Usually, I am correct and the rest of the world is also correct, in the retrospective analysis of the previous week's Hash i.e. if I think the trail was screwed up, the rest of the pack tends to be in accord, and if I think it was a good trail, the others usually follow the lead and agree with me. With reference to last week's proceedings, however, the rest of the world was a bit off the rails in almost universally labeling the event as a disaster, whereas in truth it was not a bad run at all. This write-up will thus be devoted to amplify the fact that I am right.
Admittedly, I was in a good mood, predisposed toward great physical achievement following my 36-minute triumph in the previous evening's Corporate Challenge, an event structured mainly toward excluding the homeless by ensuring that anybody who participates spends his or her days as a lackey in the service of some faceless corporate megalith. Thanks to the perfect weather, I shaved an entire minute off my previous record, and, despite finishing a good ten minutes later than colleagues fifteen years older than myself, felt smug enough to treat the Hash as an excuse to push my body to the limit. Indeed, its complaints later in the week indicated that perhaps this was not the wisest of moves, but at least I tried. My attitude was far healthier than that of my fellow British Dave, Hardy, who was so devastated at being outpaced in the Corporate Challenge by Guillermo that he sulked all next day and refused even to show up for the Hash, under the less than feeble excuse that he was "trying to be more selective." The problem, apparently, was that this was the first time he had ever been beaten in the Challenge by another Hasher; what he needs to realize is that our bodies begin the march toward death the moment that we are born, and that he should pass the mantle to a younger, and fitter, generation before he starts to embarrass himself. We shall be watching his steady decline with a mixture of amusement and pity.
Our Hares took a leaf out of the book of the organizers of the Challenge, by splitting the Pack into two groups, broken down by sex (perhaps this is Hardy's problem...), and allowing the ladies five minutes' head start. Apart from the obvious sexism implied in this arrangement, it was well received by the ladies, who were given the chance to engage in that chick bonding chatter they all love to do, without the danger of being distracted by us magnificent pagan beasts, with consequent weakness of knees detrimental to their running. The men, in general, were less enamored of the arrangement, presumably because there are only so many variations on the grunting noises that pass for male conversation to be exchanged before boredom sets in; however, had we noticed that it was to our advantage that the women were doing most of the work, we would probably have complained less.
We were led on a brief loop through the Park, covering some of the same ground used the previous night (the only problem with the Corporate Challenge is that there are no checks), before exiting at 102nd Street, and heading east through one of those on-the-surface-dangerous neighborhoods where the locals are so utterly bemused by our presence that they can harm us only with sarcasm. In fact, at one point the trail dried up so completely that a couple of dozen of us were standing on a street corner wondering what to do next, only to be harangued by a local peppering us with suggestions of where we might like to go running, as if we had decided en masse to take the subway to 105th and 1st and look for a track when we got there. In the end, we ended up on one of the more egregious examples of mass folly in recent memory, taking marks on the Ward's Island Bridge as evidence that the trail did indeed go over there (and, by extension, the three miles on to Queens), rather than, as it turned out, simply leading to a mark "ABJ", an abbreviation for Arkansas Blow Job. This, as opposed to something that might be next on Hugh Grant's travel itinerary, is a term for an elaborate "false trail without the check", and was the source of irritation to many, panic among those who realized that the bridge back to Manhattan was already five minutes late in closing (thanks to Doug for leading the charge back), but, given my previously mentioned good mood, gratitude on my part to the Hares for giving me the opportunity to set foot for the first time on this island. Actually, I have taken the bus, which stops at every one of the many facilities on the island - quite an experience.
After this diversion, there was a slightly gratuitous series of loops through the Upper East Side, including passing the House of Croft, which was apposite in that the man himself was responsible for the previous series of slightly gratuitous loops through the Upper East Side. Eventually, we were dumped into the Launch, a place previous used under the guidance of semi-deity Tyree, who was rumored to have some kind of mysterious hold over the barman, leading to deals of absurd generosity. Despite the fact that the unfortunate trend of the $12 On-In continued, and also that Laird was heard "creating" at the end of the evening about "stiffing", I had my customary good time. The tiny kitchen served up large numbers of burgers for our delectation, and even managed to put cheese on some of them. Entertainment was provided in the form of a pair of yuppie morons who insisted on playing pool in a space which would have been tight if the bar had been empty, let alone with sixty extra patrons and their sweat taking up space. Had I been the barman, I would have paid them off and told them to go play somewhere else.
In the end, good humor prevailed, although Alice, toward the end of the evening, looked the most likely to crack, as irritating demands of "where's the beer" started to rain down from certain ill-mannered patrons. Julie claimed a special relationship with the barman, the nature of which I am not at liberty to reveal, but somehow we all got enough beer. Actually, primary thanks for the success of the evening are clearly due to Alice, who did by far the most work, even, apparently, setting the trail unaided; Geoff took the traditional management oversight role, and we all know how much work that actually involves.