Run # 2056 The Christmas in July Hash 7/21/25<br/>
Where: City Park, Warwick<br/>
Hare: Pussy Galore<br/>
Hounds: Amish Ithead, OOzing, Rusty, Basket, WHO, WIPOS, Just Pat, Just the Tip and 2 visitors WHO's name I can't remember but one was a Hasher from Florida and the other a virgin friend<br/>
Hashit: Basket<br/><br/>


The Rhode Island Hash House Harriers gathered for Run #2056 at Warwick City Park, a place we'd tromped through before, but never from this particular starting point. The hare, PG, had a glint in her eye that promised mischief, and boy, did she deliver. The pack, buzzing with anticipation, expected a classic romp through the park's soft dirt trails. Instead, PG had other plans-diabolical, pavement-pounding plans.<br/><br/>

From the start, PG teased us with a fleeting glimpse of the expected trail, only to yank us away like a cruel prankster snatching candy. We were soon hammering down hard asphalt, weaving through neighborhoods of squat houses, dodging cars, and sidestepping trash bins that reeked of last week's tuna casserole. The pack grumbled, "Why, PG, why? So much glorious dirt, and you've got us playing Frogger on Shamrock Drive?"<br/><br/>

I found myself sandwiched in the middle of the pack, trailing Rusty and Amish, with OOzing and Just Pat hot on my heels. We twisted and turned along Shamrock and Carnation, the flour marks guiding us like breadcrumbs in a concrete jungle. But then, poof! The flour vanished, and so did my fellow Wankers. Rusty and Amish sprinted ahead, lost in their own dust, while OOzing and Just Pat, those two shitheads, must’ve taken a wrong turn into Narnia. I was alone, stranded on-fittingly-Asylum Drive.<br/><br/>

"Cars to the left, water to the right," I muttered, convincing myself I could shortcut to Brush Neck Cove, where surely a frosty beer awaited. Nope! The beach was flour-free, the bike path a barren wasteland of dashed hopes. I was lost, a Hashing orphan in Warwick’s wilds. Desperate, I whipped out Google Maps and spotted Just Pat's dot bobbing near the water by the Masonic Youth Center. "Salvation!" I thought, flooring it in my truck.<br/><br/>

Just as I parked, PG called, her voice dripping with hare’s glee. "Where ya at, Basket? You’re minutes away!" A gate blocked my path to the water, so I ditched the truck and hoofed it. Lo and behold, I stumbled upon the pack at the Beer Stop, already crooning bawdy songs and sipping lukewarm brews. Rusty, Amish, and OOzing were  laughing at my tardiness-and hoping I would be still chasing phantom flour.

After a few off-key verses of something about a wanker and a wheelbarrow, we trudged back to my truck. I played Hash taxi, piling in most of the pack-except OOzing, Amish, and Rusty, who were too proud (or too stubborn) to accept a ride. PG and I swung back to scoop up OOzing, while Rusty and Amish strutted in like they'd conquered the Appalachian Trail.<br/><br/>

We circled up with the pack, including visitors JP, WIPOS, WHO, JtT, and a couple of mystery Hashers whose names drowned in the beer haze. The verdict was unanimous: "Best Hash of the day!"-high praise for a trail that had us running in circles like confused squirrels. But then, the circle turned on me. For my auto-hashing antics, I was crowned Hashit, a title I wore with reluctant pride.<br/><br/>

We capped the night at a nearby pub, toasting PG's sadistic trail and my vehicular shenanigans. As the pints flowed, one thing was clear: Basket is Hashit, and RIH3 Run #2057 would go down in infamy as the day we traded dirt for pavement and sanity for beer. Fuck Christmas...Humbug!