BH3 # 539 – Marathon Recovery R*n
Monday, November 8, 2010
Start: Brooklyn Bridge at City Hall (in Manhattan!)
On-In: O’Keefe’s Restaurant, 62 Court Street
Scribe: Cheeky Bastard
A long time ago, in a borough far, far, away…
We met up at City Hall in Manhattan (yes, to all you doubters, this is the BH3 write-up), and were promised that the trail was "out there, somewhere", and were told we ought to go out and find it, and enjoy the super chicken, chicken, eagle, and super eagle. After the picturesque straightaway of the Brooklyn Bridge, we found ourselves on home turf once again. Things weren’t going so bad – marks located, checks solved – until the first chicken-eagle split. Apparently, there is such a thing as a phantom eagle, and it took trust in our hare (not an easy thing to have) and a few marks down the chicken trail before all was well in Hashland again. A couple of turns here and there, a standard Doner Kebab tumble on trail, and the On-In was located in short order.
After a dispute about whether the food money was optional, down-downs were as follows:
– FMIG, for haring within the storied tradition of the Marathon Recovery R*n.
– A dual technology on trail: yours truly, for calling mom shortly after the pack was released, as well as Doggie Erectus, who foolishly answered Just Josh’s call.
– Blackout, who could not find the start (apparently, he was still on the train at 7:15).
– Barnacle, for the illogical idea that the Brooklyn hash started at Brooklyn’s Borough Hall.
– Yours truly for a return engagement with a down-down, for (perhaps) saying "Oh, we lost her" when Trips & Balls came up the stairs to the hash area of the bar – when in reality she was the FRB of the pack.
– Technically Foul, who, keeping in mind that yes, she had marathoned the day before, was eagerly awaiting Headlights, for after all "She promised me Vicodin!". Our drugs of choice are endorphins and alcohol – we’re not House, after all!
– FMIG again, I think (hey, I’m off notes here), for something offensive, no doubt.
– Upon her arrival, Headlights did promptly down a sizable portion of beer, in a post-circle down-down (I believe as a delayed part of a marathoners’s group down-down).
Marathon weekend stories were swapped, our waitress kept feeding us Sams until hash cash ran out, and, not long after, we were gone, just like the beer.