NYCH3 #1110
Date:
Start: Chambers & West Broadway
Hares: Mean Jean & Kerry
On-in: Jeremy’s Ale House (
Scribe: Fire-In-The-Piehole
The trouble with knowing that a hash starts fifteen minutes after its “official” start time is that you begin to factor that in to your travel time when getting to the start and, accordingly, you end up actually missing the start. This, however, doesn’t stop you being outraged that the hares/bag hags have buggered off within five minutes of sending the pack on its way: that’s your god-given right as a New Yorker. The hares, on the other hand, couldn’t give a monkey’s: you can bitch all you like but you’re going to have to do it on your own for 4+ miles with a bag on your back.
There are some amongst us who’ve mastered the art of arriving in that small window between the pack disappearing down the street and the hares disappearing in a taxi. (MasterCard, who inevitably overshoots the “window” by a good half hour or so, still needs some practice)
One of the side effects of this approach is that you have no idea where the pack is, how big it is or even if there is one…
Having hit the “window” perfectly, I found Mean Jean still at the start but not that many bags. Hmm…quiet r*n, I thought. Fast American Dave arrived about a second or two before me so, by the time MJ sent me off in the direction of the river, he was already a speck on the horizon.
After heading south along the river, I ran into the first back markers, Baboon Ass, visible as usual from a quarter of a mile away. We turned inland again towards
In actual fact, it did go nowhere but it took me and a flock of lost visitors and virgins and some other clueless veterans the thick end of 15 minutes to figure that out. I headed north up West Street and by the time I returned to the last mark all of the aforementioned had buggered off but the misleading arrow was now adorned with three reassuring question marks.
I enquired of the local police officer as to which direction the group of runners had taken but Officer Krupke, who obviously hadn’t got the memo that we’re on Yellow Alert™ and was therefore somewhat lacking in the vigilance department, directed me back towards West Street where some runners went “10 minutes ago”.
Finding one straggler who was equally lost, I headed south using the principal that, at some point, we had to run out of island. At least, I thought, bitching about the incompetence of the hares and the FRBs would make good material for the write-up.
Sure enough, we hit a mark near the
At this point it started to rain. The hares, in their infinite wisdom, had only used chalk for the trail, not appreciating that it might take some of us more than one season to complete the trail. (It could’ve been worse: the map of the trail that Kerry gave me would’ve involved a circuit of the entire island had it not been for Mean Jean’s “editing” skills.) We continued north into
At the river, we stumbled upon Kerry at a much-needed Beer Check (as opposed to unnecessary beer checks?!). Fearing that this was the half-way mark and that winter would soon be upon us, we skulled the beverages and headed on. Our fears proved unfounded as, within a quarter of a mile, we reached the On-In, Jeremy’s Ale House (
As the mystery unfolded, it transpired that there weren’t many bags at the start because a four-tonne truck had already collected the first lot. It also transpired that the mark near
Moving swiftly on, the down-downs:
Mean Jean and Kerry for the atrocious trail (and poor check marking, in my not so humble opinion. Hey, it takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong and I am *not* a big man). MJ and Kerry were instructed to drink again for the schoolboy error of failing to set the hotline, leaving some virgins stranded in
The Visitors & Virgins were called up and, outnumbering the regulars, will remain numerous but nameless.
Captain Hollywood, who frankly should know better and probably does but just likes the attention, drank from his new shoes.
Wet Connection was chastised because, while shepherding a flock of virgins/lemmings, she had asked Mickey Mouth for advice on what to do with them. Whether the problem here is that WC didn’t know what to do or that she was turning to MM for advice is not entirely clear. You be the judge: our lines are open.
Cockstar was called up to demonstrate her rhythmic gymnastics skills while drinking which was clearly just a feeble and blatant excuse in order to increase her record for the most consecutive weeks being called up for a down-down.
The birthday boys and girls were verbally abused: Bottom, Kerry, John and Magoo’s swarthy stand-in, Mike Bahamonde.
Finally, given it was Fleet Week, it wouldn’t be fair to leave the Navy boys out of the abuse: Boner Malfunction and his consensual virgin had to recount their experience of the Queens Hash the previous Monday which was a catalogue of disasters. Having missed the train to
The moral in this tale is: hashing is about r*nning and drinking but mostly about the drinking. If you’re not going to make the “window” for the former, head directly to the door to the latter.
On-on!