On the way to the start of Sunday's run, I was thrilled to stumble across some marks at the corner of 23rd and 8th. I usually frown on cheating and shortcutting (or at least make fun of Christine for cheating and shortcutting), but on this arctic afternoon, I was really looking forward to getting to a nice, warm bar as quickly as possible. Plus one of the hares was Matt, who had been in hibernation since the start of football season, and had only recently reemerged, seen his shadow, and decided that it would be safe to attempt to set a trail after his last fiasco.

Instead of gathering on the steps of the post office, the pack huddled inside, safe from the elements, though not safe from the shocked stares of postal customers. Or at least they were shocked when Andrew stripped down to shorts, revealing his cadaverous blue-white legs. The rest of us left on thermal base layers and a windproof shell or two, stuck around for two seconds at the chalk talk, and sprinted off to the north in an attempt to get warm. Well, most of the pack went north. I headed south to the marks I'd spotted earlier, with Christine, Kerry and Rebecca in tow. Along the way, we intercepted Basil, running up to the start while wearing his backpack. He assumed that we were mere seconds ahead of the pack, and joined in the shortcutting. When we encountered our first check on 8th, Basil saved us the trouble of checking, pointing out some marks on 9th he had found on his way up. We followed trail down to the meatpacking district, and a check near Hogs and Heifers. The tremendous amount of diddling around it took before we accidentally stumbled on the trail in the opposite direction gave us a clue that we probably weren't missing anything pleasant further back on trail. The next check was a circle jerk at Stonewall triangle on Christopher Street. The fact that it was unbelievably difficult didn't bother us one bit, since in addition to shortcutting, Kerry had already told all of us where the on-in was; the old Boo Radleys on Lafayette. So, when we scattered in five different directions, no one was too worried about where our fellow shortcutters had gone. I was trotting east on Bleecker Street, going for the "leisurely run and then worry about finding the on-in on Lafayette" method of hashing, when Peter and Mike B pulled up alongside me in Peter's car. I feigned being lost, and they took pity on me, telling me to run to Mercer and Waverly. (Tip: if Kerry ever gives you directions anywhere, including to her own home, never, ever follow them.) They couldn't figure out how I'd gotten there, since the rest of the pack was still stuck at the first check.

Despite flagrant cheating, it still took me 45 minutes to get to the bar. Matt and Steve professed to not be worried at all, but as the minutes ticked by, they started anxiously checking their watches. The pack finally came in, frozen and furious, at around 4:30. Fortunately, the bar had a roaring fire going, and there was plenty of space in the bathroom despite the appearance of Lipstick Leslie and Sarah from Downunder on the same run, so no riots broke out.

True to form, Matt was less than enthusiastic about fetching pitchers, so it took a while before everyone had a pint, and enough cups were filled for down-downs. Peter finally gathered everyone around, and immediately awarded Matt and Steve two down-downs, one for each unrunnable half of the trail. Next were visiting virgins Ryan, from Galveston, TX and Luca from Italy. Luca's speed-chug versus Ryan's Ewa-esque sipping left everyone speechless. Some repeater from San Fran, Forest Rump from Michigan, Animal and Foxy Lady from Montreal, and Isabel from Rome drank next. Mike and Peter got one for not running the trail. Crofty and Ewa were first in among the sad souls who actually ran the trail. The hares were called up again for their sucky trail. Steve got one by popular vote, but the electoral college appointed Ed AOTW on the basis of traditional values.

Matt and Steve bragged that they had negotiated for an unending supply of fries and wings, but the bar owners outsmarted them by taking their orders, and then not bringing the food. As a result, every time a tin of food appeared, the entire, ravenous pack clawed for its contents. The ultra-chintzy supply of decent beers caused further decay of any remaining warm and fuzzy feelings. Once everyone had gotten good and crabby, we settled down to some serious complaining. A few whinges that I heard reminded me of how tragic it is that so many sophisticated and refined expats are forced to feed from the trough of largess aquiline-nose-to-colonial-snout with so many US brutes. Really a very sad situation that should probably be rectified by a return flight immediately. On out.