NYCH3 Run #839

July 5, 2000

Hare: Dave Byron-Brown

On-In: Nevada Smith’s

Scribe: Heather Malloy

Monday evening, I dragged my little sister to this summer’s version of the annual “My Kid Can Kick Your Honor Student’s Ass” movie, also known as The Patriot. In predictable Hollywood fashion, no attempt whatsoever was made at balance or historical veracity, though they did pour tremendous resources into close shots of soldiers having their heads shorn off by cannonballs, with a jarring, incongruously triumphal score as background. My sister and I walked away feeling that these ‘America Rules’ type films work far better when one can feel good about slaughtering bad guys such as aliens and their ilk; more specifically, those categories of bad guys who don’t do much publishing of prickly editorials. Needless to say, the English quite excel at publishing prickly editorials, having had much practice fending off detractors through centuries of ruthless colonial expansion, and are reportedly in a lather about the film. [I assume that they’re unfamiliar with the tradition of the winner getting to write the history books, which is how France actually wound up on the UN security council, but that is a discussion for another time.] The Brits seem to be particularly sensitive these days now that the Empire has been whittled down to a few strategic strongholds, like the Faulkland Islands. Wouldn’t want the native penguins to start getting ideas, you understand.

Thoughts of avenging Englishmen, however, were far from my mind when DB2 called the pack to order in a most Cornwallian manner, barking imperiously for the bags to be placed neatly on the corner. It should have augured belated revenge for the trouncing of gentlemanly soldiers by peasant swamp rats, but sadly, it was far too late by the time the similarity dawned on me. My attention span having depth and breadth similar to that of your average housefly, it was all I could do to try to fathom why Dumb Dick had worn a Camelback to the start. DB2 commanded the virgins to step forward and witness the soon-to-be-proven-useless markings one expects to see on trail, assured them that he had set a short trail, and then wasted no time in setting us off east.

We hit the first check near the Midtown Tunnel, and commenced running in circles. Hashers went in every possible direction, often running over the same small area several times, some making the error of following Christine Kanaga’s confident shout, “I’m going this way, I just saw Dave Hardy at the next corner!” Despite the marquee lineup of FRBs assembled for the run, it took at least fifteen minutes to solve the check, with Hashers going around and around the park until general dizziness ensued. The trail then wound up past Grand Central, and over to Rockefeller Center and the next check. A somewhat reasonable amount of futzing around found us on trail continuing west, to DB2’s coup de grace, a check on a traffic island in the middle of Times Square. During Fleet Week. The day after the tourist-intensive Fourth of July weekend. During a Presidential visit. Ah, yes, the signs were now clear as day, the sardonic Englishman had used our own beloved remainders of the Revolution to underscore our defeat. It was sad, really, and a truly dastardly deed. The check proved to be impossible. After twenty-five minutes, I had seen Laird three times, Chann twice, and Devo and Dumb Dick more times than I can count. Seeing them even once following the starting gun bodes ill for the trail, but this was a total disaster. Just when the mood of the pack was blackest, we happened upon a few pack marks. The joy! The hope that, at 8:15, we were undoubtedly close to beer! But what’s this? Question marks? Aha, the pack marks led to… Elaine Baldwin, who put them down purely as speculation just before heading to the nearest pay phone. She turned away from the phone, looking pale as a soldier frozen in Valley Forge, and whispered, “Can’t be! CAN’T BE!!” Another quarter was produced for second-party verification that the on-in was Nevada Smith’s, on 3^rd Avenue between 11^th and 12^th. We looked at our corner, 48^th and 8^th, we looked at each other, we looked at our watches. We cursed DB2, and we ran. Stopping only for Gu, Gatorade, water, and PowerBars, we ran with winged feet, reserving additional curses for DB2 with every passing mile, to Nevada Smith’s with murder and insurgence in our hearts. (Well, except for Elaine, who immediately boarded the subway, but not before thoughtfully chalking “Alice Phone Home” on the sidewalk.) Upon arrival just before 9:00, DB2’s final anti-colonist nose thumbing was exposed. “Nevada” conjures images of the most romantic of American pastorals, that of the old west. Yet we weren’t to find comfort in saddles, cowboys, hookers, etc., because the walls were plastered with posters for English soccer clubs, and James Bond films. The reversal of the Revolution had happened right here, on the Hash.

Rick made the first discernable use of his chalk for the evening by writing “This Trail Sucked” on the sidewalk, proving that at least the office of Trailmaster had been awarded properly. DB2 ignored the general slathering for his head, and immediately began collecting hash cash. He certainly had nothing else to do, as NS’s had no pitchers for DB2 to be bothered with fetching for us. After the trauma of the trail, we actually had to get our own beers. Pizza arrived, pizza was consumed, and the pack was eager to see DB2 appropriately punished for his early bid for Worst Trail of the Year. But where were our joint masters? Who would mete out down downs in their absence? Usually Crofty is more than happy to leap up on a chair and orate, but was uncharacteristically shy on this particular evening. (Another Englishman, it must be a conspiracy!) Finally, at around 9:30, Roy and Peter staggered in. Though they wasted no time in ferreting out trail offenses, it was still nearly 10:00 by the time down-downs began. A new, and shameful, record.

Unbelievably, DB2 only got ONE down-down for his obvious Royalism in the form of a truly dreadful trail. I believe I remember Elaine and Pat getting four apiece last summer, but Roy IS English, and… Anyway, virgins Mark and Elise were welcomed with Bud Light, Mark narrowly avoiding a second for his hat. Steve did not earn the rabbit ears, as he vied for them a bit too strenuously, instead they went to Rebecca, first in by virtue of cabbing it with a load of bags. Ariane got a born-again virgin down-down for going on yet another extended vacation. Diane, whom we all thought was new, was called up for only bringing $14 hash cash, which would have been excusable had she not known better, but she has actually been hashing for a year. (Aha! So this is how she bought the BMW!) She was generously supplied with a dollar to give to DB2, then shoved out of the circle without drinking, as we cannot afford to subsidize those who shirk payment. Rick was given a down-down in his role as Trailmaster for failing to put down pack marks. However, he was in such poor temper after being exposed to such a grand fuck up that he protested by throwing his beer all over some bystander’s child. We’ll be looking for this boy on trail in a few years. Debbie, John, and Ewa got busted for smoking. Christine Kanaga and Elaine Baldwin shared the honor of Asshole of the Week for emulating their elders, if not betters. Lastly, Peter and a newcomer did a joint down-down for new shoes, and Peter did a second out of the offending shoe for leaving his hat on.

When it was all over, after being roundly castigated by the pack, DB2 seemed to be laboring under the illusion that, similar to the U.S. following the rout of his countrymen, he would be able to doctor the history books in his favor. Not by the time-honored method of giving the scribe a fresh beer every five minutes, but by insulting her writing ability. Good work, Dave! [Rumors that DB2 would be writing up his own trail spread like fire in a dry cornfield, and by the time I arrived in the office the next morning, I had received threatening e-mail.] By this time, it was well past my bedtime, so I gathered my bag to head home. Before leaving, I was treated to the site of Dumb Dick and Devo trying to impress a young woman by showing her their feet. (I am happy to report that I am not making this up.) I don’t know which she was more taken with, DD’s professionally pedicured, black-polished digits, or Devo’s blackened, withering toenails-atop-hammertoes. On out.