This has already been a strange few weeks for weather. An unusually lengthy spring, characterized by a series of beautiful bright, sunny days, has given way to a premature series of sticky summer days typical of the worst of August. This has led many folks, yours truly included. to hurry to the nearest appliance store in search of air conditioners, a modern convenience beloved of wimpy, effete Americans. This tends to mitigate the awfulness of shirts sticking to backs and underwear sticking to cracks, a major problem for these three months or so, but tends to turn one into a recluse, as one sits in cool comfort instead of being out there in the world socializing with one's friends.
Such as at the Hash. Already wet through from a ten-minute walk from the office to the start, I came upon a smaller than average group. I figured that many of the regulars had been put off by the humidity, until I realized that there was a much larger group of people standing fifty yards away. The reason for the demarcation never became clear, nor the criteria for belonging to one group instead of the other, but, in my usual sociable manner, I interacted with both and found that they were really quite similar. From the start of the run and for the rest of the evening, they merged and co-existed peaceably and without incident. The noteworthy part, though, was that, when they merged together, they formed a pack of quite vast proportions, likely to be outdone in size only by an A.G.M. or if Basil ever announces another run starting at the George Washington Bridge. Also noteworthy was the large number of unfamiliar types, mostly of an age so small that, as one wit put it "at one stroke, the average age of the NYC Hash is lowered by five years." Still, new blood is always welcome, and Hardy managed to con a few more greenhorns out of five bucks.
The aforementioned walk from work (or, to be more accurate, the office) was brightened up at the very start by the appearance of a trail mark at the corner of Broadway and Exchange Place; since it was going our way, we decided to follow it, my companions out of curiosity and myself, ever on the hunt for a good story to write about, in the hope that we had stumbled on a five-minute amble to the On-In. As it rapidly became clear, we had in fact stumbled on a five-minute amble from the start, so I managed to avoid only the bit around Battery Park City before being joined by the rest of the pack. After that, it was a fairly lonely evening. Being one who relies on others' being detained at checks so that I may catch up, I was plumb out of luck this time. At the risk of being contradicted by some geek who probably does actually keep statistics, this trail had the lowest ratio of checks per mile ever seen on a New York City Hash (held in New York City). Maybe the Hares had forgotten this element. In brief, we marched out of the Financial District and up the Lower East Side, where I was greeted in the projects by a group of urchins shouting "You're last! What, your legs are broken?", but, in the interest of good community relations, decided to avoid my usual witty riposte. The furthest north we reached was Delancey Street, which we followed for a while before turning left and heading most of the way back downtown again and On-In to Katie O'Toole's, an emporium at which, on my only previous visit, I had had my eardrums shattered by a very bad, very loud bar band.
A lively debate quickly ensued about whether this trail was better or worse than Croft's of the week before, with only Joint Master Stiefvater appearing to have a definite preference. Raybould held forth once again on "the right way to set a trail", but, in general, feelings were not strong either way. Concerning the On-In, however, there was no competition. Eileen's achievements of the previous week would have been very hard to match, and they were indeed not matched. Apparently a deal had been struck with the bar owner consisting of "more or less unlimited pitchers until about 10:00"; the staff was clearly under some incentive to keep the total at the minimum, since the barman disappeared for long stretches and, when he did show, treated each new request for a pitcher with some surprise, in the manner of "what, another one?" Even the Hares got into the spirit: at one point, a request for a pitcher of light beer was met with a testy "can't you manage with just a glass?" So, not much beer and a bunch of finger food that bars normally offer free anyway for only twelve dollars. Well, you can't win every week.
Having been responsible for more than my share of fuckups, I am not inclined to lecture; however I feel obliged to offer two tips to future Hares: (i) obtaining beer at a summer On-In is a full-time job for the evening and (ii) do not in any circumstances consider using Katie O'Toole's again - there's a perfectly fine place right across the street.
The evening was, however, salvaged slightly by the appearance of the Fire Department. Officially, they had been summoned by reports of a fire in the kitchen, although the excited reaction of some women present made one suspect a hoax call (the potential plime suspect was, however, absent). Those Hashers who had considered themselves the biggest jocks around were quickly put in the shade by this group of magnificent pagan beasts, the sweat glistening on their brows as, with the aid of their rippling muscles they lugged their heavy equipment through the bar to rescue us in the nick of time from the jaws of death....