NYCH # 1072,
Hares: Dave Hardy & Laird Stiefvater
Start: Broadway &
On-In: Dive, Broadway &
Guest Scribe: Sarah Downunder
“Season of mists and yellow fruitfulness
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun…”
Ahh, hazy recollections, fruitiness and bosoms within reach. The poet Keats could well have been describing a good hash. But he was not. Autumn, rather than Alcohol, was his muse. You know, that time when the days shorten, chlorophyll leaches from the trees, fills the byways with amber crunchiness, and the chill approaches. Woodland critters large and small prepare for a period of quiescence and gorge themselves silly. Silence, sleep and regeneration.
NOT ME, baby! Like a bear in the wrong season, it was time to lumber out of the sleepy excesses of summer and wobble, joyously into Winter NYCH3 Sunday hashing. After a summer of relative hashing abstinence, Manslave and I stretched blearily and began the migration across and uptown to the start. The air was bright and cool. You could almost smell the accidental crackling bonfires in the trash cans of the
On a small island in the middle of Broadway, the pack jostled for dominance. Alice “
“The first mark is on the north side of 103rd, heading west!” Hardy proclaimed.
And we were off. Or some of us were. Hardy’s accent could nowt fool no-one, so it must have been the frustratingly complex, multiply-geographic directions that had more than a few hashers splintering like shotgun pellets in all directions over Broadway. Oddly, all of the Newbie women, visitors and near DFL’s managed to comprehend the instructions and followed the trail over to
Unfortunately, we weren’t on trail to begin with. Like the fluttering leaves of fall (and with slightly more intelligence) we wandered aimlessly. Then someone yelled “ON-ON” and forgetting our lazy mission statement, down we went. Then up again. This was the beginning of a trail ascent that, defying the laws of logic, continued up for the remainder of the trail. An already splintered pack shattered further. Wet Connection, not visible at the start, appeared like a willow-the-wisp on growth hormones before us as we made our way to Grant’s Tomb and looped back into the verdant arches of
However, a small pack consisting of Legs, Got Wood (like Wet Connection, she magically manifested herself in the glens of
And so it was we made our way to Dive, a very narrow bar on 101st and Broadway, populated by football-mad locals. Outside, a fair portion of the pack had already made it in. Peter was busy scribbling on Cockstar’s write-up inside. Bottom was attempting to hawk his haberdashery and Lisa, Seth and several others were milling about outside.
Then Laird staggered in almost immediately, under the weight of many pizza pies. Unusual. Pies. So early? No-one complained. Hardy remarked that he’d collected from no less than 48 hashers, and the numbers were due to he and Laird’s trail setting ability, rather than the weather. Who was to argue? Early pizza forgives an eternal uphill trail on a perfect autumn day. Good beer forgives arrogant locals (damn them! How dare they?) and a crowded bar.
But the attention is growing short as dim as this write-up blather is Summer Solstice long. To the down-downs!
“They will be short
They will be few
For ‘midst the noise
Don’t know who was who”
— Sarah Downunder
Apparently Laird and Hardy received 2 down-downs. Obviously, for the trail, and again, obviously for the over-crowded On-In. Then there were 6 Visitors/Virgins (unfortunately the Malaysian couple had left). The women were apparently Glenda, Darlene, and Cheryl. Apologies to the men whom I left out. A random blame for this I give to Smashmouth, in absentia. Legs was then up for a chug. Something about being hit by flying food thrown Other Than By A Hasher. (This is about as surrealistic as it gets after only TWO beers). Magoo and Bahamonde were next, being among the FRBs who were predictably “challenged” by Hardy’s initial hash mark instructions, blowing right past the first mark, northwards. Bahamonde was retained at the front for AOTW. Bahamonde’s with to hash with his dog was mentioned by JM “Too Long”. (Silly Bahamonde. Does he think we’re in the
Then this Scribe continued to wane, having had little practice in the ways of her Summer-hardened hashers. The winter sleep had temporarily overcome.
Oh, f*ck it. Enough. A little nap, a little more practice, and BRING ON SUNDAY HASHING:
“…to make delicious moan
Upon the hours”