NYCH3 Run No. 838

Hares: Geoff Baldwin and Alice Harrison

Start: The Plaza Hotel

On-In: Richter’s, 90^th & 3rd

Scribe: Heather Malloy

It’s been a rough spring. Just as I was beginning to make strides in my running (no pun intended), wham, I stress fracture my foot. Seven weeks of an enforced layoff were to follow. A serious running injury forces one to re-examine why one runs, and to confront the profound lifestyle changes that occur when participation in the sport is abruptly curtailed. Less expected, but no less insight-generating, are the reactions from friends and loved ones. For example, immediately following the actual injury, I went to brunch with some fellow hashers. For the sake of their privacy, I will refer to them as Sub-3-Hour-Marathoners, (or Sub-humans for short), and the Fast Women. The conversation was something like this:

Me: “I think I’ve broken my foot.”

Sub-humans: “Let’s walk over to First Avenue, I think there are some good bars there.”

Me: “Really, I’m in a lot of pain.”

Fast Women: “If we walk downtown another ten blocks, there is a place with great Guinness.”

Then, when the verdict was in, the trend of concern and sympathy continued unabated.

The Mooner: “That’s what you get for over training.”

Two Blonde Persons, One Tall and One With a Brogue: “I can’t wait! Heather sitting on the couch, watching TV and sleeping late! Ha!”

So, on June 21, thanks to the support of my running friends, I was finally back on trail. I joined the pack, which included the reclusive John Burke, in front of the Plaza Hotel to run the Geoff-n-Alice trail, wondering which of their three specialties it would be this evening. 1) An unsolvable check every 50 yards, 2) Endless running with hardly any checks at all, or 3) An invisible trail laid the week prior with one teaspoon of flour per mark. Considering the number of virgins and people who showed up exactly once last summer, it happily turned out to be 4) none of the above.

Determined to avoid re-injury, I carefully followed doctor’s orders for the length of the trail. As we headed off in a brief loop toward 6^th Avenue, I stayed toward the back of the pack warming up slowly. Then, when we encountered the first check, I made sure to stop and stretch thoroughly. (I don’t know what those other people scratching their collective butts at the check were doing.) When none of the FRBs returned, Christine called the psychic network, who surmised that because of the Corporate Challenge we were guaranteed to run in Central Park, laid down her one pack mark of the night, and took off north. Sure enough, we were on trail. We entered the south end of the park, where the trail went up a little hill, though keeping to flat surfaces, I skirted the hill and came out the other side in front. The trail crossed the road, and a mark on a tree led us up the embankment and… hey, this is last week’s trail. Did it rain this week? Wasn’t there a downpour on Sunday? It did, so the first part of the trail turned out to be a little joke tracing Lesley and Matt’s stellar effort of the week before, down to the check on a flat rock. Since we knew where the trail went, we blew through to the bridle path until the trail veered off to some brambly stuff. Vowing to stick to soft surfaces, I stayed on the bridle path until we crossed the road again, where the trail headed up toward the Belvedere castle. Seeing no flat way around, I resigned myself to trudging up the steps. Good thing, too. At the top, Alice was doling out scoops of sorbet and water, with an assist from Hash Housewife Danny and Tiger’s Woody. I think Ewa’s yelps of joy have been recorded in the next galaxy. While I scarfed my sorbet, I listened in on an exchange between some of the newbies.

“Don’t they usually serve beer at these?”

“The run I did last summer had wine.”

“(Gasp) Wine, during a run? Would you ever drink during the actual run?”

“Oh, no, never. I’d be afraid.”

They’ll be with the program in no time, I’m sure. Anyway, the trail headed on north, back on and off the bridle path, around the ballfields, out of the park briefly and just as quickly back in. The timing was perfect, we were running against the flow of the Corporate Challenge women’s race. Poor Junior, he had on his Just Say No To Marriage t-shirt on a night when the park was jam packed with eligible women! Concentrating on my form, I wasn’t looking for marks, and after a while, Rick discovered we were off trail. Hearing a cry of “on on” from the east, we decided to jump the park wall. Well, Steve and Rick jumped, then helped me over, with me scraping my butt in the process. A quick trot to Third found us on-in at Ritchey’s.

After an extended milling-and-drinking period, during which newcomer Tom had time to introduce himself to every single woman, and “It’s” Pat dispensed free nutrition advice to those bastions of willpower Christine and Ewa, JM Peter called the pack to order. Geoff-n-Alice drank for setting trail, but the singing was drowned out by Ewa squealing so loudly about something that Croft plugged his ear with a bottlecap. Danny and Tiger’s Woody were awarded a beer for their expertise with ice cream scoops. Virgins Jon, Paul, Susan, Kristen and Jane came forward for their solemn initiation ceremony. Next were two visitors, Hash Shit from San Fran, and Ronnie from Aberdeen, Scotland. Special visitor Froggy downed a Bud with Gallic elan. One of the virgins was punished for using a cell phone at the on-in. The invisible rabbit ears (plus “doh!” of the week) went to… Peter. Apparently, he rushed to the on-in to remind Geoff to note first in only to discover that, in his haste, he was first in. Christine, sole owner of chalk for this run, had to drink for hoarding it. Inevitably, I drank for getting road rash on my ass. Dave Long, on leave from the New York Philharmonic, downed a beer for living one block from the on-in, yet still taking a subway to the start an hour late, and then running the whole trail. Ewa chugged a beer in a time equal to Mike B’s 5K PR for a mysterious Ewa check by Tavern on the Green. Finally, Junior got the plunger (used later as a plate substitute) for bad t-shirt timing.

Pizza arrived shortly thereafter, and disappeared in a blur. Poor Hash Shit was looking for a second slice three minutes after the food arrived, and was told that he'd have to move a lot faster in the future. Michele arrived in civilian duds, Rick flashed his ass, virgins flirted with one another, directions to the weekend’s canoe trip were exchanged, beer was consumed in copious quantities, I left early. Same shit, different day. On out.