OK, St. Patrick's Day is supposed to celebrate the guy who rid Ireland of snakes, right? So here's my question: is March 17 his birthday or something? Or is it supposed to be the day that he led a great troop of legless reptiles onto the ferry to England, piping all the way? It doesn't make sense, and not just because I'm confusing the story of St. Paddy with the Pied Piper while adding a few extraneous details. I mean, snakes are cold-blooded animals, and no way is it warm enough in Ireland in March (or ever, for that matter) for them to be out and about. They'd be burrowed up somewhere hiding from the rain and cold, just like any sensate animal. Which makes me wonder whether or not everyone who stands out in the freezing rain every year, drinking green beer and watching fat red-faced men waving from toilet paper covered Cadillacs, is dumber than an Irish snake.

In that this year's St. Patrick's Day run did not actually happen on the day itself, it wasn't raining when the pack gathered on the steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral. The Irish in our crowd looked bit homesick and out-of-place in the bright sunshine. After a brief Gaelic lesson to enable us to translate the checks, Basil and John sent us off south with a warning not to run straight to the bar. I had waited until the last possible second to strip down to tights, and it turned out to be an impossible second. By the time I stuffed my bag in with everyone else's, the pack was nowhere in sight. They'd zipped around Saks, continued east, and headed south toward the UN at top speed. I didn't even catch up to Alice until around First Avenue. We looped back toward Grand Central, and the first check, which was solved by the time I got there. Heading south again, I finally spotted signs of hash life in the forms of Christine, Melissa, and Lesley. We ventured east again, eventually crossing the FDR, where we encountered a check. At first I went for the Christine method of spotting Dave Hardy and automatically running off in that direction, but reversed when I heard "on" called back under the highway. We ran past the Water Club, and up the steps of Waterside Plaza (I swear they take this route every year), back down along the river, and over near 15th Street. At this point, everyone was so convinced that we were going to Paddy Reilly's that no one bothered looking for trail at a check in the housing projects, and just ran north. It took a block or two before it dawned on anyone that we weren't on trail, and discovered true trail on the west side of the projects. From there, it was a quick trot to Bar None, that famous Irish pub. In all, amazingly short for John and Basil. It must have been the dry air and sunshine that prompted their mercy, as such conditions are considered an unhealthy environment for a run in Ireland.

The bar was remarkably clean, smoke free, and virtually empty of nasty regulars, save a few aging frat boys crowded around a video golf game. As if the real thing weren't boring enough. There was a nice, spacious back room that we quickly took over, mollifying us somewhat after we discovered that we'd be forced to fetch our own pints from the bar. Once everyone had settled in and finished making fun of me for my inability to figure out the office copy machine, our joint masters took the stage (or booth) for down-downs.

First up were the merry Irish hares, Bail and the Cardinal. Basil has obviously been sorely compromised by parenthood, and did his best imitation of Maeve eating strained peaches by drooling half of his pint down his beard. Next was Matthew, a born-again virgin from Hungary. Scot and Ewa drank to celebrate their birthdays, Scot giving Ewa a good ten second headstart to chug, and still beating her handily. Christine got the ears by, duh, cheating. Peter awarded himself and Lesley a joint down-down because he had beaten her in a race for the very first time in their four-year relationship the day before. Croft was called up for the same race, during which he tried to blow Peter's strategy of staying right behind Lesley and kicking at the end. DB2 drank for a mysterious "injury" that kept him from running. Melissa was humiliated for being on Dave Long's toilet when his ceiling came crashing down on her head. The Crofty Award, given to those who distinguish themselves in the field of clumsiness, went to Sarah Fifield for falling down and knocking some kid off of his bike, and to be, for not just crashing my bike, but bringing the whole peloton down with me. And finally, Ed Lynch earned AOTW yet again, but in a truly distinguished fashion this time. Ed contacted a woman via the NYRRC personals, but decided to lie about his age and to call himself a Brit. Then, in the race the day before, actually dropped out 40 yards from the finish to avoid having his name appear on the finishers' roster, for fear that his inamorata would discover one of his many secrets and lies. That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day, with bullshit flowing far faster than Guinness could be drawn. On out.