The Woodland Wipe

In a phenomenon commonly referred to as runners' trots, the intestinal jostling caused by running sometimes creates digestive distress, most generally along the magnitude of explosive diarrhea. For runners, this can cause numerous problems, the least of which may be finding a bathroom. (A more troubling, frequently related problem is adequately cleaning soiled shorts.)
Fortunately, for many runners, a bathroom may not be necessary. When running in the country, there are always farmers' fields into which one can duck inconspicuously for a bit of relief. Or when running trails in a wooded area, there are trees to duck behind.
For the newcomer, such a scenario presents two concerns: first, someone might see; second, what do I wipe with? While I cannot really address the first concern (when dropping the outdoor deuce, you take your chances... those are stories for another day), I can address the second.
Some runners actually pack toilet paper with them on longer runs, or runs where they think they may run into a bit of intestinal duress. I've done this on occasion, but as a general rule, I don't -- by leave no trace ethics, toilet paper can't be left at the scene of the crime, and even if by chance you did remember a bag to pack it your TP with, no one wants to run holding a bag of toilet paper and poo remains. I've even known runners that have on occasion sacrificed shirts or undies, choosing to wipe with an article of clothing, rather than dealing with TP. Even in that scenario, however, an ethical person is left with the pesky question of how to pack it out. Personally, I hate packing things out, so I choose to work with my surroundings.

In a farmer's field, corn leaves actually work pretty well. If they're too dry, they can be a bit abrasive, or if they're just a little bit damp, they work perfectly. In the woods, down leaves work really well, especially in the later fall, after they've had a chance to soften up some, or in the winter/spring, assuming they aren't too decomposed. In the winter, snow is the perfect wipe: it's cool, refreshing, and gives a very clean wipe if you can pack the snow right. The trick with snow is making sure you don't leave any in... because then it melts, and you're stuck with a soggy bum. Really, though, it's a matter of working with what you have around you.
When I lived at the Grand Canyon, I was faced with some interesting choices. True, there were occasions where, while running in side canyons, I had access to leaves. Unfortunately, however, those occasions were few and far between. More often than not, my surroundings consisted of Pinon Pine, cactus, dirt / sand, and rocks. And that was it. I tried small strips from the Pinon, but got a splinter the second or third time, and that was the end of that. I tried a pine cone, and though it was a bit abrasive, it wasn't the worst. I even tried cactus once, removing all the needles I could first, but still... not a good idea. In the end, rocks were the best option. So, rocks it was. Over time, I learned that skipping stones made the best wiping stones as well. And, inevitably, there were occasions when I was left with my hand... be very careful if you choose to wipe with your hand. You do not want to scratch an itch on your face... you laugh, but just wait -- someday you might forget that you've wiped your bum with your hand as well.

Another lesson I've learned: the longer you wait to poop, the cleaner it tends to be. I've learned to wait until I start getting hot, then cold, almost as if I had the flu. Be careful, here, though: it is possible to wait too long. I've done it twice.

Poop well, and poop often. Just don't wipe with cactus.

"The Excrement Poem" by Maxine Kumin (1978)

[I was perusing a Poetry Anthology for kicks and happened to chance upon this one evening. Truly, to be shared with all.]

It is done by us all, as God disposes, from
the least cast of worm to what must have been
in the case of the brontosaur, say, spoor
of considerable heft, something awesome.

We eat, we evacuate, survivors that we are.
I think these things each morning with shovel
and rake, drawing the risen brown buns
toward me, fresh from the horse oven, as it were,

or culling the alfalfa-green ones, expelled
in a state of ooze, through the sawdust bed
to take a serviceable form, as putty does,
so as to lift out entire from the stall.

And wheeling to it, storming up the slope,
I think of the angle of repose the manure
pile assumes, how sparrows come to pick
the redilvered grain, how inky-cap

coprinus mushrooms spring up in a downpour.
I think of what drops from us and must then
be moved to make way for the next and next.
However much we stain the world, spatter

it with our leavings, make stenches, defile
the great formal oceans with what leaks down,
trundling off today's last barrowful,
I honor shit for saying: We go on.

(Maxine Kumin "The Excrement Poem", as found in "250 Poems: A Portable Anthology" edited by Peter Schakel and Jack Ridl, 2003)

[Must any more be said? Never before has poetry so accurately spoken to me, nor shall it be again. Praise the poo.]

Beam Me Up, Scatty

Tonight I pooped a ship. A starship. Or, rather, a whole fleet. They looked so serene there, setting proud on the surface of that scummy water, so very vegetarian, that I couldn't help but imagine them standing proud against the deep, dark recesses of space. I could see them hurtling through the stars, and I was proud to say that they came from my bum, carved by my cunning crack. That may be a bit obscene.
I nearly took a picture, to share the fleet with you, but even I realized that was too crass. Starships are best when pictured prowling proud. That stained bowl couldn't have ever done them justice. Now, thinking more clearly, I realize I could have photoshopped it. But, alas, it is too late; my proud fleet flushed all too well.
Next time I'll know better.

Perfection

I love to poop. Really, there are few -- very, very few -- things more satisfying than the perfect poop. Out it slides, clean and perfect, graced with the kind of precision golfers dream of. Out one hole and in another, without fuss or hang-up.
After the perfect poop, you are lighter. Not only in the obvious, physical sense (the perfect poop weighing in 6.3 ounces), but also in a spiritual sense. You're step is lighter, your smile brighter, the laughter more carefree when you've just had the perfect poop.

Personally, I define the perfect poop by several characteristics:
1) one, or in the rarest cases, no wipes needed
2) lack of splash
3) effort, preferably lack of
4) aesthetic, as it pertains to bowl position
5) the depth of personal satisfaction upon your accomplishment

You're a little disturbed, aren't you? That's okay. We've all been brought up to think of poop as an 'improper' conversation topic. Whatever.

Moving on, my question for you, dear readers: how do you define the perfect poop? And if you could develop a rating system, how would it work?

Poop proudly, friends.

Everybody Poops

Everyone poops. It's true: from the day you're born to the day you die, you will spend your entire life pooping. Brown, green, orange, black, red, yellow: all possible crap colors. Thick or thin, watery or solid, small or large, your poop is a reflection of you. Mostly what you ate, but also the things you do. Runners, whose intestines are subjected to all sorts of unfortunate jiggling, can attest to this.

This blog, then, aims to be a reflection of who we are. Founded in one morning's conversation (while eating breakfast, no less), it rises out of a desire to catalog our poops. Having undertaken something remotely similar once before (a friend and I tallied our totals for a week; he won, 29-27), I know that, odd as it may seem, the study of scat is not without it's rewards. To test that hypothesis, my girlfriend and I will be keeping a poop diary of sorts; hopefully my brother Josh will also join us, and in time, perhaps our ranks will grow.

Who are we? What do we eat? And what comes of it? These are three key questions of identity, an exploration rarely ventured. Together we step away from our toilets proudly, producers of not only long logs, but also bowl-crowding pellets, vomit-inducing stews, the occasional kernel of corn. Join the venture. Poop proudly. And whatever you do, don't fall in.