Arriving nearly 25 minutes before the unofficial start of the run, I thought
I'd sneak down and do a bit of magazine browsing at the nearby Barnes & Noble.
Instead, seven others who were early for the hash spotted me and I had to take
it upon myself to socialize with the pack in a starkly sober state of mind,
which can be a challenge at times. We shuffled back and forth, and I broke out
some red licorice whips as an icebreaker, while newbie Jeff strummed early Beatles
tunes on his new ukulele and we sang along. Soon enough, Fireman Bob's safety
van showed up and we threw our gear in and hit the road.
Now, I don't why, but I was expecting a really terrible trail. I had visions
of total decadence and non-stop antics between our dynamic duo set of hares
and figured there wouldn't be much of a trail at all. I envisioned Lipstick
Leslie stopping every 100 yards or so to reapply that now infamous Peony Pink
lipstick on Bob's lips. I envisioned Bob and Leslie stopping to seek entertainment
and refreshment at Billy Stopless. Worst of all, I envisioned Fireman Bob two-timing
Ed and finally scoring with his lovely co-hare.
But given the well-marked trail, I can see that Bob and Leslie took their task
seriously, and there was no hanky-panky (with regard to the trail, at least)
to be had. Leslie's arrows were of the highest quality - easily recognizable
and two-toned in color. Flour was also used liberally. The trail went around
in a rather large loop, sending us down into the East Village, and up to a point
where I thought we might end up at Ellen O'Dee's, then West towards Madison
Square Garden. But here is where Leslie's pure genius came in - she sent the
pack into the subway and the Manhattan Mall. As a result of this novel twist
and so few other valid complaints, the trail received rave reviews.
At the on-in, we pumped up the juke box early and settled in for some serious
socializing. A good crowd of about 40 or so showed, with only about seven women
in the mix. Unfortunately, the lack of ladies made me wonder whether my fellow
harriettes were boycotting Bad-Boy Bob or Big-Boobed Leslie - but then I guessed
that more than likely nobody was boycotting any one, it was just that the weatherman
had predicted rain and chicks hate bad hair days.
After Heather had stealthed-bombed the bar with write-ups and we sang a few
tunes, the group was called and down-downs given. Bob and Leslie earned their
beers as hares, while Virgins Matt (from Warren Street - that's a real running
club, not a street) and Paul (who made the mistake of running Elaine's "fun
run" on Roosevelt Island) were brought up. Then came Bo - who hasn't shown up
to the hash in a while as he's been busy sowing his seed and making babies and
Steve Douglass, who was our FRB for the night, even though he hates to run.
Pierre was recognized for actually showing up on time for a run (actually, he
was early, too) and Allison was brought up for sticking her fingers in the telephones
around Times Square to search for quarters to call the hotline. Then we punished
Sara Fifield for her completion of the Burlington Marathon (along with Marta,
who pulled a no-show) and Jesse, for being a wimpy walking-boy. Finally, our
new friend Jeff was called up and bestowed the Asshole of the Week Award for
his quirky-stringed instrument and aforementioned singing, and he looked for
some way to make music out the plunger as well.
My alarm went off at 9:45 p.m., but somehow I was once again pulled into that
on-in vortex where I couldn't get out the door. As I waved goodnight to Lesley
and Peter, I was sucked back into many more beers, hash tales and tales of woe
- all the while David Croft and I wondered who in our midst had an early morning
interview to vouch for. Ed Lynch gathered up the left over pizza, but dropped
it for a dance with Allison. Then it was my mother's little words of advice
that popped in my head, "Nothing good ever happens after 2 am," and I bid adieu
to Crazy Bob, et. al. and headed off into the dark of night to rest and recover.
On-out.