Alright, gather 'round the virtual campfire, hashers, for a tale of Run #2055, the Storm the Bastille Day Hash, July 14th, with Rusty as our sneaky Hare and the Ryan Park boat launch as our starting line. The pack was a motley crew: OOzing, PG, WHO, WIPOS, Just Pat, Just the Tip, Basket, Hairy, Amish Ithead, and two wild cards from Northboro, Cunt-ogropher and Cumi So Hard Me Die. With names like that, you knew this was gonna be a riot.<br/><br/>
The trail kicked off toward the arching bridge, where we stumbled on a glorious sight: Whiskey, glinting like a French revolutionary's guillotine in the summer sun. We crossed the bridge, the pack buzzing with energy, but the trail veered right, all coy and teasing. Basket, ever the rebel, decided to channel his inner Napoleon and bolted left at the first check, convinced he'd outsmart Rusty's trail. Big mistake. While the pack's howls echoed to his right, Basket found himself staring at a "Private Property" sign, probably with some grumpy homeowner eyeing him like he was about to liberate their garden. Begrudgingly, he backtracked, muttering hash curses, and rejoined the main trunkline, only to spot PG, the FRB, strutting ahead like she owned the place.<br/><br/>
At the next check, Basket teamed up with Dr WHO, and here's where it gets good. They caught sight of PG, who, in true hasher fashion, was squatting for a mid-trail pee break-because nothing says "Storm the Bastille" like marking your own territory. Not wanting to interrupt her, ahem, revolutionary act, Basket and WHO veered right and stumbled upon the fish ladder, where "Beer Near" was scrawled like a sacred hash sacrament. But Rusty, that sly Hare, had hidden the beer bag like it was the French crown jewels. The pack scrambled, cursing and laughing, until Rusty, probably chuckling from the bushes, dropped a hint. After some serious bush-whacking (get your mind out of the gutter), they unearthed the treasure: a bag stuffed with beer and snacks. The pack descended like hashers on a free buffet, toasting to liberty, bad decisions, and fish ladders.<br/><br/>
Now, Hairy, poor Hairy, earned the Hashit title-probably for some glorious screw-up, like trying to "storm" the wrong Bastille or tripping over his own beard. The night wrapped up at West Passage Brewing, where the pack raised glasses, swapped lies about their trail heroics, and probably sang something wildly inappropriate. Cumi So Hard Me Die and Cunt-ogropher fit right in, regaling us with Northboro tales that made us wonder if their kennel hashes through actual swamps.<br/><br/>
And so, Run #2055 went down in history as a glorious mess of whiskey, wrong turns, sneaky hares, and a pee break that could've started a revolution.<br/> On-on!