2025

It has been quite some time since I bombarded the Stride Out readership with an article. In fact, this piece has enjoyed a gestation period longer than an elephant. The idea has been rattling around in my head, trying to find its way out of the void through to my fingers. So I will dispense with the timeline and just get on with it.

I pity those who have wasted a good portion of their lives following my diatribes, who may remember that I was attacked with secondhand underground drilling equipment in the nether regions to allow me to re-enter society without recourse to a catheter. This procedure is referred to as a TURP (Transurethral Resection of the Prostate) and was successful, if a trifle inconvenient.

This is a delicate subject, but we are all adults (with some notable exceptions), urinary flow, now I’ve said it, and it’s out in the open. Normalcy was returned within reason, although nothing to rival Victoria Falls, bit more in the fashion of the underwhelming Dights Falls. However, matters took a negative turn some 12 months later.

In my attempts to secure last place in a middle-distance event at Masters Athletics, I experienced an unwelcome sensation downstairs. Crossing the line ingloriously, I quickened my pace in the direction of the ablutions to confirm the worst. I had succumbed to an attack of exertion related incontinence. In other words, I WET myself.

In deference to my fellow club members, I self-isolated during the social get together where we enjoy a tasty repast in the rooms, and chat about all things Masters Athletics, that is aging disgracefully and past glories.

I harboured high hopes that this unpleasant experience would be a one-off. But no. At subsequent Masters, Victorian Road Runners and parkrun (you may have heard of this phenomenon, happens every Saturday morning all around the world) events I continued to discover an offensive darkening hue in the lower region of my running shorts.

It’s a weird situation to enjoy a post Tan chat with our fearless leader hoping he will not noticed I have disgraced myself. Some may say, “What’s new!”

I sought assistance from a health care professional, the Prostate Nurse. Being female and not having a prostate, she is sure to know what to do, right. I was advised to invest in a Penile Clamp (sounds nasty, I hope its not contagious). This implement is available at your local Spanish Inquisition Torture Chamber Disposals Store or online at Ebay. I proudly present a low mileage genuine one owner Penile Clamp still in its original wrapping always garaged in the vanity unit and has never experienced an accident (wee wee or otherwise). Hideous device.

Plan B. I consulted with the other Prostate Nurse and she suggested the hospital’s Pelvic Floor Physiotherapist, but unfortunately this person recently resigned and she held little hope of them finding a replacement. So I was tossed out onto the stormy seas of the private system and was referred to a Pelvic Floor Physiotherapy Clinic. Please do not misinterpret my comments, the indignities you girlies endure has me in awe, for us blokes things are pretty straightforward.

As I entered the clinic I was immediately confronted by the estrogen dripping off the walls and pooling on the floor. The decor wasn’t pink, but it might well have been. This was an overtly female environment and I felt uncomfortable. It was nothing conscious about the staff and patients’ attitudes, it was the vibe. I felt like the lone rogue male in Spotlight, sure you’re free to enter, but it doesn’t seem right and I felt like a game of spot the pongo was in progress, and I was the pongo!

Regardless, I was ultra-sounded and no evidence of a fetus was discovered, much to my relief. And provided with a set of the most imprecise exercises imaginable to perform three times a day. Sit ups and stretches I am familiar with, but exercising the pelvic floor is a dark and mysterious art. Like trying to flex your ear lobes. I departed with my exercise regime under my arm and a repeat appointment in three weeks’ time, which I promptly cancelled one week later.

Undeterred and persistent, I sought remedy in an incontinence pad and my own personally tailored pelvic floor exercises which allows me to participate in events without embarrassment.

In fact, in recent times I seem to forget to insert the pad with no ill effects. So, no need to check out my shorts to see if the coast is clear to enjoy a post Tan natter.

Thanks for reading
Agent 99
Tony Freegard