The Smithfield Triangle Deja Vu Hash

Run #826 March 4, 2002

Hare:  Oozing Syphilitic Dictaphone, Basket Boom Boom
Scribe:  Dr Who
Location: Parente's on Rt 7 in Smithfield
The Weather:  Clear, 20's with wind.
Present: Oozing SD, The Slasher Dr. W.H.O., WIPOS, Bondo Jovi, Basket Boom Boom, EverReady SB
Management: Together for the first time since the 2002 AGM and Electoral Vote, the Executive Committee of the RIH3: Async (GM), Jake(GM-Emeritus), Ben, Baxter.

The Run:

[Note: Due to the unusual and sometimes graphic nature of the description that follows, younger readers are advised to use the back button on their browser, and read more age appropriate material such as the "Newport H3 Bowling Weekly".]

Oozing SD, the hare, reached new heights of whining, sniveling self-pity last week, when he realized that he not only had to do the write-up but was supposed to set trail on this day, shortly after returning from frozen debaucheries in the North. As such he bribed the co-hare, Basket BB, to assist and the result was the disaster herein described. Seeking safe ground that would not require intelligence, creativity or effort on their parts, they chose as starting point Parente's on Rt 7. This place allows easy access to what may be the most hashed lands south of Glendale. Referred to as the "Bermuda Triangle of the RIH3", this area is an isosceles triangle oriented with apex pointing northwest, and bounded by the Douglas Pike, the Farnum Pike (and Woonasquatucket River) and the George Washington Highway. Ever since the fortuitous discovery that wheat flour serves as a growth accelerant and fertilizer for green bull-briars, the RIH3 has been strangely drawn again and again to this area. Queer happenings are routine here (and this is not just referring to Bondo). Disappearances. Spectral apparitions and manifestations. Bizarre and inexplicable beer choices. But your scribe digresses.

The stalwarts arrived, one by one. Async, Dr WHO, and WIPOS were first, followed by the hare, EverReady, and Bondo Jovi. 6:30 came but where was the co-hare? And why did they all wait, even though they knew that the co-hare was Basket? And where was the beer?! But further inexplicable and chilling occurrences awaited the shivering but stouthearted band of adventurers. Finally he arrived, and they were off into the woods at the northwest corner of the parking lot, headed west into the dark night.

West and southwest the flour marks led, through thorns, over stonewalls and crossing branches of what would have been a stream if Rhode Island had not been in the midst of the worst drought in 130 years. As it was, the pathetic dribble of water into cracking mud only made the pack reminisce sadly of the glories of hashes past(as well as remind some of the hesitancy and intermittancy of the hare's urinary stream from the tree-platform at the Hash Olympics (Run#824) two weeks ago. But your scribe digresses, again.). The pack stayed together through the "Blair Witch"-like landscape effortlessly. It was realized with a wild surmise that there had been an overabundance of flour on the trail, an mysterious and unaccountable "flour abuse", never before seen at the RIH3. What could this mean?

At any rate, like sewer rats bursting out of a rapidly overflowing cesspool, the pack emerged from the woods onto the access road to Bryant College. Trail was then lost temporarily but Async found an "X" at the end of a falsie and led the pack backtracking into the main campus where they scattered in all directions. The students milling about were somewhat confused by the sudden appearance of shouting, whistling and strangely attired runners and dogs. The coeds were not reassured by the fact that Oozing ran from group to group leering, saying "Hello, girls!" with a wink, offering to expose himself. The young college lads were likewise unaccountably reserved when EverReady told them that the group was searching for beer. Async gave an impromptu seminar on financial management. Bondo demonstrated dog obedience training techniques. Dr. WHO and Basket (believing that his white labcoat provided necessary verisimilitude) temporarily set up a booth in one of the common rooms in the female dormitory offering free gynecologic screening. No takers and they joined EverReady, Bondo, and WIPOS in the parking area, where they wrestled Oozing off two young women, and set him back on trail.

The trail led across Mowry Road, south then southeast on dirt-bike paths along a ridge. There was standing water in all the dips of the trail, but sadly, it was easily avoided in virtually all cases. Even the dogs could not get sufficiently wet to spray on any of the runners. And again, the horrifying frequency of flour marks (definitely violating several "Wetlands" statutes) and clearly marked false trails led to the eerie consequence of WIPOS being FRB for substantial periods of time. Oozing and Async were heard on trail chatting about retirement plans and 401K accounts. The dogs were uncannily quiet. Basket was observed to mark true trail on a few check marks. Dr WHO did not fall once. Bondo did not shortcut. The malevolent influence of the location was clearly affecting all. When would it end?

The beer check was easily reached, on the north bank of the Woonasquatucket River, across from Route 5, the sounds of drunken belching at Box Seats clearly audible. The group gathered around and were confronted by the choice of "Fat Angel" Ale or "Humble Patience" Beer. Either there was a fire sale at Yankee Spirits, or the hare's mind and tastebuds were injured by the Budweiser consumed the previous week. (Note to hare: If you're going to provide this kind of swill, at least get "Blind Faith" or "Heart of Darkness".) With the temperature rapidly falling, and the bizarre happenings on the trail, no one even sang, and soon they were off with Bondo leaving early so as to try and get lost.

Crossing a hill, the trail led down to and under the familiar 116 bridge, then back up northeast to 116 itself as a falsie, coming out by Mowry Road to the powerlines. These were followed north finally crossing 116 into a junkyard complete with savage attack dogs, who turned tail yelping when they caught a whiff of Bondo's running shoes. The trail led to a stream crossing avoided by Basket and WIPOS but found by the hare and Dr. WHO. Dr WHO looked at the water. Summoning an incredible and mystical force from within, he WALKED ACROSS THE WATER (aided only by four evenly spaced stepping stones located five yards downstream)! EverReady, a few yards behind, had forgotten her spectacles and not seeing the stones, splashed across, making her again the only hasher to get wet that evening.

The rest of the trail would have been quite challenging if anyone had been too stupid to know that the powerlines led straight to the Douglas Pike and the cars. The runners regrouped. The circle was taken a few yards into the woods above Parente's at a spot so well illuminated by a spotlight from the restaurant that sunglasses were required, although the hare assured the group that they could not be seen from the parking lot. Ratings for the run: a surprising 12F from Bondo, who obviously was demented and was actually reliving his last run here in 1997. EverBeaver enjoyed being wet, and was positive, WIPOS liked the weather although he could not actually feel it in his outfit, Dr WHO liked the coeds, and Async enjoyed the opportunity to combine hashing with merchant banking. Overall: +0.69. Bondo forgot the hashit, and may give Basket a run for "Hashit of the Year". There was considerable whining about the cold ("What cold?" said WIPOS), and with little fanfare, they "swung low" and moved into Parente's.

In this fine establishment, they were greeted by their waitress Michaela, who not only remembered the group from previous hashes, but also actually wanted to serve them! The owner asked if the group was the "Tuesday Night Turtles". It was pointed out that it was in fact Monday night, and the TNT's are a running group. "Do we look like runners?!" asked an incredulous Bondo. Food and beer were ordered and delivered, there was no singing, no unruly behaviour and despite ample supplies of malt vinegar, no beer contamination. It was clear that this run had shaken the very foundations of the hash, and if next week's run does not reverse these horrific tendencies, the group will take to basing their hashes on the locations of bowling alleys, and serve white Zinfandel at their beer checks. Oh, the horror!

On On

 The Slasher Dr. WHO