There are very few rules in hashing. To the untrained eye, and often to the trained eye, hashing can appear to be a bunch of drunks running willy-nilly in search of beer and semi-decent bathrooms, with no more structure than is generally found in a Roman bus queue. Perhaps it is this dearth of order that makes us cling tightly to our traditions, so much so that eventually, traditions assume the posture of rules. Take, for example, the fact that Dave and Laird set the last Sunday run each year. This tradition, combined with Dave and Laird's heroic status amongst the great unwashed, is not just a rule at this point, but one that appears to be divinely endorsed, if a multi-year streak of remarkable weather is any indication. Last year, a freak late-season blizzard dumped over a foot of snow on the city the day before, but Laird and Dave still commanded a day of brilliant sunshine and 65 degree-plus temperatures for their run. This year was no exception. Next year, on the other hand, is up for grabs, due to rule-breaking of a different sort.

What kind of rule breaking, you ask? Perhaps you're familiar with some of Dave's claims to fame, including "I've never set anything but a perfect trail." Or, "I only set short trails." And you may have overheard Laird saying, "I only set A-to-A runs these days." All of the aforementioned sound like rules to me, and all of said rules were summarily broken on this year's run.

Going by the "short run" rule, I ran to the start at the Staten Island ferry terminal to boost my mileage. A substantial pack had gathered, thanks to the star power of our hares. After warmly welcoming the virgins and visitors in our midst, and carefully explaining our arcane system of checks and arrows, the hares sent us west into Battery Park, where we quickly encountered our first check. Trail was found just as quickly leading…west, right into the river. A brisk 1.78 mile swim found us washed up on the shores of Bayonne, but lucky for us, the hares had marked the trail very clearly in the direction of the Meadowlands. The trail went right up the center of the Jersey Turnpike, which was rather boring, but did offer the added fun of forcing us (some more successfully than others) to dodge trucks and New Jersey state police. 22 miles later, we had plenty of time to admire the hares' ingenuity in trail marking. Knowing that flour would quickly be devoured by the huge population of swamp rats in the boggy area, Dave and Laird had instead erected soaring garbage sculptures every quarter mile. Getting to each of these markers was a bit more challenging. The swamp that swallowed the old Penn Station had no trouble consuming a few dozen hapless hashers. Once the fleet of foot had made it out of the bog, we found another check just outside of the Lincoln Tunnel. Unfortunately, trail was not so easy to discern amongst the markings left by innumerable construction crews over the last few months. Even more unfortunately, no one had a quarter to get us out of this mess, thanks to the "perfect trail" rule. After three solid hours of boxing the block up the cliff to Weehawken and back, we eventually remembered the "A-to-A" rule, and ran through the tunnel, up the Upper West Side, and collapsed in front of the Dive Bar. Oh, whoops, no "On-In." Too exhausted from inhaling carbon monoxide in the tunnel to continue running, I stumbled down Amsterdam to Equinox to attempt to steam myself back to a semblance of normalcy, when lo and behold, I saw Dave and Laird standing in front of the Westside Brewery, looking very distressed. Dave immediately rushed over to me, wringing his hands, and said, "Its eleven o'clock at night! We've been worried sick! Where is everyone? Where are all of the virgins?" I managed to gasp, "Dive Bar", before falling into a swoon at Laird's feet, and don't remember anything more prior to being revived by a cold Sierra Nevada, by which time the rest of the pack had been retrieved, and down-downs were beginning.

JMs Trunfio and Gilbert, with an assist from a crew of EMTs, had gathered the pack in a corner, and began by awarding our traditional hares a traditional Bud Lite for a non-traditional screw up. Dave got a second for spoiling the "perfect run" rule, and Laird for having no idea where the trail went for the first time in his entire career of hashing. Marta got the ears for first in. Visitors I Spy and Agent 99 from somewhere-other-than- New-York drank in style. Ariane got one for resurfacing. Matt and Jesse earned the Crofty down-down for getting hit by an NYPD squad car. Chivalrous visitor guy was punished for waiting at a light for his girlfriend. Christine drank for celebrating her 25th birthday for the tenth time. And finally, Ed Lynch getting an AOTW down-down for racing on the hash was greeted by a collective yawn.

Once the ceremonies had been concluded, we settled down to drinking up the hash cash before the 2:00 a.m. closing time forced us to leave some money behind the bar. By the way, if anyone can tell me how to get to the little outdoor deck at the Westside Brewery without stepping (illegally) on the sidewalk, I would be most appreciative. On out.