Guy Fawkes Hash

Run #1127, November 5, 2007

Hare:  Amish It Head

Location:  Johnston

Weather:  Low 50’s, Clear

Present:  Concrete Feet, Basket Boom Boom, Oozing SD, Just Rebecca, Just Zeke, Microhard, WIPOS, Scatwoman, Tinker, Snotty, Short Peck, Just Sean, Dr WHO, Donkey Punch, Pubic Housing. Virgins: Just Dan, Just Max, Just Haynes(?). Non-runners: Dogmeat, Snotty’s Better-half.

The Run:

6:35 on a Monday night. Post-weekend call. Stuck in a traffic jam turning on to Route 6. Hashing sneakers left at home. Trying to get to the Johnston Landfill. To celebrate a British holiday that centers upon burning effigies of the Guy (Ha, Ha!) who tried to blow up Parliament in the 1600’s. What on earth would keep one from turning the car around and heading for home? This is not a rhetorical question. If one of you (apart from Oozing) has an answer, I’d appreciate it. (And while you’re at it, maybe you can explain why I bother with these write-ups. No one reads them. They’re not all that interesting. I have to turn the grammar-check feature off, or all those green wiggly lines give me a seizure. They sit on Dry Foot’s hard-drive for at least a week before he sneaks them on the website. But I digress.)

At any rate, arriving at 6:45, I parked outside of the ballfields on Reservoir Ave, expecting to give it one reasonably good try and then to give up, turn around and head to the Bishop Hill Tavern to get started on the beer. But while trying to find a solution to my footgear problem, I saw a group of lights in an unmistakable pattern crossing the lower part of the ball fields. And there were a lot of lights! Shite! No excuses! I locked my car and short-cutted down Central Ave. Street shoes are after all, designed for streets. The pack was lingering at a check on the road, some coming back up from the neighborhood down the road. The FRBs turned left into the woods. I was able to join the back of the pack without much exertion, as there was significant slowing from briars.

No one that I first caught up with was recognizable. All strangers! It was some time before I was convinced that this was actually the Rhody Hash. Most of the people I encountered looked to be reasonably fit. Some were actually running. No one was whining. No one else wore street shoes. Was this some kind of athletic organization or wilderness club? No, it turned out that the recent renascence of the RIH3 continues. Virgins and two-timers aplenty! WOW MOM! But soon I ran into Snotty. He was not on fire. Relief mixed with disappointment. I came up to Short Peck. Disappointment turned to regret. I heard Basket’s horn. Regret became despair. But no sign of Ben or Bondo. Whew!

Trail bushwhacked back towards the ballfields. A check soon led atop a mound of hardened gravel and down the steep slope beyond. The pack was led by Oozing. Basket went off on his own, and was not heard from again (except for Donkey Punch and Pubic Housing. Newcomers, repeat after me: NEVER FOLLOW BASKET!). Things were looking up. We headed east to the Jillison (Almy) Reservoir and turned northwest along its shores, on a trail for only a short while. The flour led through numerous bushwhacks, several stream crossings (none of which required any moistening of any street shoes that anyone might have happened to be wearing) and eventually curved back east well away from the head of the lake.

The hare warned everyone to ignore a “true-trail arrow.” This was found atop a glacial erratic. It pointed to a 20 foot fall. The arrow was ignored, but most of the pack made the (reasonable) assumption that if you went around the boulder, you might pick up true trail somewhere in the general direction indicated by the arrow. This was not the case. For those interested, street shoes do give pretty good traction, at least at the base of a large rock. With seventeen hashers milling about, true trail is bound eventually to turn up. In this case, diagonally opposite from the offending arrow. What ' had the hare been thinking? Or drinking?

A prolonged bushwhack now took place, with the hare almost as confused as the pack. A three-fold stream crossing (those hypothetical street shoes still as arid as the Gobi Desert) wound the pack up into a bunch and even those trailing were not smart enough to recognize that two of these crossings were completely unnecessary. The briars were beginning to take their toll, especially on Tinker whose fluorescent green Bangkok Harriettes Short-shorts offered no protection whatsoever. Finally Oozing and the hare came to the “B”, at a small stream. The hare was thirsty, so thankfully no stupid games were played and he directed us to the cache with a minimum of hide-and-seek nonsense. We brought the beer downstream to a bit of a pool. Those in street shoes discreetly removed them and had a bit of a soak in stocking-feet. Oozing splashed a bit, cleaning off his shiggy shoes. Way to rub it in! No one else was interested. Thus the pack stayed dry as they drank their beer, and had some spiced nuts. There was no fire, so Snotty remained safe.

With so many new people present, the rhubarb was sure to rise, and efforts were made to celebrate Guy Fawkes Day by singing British songs (instead of burning Snotty alive, a poor substitute, in my view.) Unfortunately, no one knew any British songs. So Snotty had to settle for “Hitler has only got one ball” and Three German Officers crossed the Rhine”. (Someone could try to explain that one to me, as well. But at least no one apart from Basket can remember the words to the “Panzerlied”.) With only two gallons of beer for seventeen people, the singing stretched it out a bit, as most of us can’t sing and drink at the same time. (Face it, most of us can’t walk and chew gum at the same time. At least in street shoes. But I digress.) At least Basket was good enough to remain lost. We dreaded the story we’d get when he finally showed up. Most made plans to sit as far away from him as possible at the On On On.

The hare’s directions back were a bit confused. Something like “take a right and a left, but there are no marks after that…” or something equally unintelligible. Perfect. The lead pack was pretty fed up with taking directions from this hare. So after turning right or left or whatever, they found that the “out” trail crossed the “in” trail. They decided to backtrack. The evil that one knows as opposed to the evil unknown (and possibly dangerous for those still-dry street shoes). The hare led the trailing pack back to the playing fields, and joined Basket, Donkey Punch and Pubic Housing. The FRB’s were DFL’s in the wink of an eye.

The circle was held in some tall grass above the parking area. Ideal spot for a fire, but the hare had not prepared. Ratings for the run were mostly favorable: a large crowd, several bimbos, virgins and two-timers, some light shiggy, sufficient beer at the BC, and Basket missing the BC were weighed against the confused out trail, the return of Basket for the circle, the dry street shoes, and the missed option of actually entering the landfill. Total: +6.9! Hashit? There was only one choice, so (to Concrete’s regret) Basket was unanimously awarded the dishonor. The virgins were initiated, and responded with the military version of “Roll Your Leg Over” (“Hey, Bar-bar-ree-ba!”). The circle ended and they moved to The Bishop Hill Tavern where Dogmeat and Ms Snotty awaited. Most of the group attended, and many changed into fresh clothes including street shoes. As always, the group was (appropriately) isolated in the back room, the food missiles flew while the beer tab mounted. Note: No Englishmen were immolated in the making of this hash.

On On