I had a scary Central Park experience the other night. Running the loop in broad daylight and nicely zoned out, I was suddenly accosted by a screaming banshee coming from out of the bushes, shouting all kinds of obscenities at me. As I was about to take flight, I realized that the banshee was none other than our own Michele, lost on the "Harriette" trail, and I just happened to be a handy target for venting her ire. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time! In my frightened state, I even helpfully pointed out where I had seen an arrow on the road but of course, being male, Michele must have assumed I was lying. (As if!)

Fortunately, I had recovered from this shock in time for next day's Roy Aneeva bash (just who is this guy anyway?), safe in the knowledge that it started miles from sinister Central Park and would likely finish even further away. Hash tip of the week: To discourage large packs, start in as remote a location as possible. 191^st & Broadway isn't exactly the north pole, but far enough above 86^th St. for many to opt out. I suppose the previous day's female hash had taken something of a toll as well, with only a few of the "Harriettes" making it. Walking through the tunnel to Broadway and the apparent start, I stupidly ignored the advice of Danny, coming from the opposite direction, who informed me there was nobody resembling a hasher there, and carried on anyway (even more stupidly, I might add, he followed me). Result: a run up the first of many hills to the actual start location on 191^st & St. Nicholas. Merry Xmas! Apparently I missed my first arrow of the night in the subway station before the hash had even started - a new high point in my glittering hash career.

So to the run. The 20-or-so pack set off and soon started making friends with the locals. We didn't look conspicuous at all, so I couldn't figure out why they were all shouting stuff at us. It was all in Spanish, so I don't know whether it was abuse or encouragement; sorry mate, no habla espanol. The first check seemed to have everyone bamboozled for a while, and after checking around a bit, I realized I had once again lost the pack. Not only that, but I went the wrong way trying to get back to the check and got lost. Arriving by a long route back on Broadway, I luckily came across the chicken-eagle split mark. Thinking there couldn't possibly be a split so early in the run, and that I must therefore have got lucky and short-cut a large chunk of trail, I guiltily chose the eagle. As usual in these matters, I was wrong.

The next part of the trail went into Fort Tryon Park and straight up a very long staircase; the kind that makes you feel like planting a flag when you eventually get to the top. You are rewarded, however, by arriving at one of New York's most peaceful spots, The Cloisters. This place is so quiet you feel guilty shouting "on". A couple of easy checks here, past some snogging couples and back to Fort Tryon Park. Exiting this park, the trail went down a steep dirt slope which would have been O.K. for a mountain goat but was not very human friendly; I didn't hear about many mishaps here though. Most people were probably smarter than me and took the path down.

And so to Inwood Hill Park, scene of the "New York Times" hash from last year. Evidently there was not much chalk around amongst the pack, so people were being particularly creative when marking checks. Like a true engineer, Devo made an arrow from twigs, while Rick marked a false by blocking the path with a log. He is currently being sued by all ten of the other hashers who tripped over it in the gathering darkness. There was more excitement in store for Rick when he apparently spotted a "large snake" lurking in the undergrowth (for those of you with one-track minds, no, he hadn't stopped off for a leak). But don't worry folks, there are still no giant cobras in NY parks - the "snake" turned out to be a water hose. Full marks to Rick for actually admitting to this gaff at the on-in, which did not prevent him getting a down-down. There seemed to be only one possible way the trail could now go, and sure enough it wound its way up and over the Hudson River Bridge into the dark and forbidding land called the Bronx.

My New York street map tells me that the on-in, at 231^st St. & Broadway, is in an area known as Kingsbridge, or "Little Eire" judging by the shamrocks painted on the roads. The Station Tavern has a nice spacious beer garden which we had all to ourselves except for one bemused couple and a guy who was doing impressions of Baloo the Bear by scratching his back on a tree. The pack arrived in dribs and drabs; the general concensus was that the trail had been too long, but since most people seemed to have run the eagle, what did we expect? What was really too long was Ewa's down-down, especially when the pizza had arrived already and was getting cold. Fact: Ewa can eat a pizza crust faster than she can chug a beer. Roy Aneeva got an extra down-down for allegedly laying part of the trail in condom wrappers, which I don't advise anyone to try unless you're in great shape and have a lot of time on your hands. A tenuous charge, but of course, at the hash you're guilty until proven innocent. Other miscreants were brought to task; Anaconda Chann and "I'm the King of the FRBs" Devo; Steve, who got one for something he didn't do, namely wear a belt on his shorts (and they still stayed up - imagine that); Crazy Bob for his inability to find the start of the trail (I know how he felt) and consequently getting the subway to the on-in, "the best $1.50 he ever spent" according to him, and nobody argued. There was a lone visitor, Midnight Cowboy from Houston, who apparently has moved to Brooklyn, so we may be seeing more of him. Only one thing was missing: neither Elaine nor Pat were there to receive their weekly WROTY down-down. I suggest we give them a double next time to make up for it.

Circle over, we started the serious business of drinking, stuffing our faces and engaging in intellectual chit-chat. Yeah, right. Rick and Devo amused themselves by doing fairly decent impressions of The Great Cornholio (and if you don't know who that is, congratulate yourself on your good taste). Meanwhile, the previous night came back to haunt me, as once more I was victimized by Michele, this time about my taste in shorts. Now let's face it: certain hashers have items that they like to hash with. Baldwin has his neck-strap glass holder; Dumb Dick has his horn; Lesley has Peter; I have….my shorts. Get over it! Evidently, Peter hasn't yet as, presumably taking a chance to brush up his foreplay technique, he yanked them down. I now take my place in the Pants Down Hall of Fame along with Messrs. Cloud and Croft.

A good time had by all. Whoever this Roy Aneeva is, he knows how to set a hash.

On out.