Though rain had been predicted for the 13th, the day dawned sunny and clear as a bell, which meant that it was quite bright in my apartment by 8:00 a.m. Perfect weather for waking me up just 3 ½ hours after I had gone to bed. I managed to actually get out of bed and move to the sofa, groaning and wondering how, if I left Mojo's at midnight with every intention of going home, I wound up closing down Tom & Jerry's. (Hint: there may have been alcohol involved) Happily, it became overcast around 2:00, and I was considering skipping the hash in favor of lying on the couch and listening to Bush and McCain goad each other into ever deepening gestures of fascism. But then I remembered that I had promised Dave Long a break from doing the writeups, as his cohort Troise has not been seen in weeks, and hasn't produced pen product in months (I gather he has been producing quite well in other departments though - ed.).
In any event, I did make it to the start, thanks in no small part to Christine (who slept until at least 11:00) dragging herself to my apartment to solve an unsolvable bike problem. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Slow To Blow, who arrived at 33rd between 1st and 2nd via taxi, yet managed to not see the pack of hashers across the street, and ran off alone. And I have it on good authority that he hadn't yet lost a single contact lens! But more on STB's myopia later.
The hashers that did find the start were sporting a number of Devo's spare Hawaiian shirts, which he generously doled out free of charge. Then, Peter and Lesley arrived, and we all got lei'd. Without beer! I can only assume that this wanton display was what so upset the priest who emerged from Sacred Heart to attempt to shoo us off the church doorstep. Here, the pack showed remarkable respect and restraint, reducing voice volume so as not to further disturb the bricks and mortar. Trotskyo, though perhaps of the belief that religion is a passe narcotic for the masses, whispered the instructions while the priest gave him the evil eye. We were dispatched without further ado to the east, where we encountered our first check.
Lucky for us it had already been solved and marked by STB. Not that this saved us from getting all screwed up at the next corner, you understand. The trail wound north gradually via a series of thoroughly sadistic back-and-forth switchbacks, occasionally interrupted by heart-shaped checks. It was also interrupted by the Tudor City steps, up which only Stacy was tricked into running. By the time we hit Lexington and 47th, Melissa and I had had enough, and followed our own trail looking for a bathroom at the Radisson, which was much more difficult than it sounds. By then, Alice was way ahead of us, so we resorted to shortcutting the hell out of the remainder of the trail, running straight up Fifth and skipping the pesky Central Park portion altogether. Nevertheless, we spent so much time lost in the Radisson that all of the FRBs were sucking down beers in the Carriage House by the time we arrived. Remember kids, just say "no" to running with a hangover!
Once the rest of the pack came in and discreetly slipped behind the other hashers to change right in front of the windows, JM Gilbert called the masses to order so that no one would slither out without appropriate punishments. After Peter and Lesley (in a fetching grass skirt), Roy caught Dumb Dick trying to sneak out without drinking for his Eco-Challenge size backpack that had apparently been loaded with marble slabs in some sort of arcane training regimen. Alas, he left his hat on, and had to drink again. Couldn't have been much help when he had to navigate to his car with the big ol' backpack while wearing rollerblades. Danny Choriki was called to the front for the crime of being an actual Hawaiian. Mssrs. Guiley and Cloud drank for being visiting former joint masters, and Vince was overheard wondering if that meant he'd have to drink every single time he shows up. Then, once again, Hardy had earned the rabbit ears, and actually wore them all night. (Ha ha, just wanted to see if you were paying attention). Martin was awarded a down-down for his impending move to Zurich, which he shared with Slow To Blow for thinking that Zurich is in Germany. STB stayed at the front to drink from the plunger for his temporary blindness at the start. And finally, a true crime was committed on trail by Firemarshall Bob when he assaulted a fourteen year old. Stories differ, but I am fairly certain that the "heat" that Bob claims to have sensed on the poor boy had nothing to do with children's sleepwear or other dangerous combustibles.
When all of the down-downs had been handed out, there was an extended lull during which food usually arrives, but in this case did not. Time ticked by, and sometime around six, amid much high-pitched complaining, pizzas finally showed up, only to disappear three seconds later. By then, things had already begun to wind down. Yours truly was abstaining from alcohol for the day, but no further nudity was reported, and no one confessed to getting anything other than a lei. Well, there's always the polar bear run! On out.
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