Hares: Kevin Ryan, Anne-Marie, and NOT Don Brosnon

Start: 89^th Street and 3^rd Avenue

On-In: Mug Shot Bar and Saloon

Scribe: Heather Malloy

Talking about the weather is an activity that is normally the province of English women of a certain age, and Jewish grandfathers. Nothing deters them from the pursuit of their hobby, not even the intrusion of the fact that each camp experiences only one type of weather, variations on the respective themes of "cold and damp" and "hot and humid". On and on they drone, impervious to a sleeping audience. This is in marked contrast to my native midwest, where the inhabitants are notoriously loathe to acknowledge the weather at all. Odd behavior in a climate that routinely procures cyclones out of a sweltering, still summer sky, that drops hailstones the size of cantaloupes on unsuspecting motorists, that produces winters so ghastly that only people of Scandinavian descent populated the land for generations. Sure, occasional stories leak out from behind the shield of stoic Teuton reserve, but usually approach the biblical in character. Examples might be one's uncle Vern, who asphyxiated in his car when he was buried beneath a snow bank, or aunt Ida's new picture window being smashed to smithereens when a summer tornado hurled a wayward bovine into the sitting room, or grandmaw and grandpaw being stewed to death in their home during a record breaking heat wave due to their steadfast refusal to cave in to the caprices of weather by purchasing something as frivolous as an air conditioner. And then there is the typical New Yorker's reaction to weather: "How can this happen here?" The minute the first drop of rain splashes down, 10,000 previously unoccupied taxis vanish, and the other unfortunate pedestrians attempt to put your eyes out on narrow city sidewalks with golf umbrellas. Snow? 3:00 p.m. commuter trains to Westchester are jammed with suburbanites rushing home to load up on milk and bread in order to avoid a re-enactment of "Alive" on the New Caanan line. And now, with temperatures consistently in the 90's, the Full Moon pack was reduced to about 15. I wish that Lottery guy would use his P.A. system to announce from the top of the World Trade Center that New York City, contrary to popular belief, was not built beneath a dome.

Which brings us to the run. I should begin by pointing out the error in the masthead. Don Brosnon was scheduled to be the hare, but couldn't be bothered to show up. That left poor Kev, a virgin hare, on his own. An ominous sign, to be sure, but there was a white knight waiting in the wings in the form of Anne Marie. Hope quickly dissolved to despair, as it turns out that Kev and Anne Marie would be going hand-in-hand through their mutual first trail, all alone in the wilderness. They made some preliminary excuses, tossed a few vague instructions in the direction of the virgins, and sent us on our way. Just then, we were refreshed by a miraculous break in the shimmering heat. Sadly, it turned out to be another mirage, as the temporary reprieve was just a breeze generated by Idaho Sue's sprint from the start. We went north, then east from the first check, and downhill to an alleged false. Chris Troise and I were studiously practicing Mike Hoffman's downhill-running method called "stirring the soup", when Danny started back up the hill calling false trail. Chris Chappelear ("Quiet Chris") , not wanting to run one step more than absolutely necessary in the sultry night, screeched to an abrupt halt in front of me, causing me to jam my pinky finger into his back hard enough to break it. Literally. To add insult to injury, Danny was guilty of falsely calling false, and back down the hill we went, throbbing fingers, stabbed backs, and all. On east we went, past Normandie Court, around whatever that park is that surrounds Gracie Fortress, and through some particularly dicey road construction beside the FDR. Then over a fence, along the promenade, back through the park, and west, west, west to a check on the traffic island in the park entrance just above the Met. Checking south for (increasingly faint) marks, Mike and I considered dunking our sweaty heads into the fountains, but quickly backed off when we noticed the rime of brown scum scalloped along the pool's edges. The trail was found going into the park immediately below the museum, then out almost as quickly over the wall, much to the amusement of passers-by. We followed ever more stingy marks to a check on Park, then lost the trail altogether. After the last resort "box the block" method failed us, we ran to First Avenue, home of many a venerable on-in locale, and stumbled upon the on-in at the Mug Shot Bar.

The hares toiled to set out water and $7 pitchers (with an assist from an unusually attentive waitress) when we arrived, but no amount of labor could save them from their fatal error: they had run us too close to the mayor's home, causing an attack of megalomania in our JMs, who handed out down-downs with terrifying speed for offenses previously unimagined. First, virgins Zack and Linda drank. Then, hares plus hareraiser Kerry, who had to drink for conjuring up an invisible hare. Fine, all is still as expected. Then I drank for stupidest running injury ever. Kerry was called back for her civilian duds. Anne Marie received a special vanity down-down for her apparent allergy to flour, as evidenced by the miniscule marks and her post-trailsetting shower and hairdressing. Every thing up to this point was still within the realm of Joint Master responsibility, but then I could have sworn I heard, "Its Giuliani Time!" Phiddipidean violations, punishable by Bud Lite, included Quiet Chris for failing to slow before stopping; Eva for, well, running like Eva; Kerry for changing lanes without proper signals; and Idaho Sue for speeding and running over others. At least with all of these down downs we have a few new songs to occupy us. Wings and fries were scarfed down, beer was quaffed, supplemental hash cash was collected for yet more $7 pitchers, drunken discussions of nonsense abounded. Finally, the night came to a close, with the hashers staggering home to pass out. In all, an excellent job by Kev and Anne Marie. On out.

(Note: staggering home to pass out does not include Fluffy, who went out drinking after closing down the On In. In addition, Mike, Chris and I did not actually "stumble upon" the On-In, but found it because CHRIS CALLED THE HOTLINE. However, power has its privileges, and he didn't drink for the offense. Can anyone say "civilian review board"?)