Run # 781 April 30, 2001

Hare:   Altar Ed

Scribe:  Dr Who Slasher

The Start:   Great Swamp, South Kingstown

The Weather:  60's, clear, dry

Present:    Basket Boom-boom, Short Peck, Bondo Jovi, WIPOS, The Slasher Dr. W.H.O., Just Chris. Visitors: Wet Nuts (Quantico H3/TAD to NH3, unless he gets caught at it), Shags Well (Townsville H3, Australia/ditto). Virgins: Just Tom, Just Bubba (probationary). Management: Jake, Ben, Baxter. Disease-of-the-Week: West Nile Virus.

Events-in-History-to-Commemorate: 10th anniversary of the passing of George Sperti Sperti, the inventor of 'Preparation H', April 30, 1991. Rest in peace.


The group gathered relatively promptly at the no-parking area of Liberty Road at the northeast corner of The Great Swamp Wildlife Reservation. WIPOS chose an alternative approach pattern, and only two successive Acela trains, passing at 120 mph, convinced him not to drive across the tracks to join everyone else who had just followed the directions to the start. Bondo gave up before the start, and announced his intention to enjoy the weather with a lovely bike ride. Basket was prepared for anything, with surgically attached toilet-seat-hashit, and shorts guaranteed to disguise any embarrassing accident. Dr. W.H.O., still smarting from his injuries the week before in Cranston, had fashioned nipple-protectors from Harpoon beer bottle caps. Visitors and virgins were abused appropriately. The hare appeared sweating, and bleeding profusely from scratches on his shins. A promising start, until it was realized that his sneakers were totally DRY! With no instructions except to keep our!
 "peanuts" off the railroad track, the pack was released.

Heading back west on Liberty Road, the pack realized that in keeping with the "Conservation of Flour" program instituted in 2001, the virgin hare had reached new heights in powder-free hashing. A mystical check appeared out of nowhere on the old Narragansett Pier Railroad spur, now a bike path. Bondo, excited by the form fitting seat on his mountain bike, sped off into the distance with a hearty "On-on!", leaving the rest of the pack careening in circles though a mares nest of trails, most of which had one and only one clump of flour on them. Through some fields, turning south and west until they reached: THE CARS! Still DRY! It was not over yet, however.

The trail now led southwest on the road next to the railroad tracks, past the first substantial obstacle on the trail: Just Bubba. Just Bubba was a large, somewhat sour young lad, who clearly did not approve of the hashing style of running, and expressed concern that the hashers might prove disruptive to the nesting birds and swamp faeries. A description of the mating habits of the Rhode Island Red Cock did not reassure him, and off he went to call the DEM police. [His quick wit allowed him to discern that the hashers were on the trail of something extremely rare and precious: a white powder on the ground that could only be seen under special circumstances, in minute quantities. Bubba knew what to do. He was later seen walking in circles in the swamp, a straw in his nose, powder on his face, suffering from acute semolina overdose.]

Down the road the hapless bunch went. Wet Nuts, Just Tom, Shags Well, and Just Chris were FRB's, showcasing the stamina of the regulars of the RIH3. Dr. WHO and Short Peck followed, hampered by the desire to at least partly inspect the falsies found at the frequent checks. Bondo reappeared, smelling of Stuffies and Clamcakes, and shot to the front, never to be seen again until the mosquitoes drove him back to his van. Basket, likewise, never made it past Bubba, and he and Bondo contented themselves in Bondo's van doing God knows what until the pack finished the trail. WIPOS, adjusting his mosquito netting, followed, observing all. [By God, he should be the scribe!] Discovering the missing remnants of the markings, the hare gave directions to the first beer check, and then gave the FRB's the beer, shaken not stirred from riding out the last three miles on his shoulders in a backpack.  The hare went off to collect stragglers, while the beer was opened and shared, resulting in the precipitous intoxication of several hundred mosquitoes and wood ticks. Still DRY, though!

The trail resumed; the frequent, unnecessary false checks resumed, and they were headed for the second beer check. Northeast on the powerlines, then north on a powerline substation spur. Dr. WHO, desperate for shiggy, began to flagellate his legs with thorns, until forcibly restrained by WIPOS. The second beer check was found. By now dusk was at hand, the mosquitoes had had enough beer, so the second stop was enjoyed in relative peace.  Just Chris, attempting to qualify for hash naming, told jokes that were stolen from old Reader's Digests. Dr. WHO and Shags Well told Marine Jokes, hoping to provoke the USMC's Wet Nuts into a killing frenzy, trusting that Just Chris would be one of the casualties. Unbelievably, still DRY! Finally, on-on into the night, north to the road, and northwest back to the cars.

Basket and Bondo reluctantly quitted the steamy van, and joined the circle on the wrong side of the tracks. The run was rated: "Best ever" and "Worst ever" from the virgin, 3F from Basket, "Probably beautiful" by Bondo, "Where's the shiggy?" from WIPOS, "My shoes are going to lose their aroma, because they're DRY" from Dr WHO, and "My nuts aren't wet yet" from Wet Nuts. The numeric score totaled +0.69, with the Romanian judge abstaining in protest. Songs were sung, no rings were seen, and the hashit was fought for in a most unseemly manner by Basket and Bondo, who both deserved it for unnatural acts in a van with three dogs, and remaining DRY throughout.

The On-in was a complex affair: starting at the nearby house of Long Dong(?) and his wife (She-who-was-once-named-but-who-wouldn't-reveal-her-name) where most of the group repaired to cadge some free beer, and traumatize some young children. Then to Champions on Rt 1, where WIPOS was found eating rabbit food (the day's special). Wet Nuts and Just Tom disappeared in disgust, WIPOS in a huff; the rest found their way to the Oak Hill Tavern south of Wickford, where giant cook-your-own rib-eye steaks were provided, with salad and potato, as well as 23 oz Guinesses. A fine meal, indeed. The virgin hare may have been a DRY bushwanker, but the evening was a success for all.

On-on