Starting location – Exford, Somerset
End location – Sampford Brett, Somerset
I hadn’t a single bowel problem for a week and then today happened.
I ate an entire box of Frosties for breakfast which proved to be a bad call. My idea of fuelling is to take as much on board possible so I can theoretically run for a very long time.
It’s like an airplane operator loading a 747 with enough fuel to take it around the world 10 times. Obviously if it is too heavy then it won’t even travel a mile. It will drop out of the sky. I’ve gotta fuel realistically for the journey ahead.
I didn’t shit myself but I did have to use Exmoor National Park as a toilet in a time of crisis.
My bowels just dropped 5 miles outside of Exford and I thought about what it actually means to shit yourself. You only shit yourself if you soil your clothes. If you were to run down a road, feel the earth move inside you, yank down your drawers and let one out in front of oncoming traffic then technically that is not shitting yourself. Embracing new ideas about shitting myself has proved therapeutic and made me search for the diplomatic response to each emergency.
The first time was inconvenient. I was caught by surprise and ended up shimmying across the road and hiding behind a tree. Not ideal. I could be spotted from one lane of traffic. I just sat there squatting. Until the noise came out. When you shit on a toilet you’re used to the sound. I try to sing a song from a happier time. One that will distract me from all my bad dietary decisions that were made in haste to distract me from the sadness.
Outdoors there is little reverb unless you’re shitting in a tunnel or a cave. It’s like listening to a Fleetwood Mac album after spending your early years listening to Joy Division and The Cure. The lack of echo haunts you. This is for real.
The second shit was glorious. It happened less than a km after the first shit. I was lost in a forest. All alone. I was behind so many trees that I lost count. I found these amazing leaves that provided a smooth yet invigorating wipe. Much better than nettles. The minty fresh forest air masks the bum odours too.
I thought the worst was over after the 2nd turd but my flatulence continued to get worse
It’s funny at first when you emit a large blast but when each fart gets louder you start to wonder if there is something terminally wrong with you. I am worried that if this gas continues then the UK Government will hold a COBRA meeting about my arse.
At one point I was thinking about recording the noise and sending it to NHS Choices so they could make a diagnosis over the phone.
I finally got to use the toilet in a pub in Dunster. This place has a parrot directly outside the bathroom. I’m praying that today it did not learn a sad new song with one note. A brown one.
I think that’s how The Vaselines wrote Molly’s Lips.
206 miles ran in my first week.
I always said that if I could get through the first week OK then I had every chance of doing this.
I’ve no blisters. I’m not in any pain. I’m just worried about my arsehole.
Might try to get to Weston-super-Mare tomorrow. It can’t be shit if it has the word super in it.