MARATHON WEEKEND 2000 OFFICIAL "RUNNING" GUIDE BY GUEST SCRIBE, STACY "TIGER'S WOODY" CARR

Stamina. Endurance. Shiny bottle openers. Little did I know the level of fortitude that would be required of your average, unmotivated hasher just to survive this weekend of debauchery. Mid-RB hashers like myself were left to lead the pack when our running/drinking stars allied themselves with the easier feat of marathon running. As lowly runner ill prepared for the weekend's rigors, I am sharing my personal Marathon Weekend Running Log.

DAY ZERO: PREPARATION November 2, 2000 Sleep. Hydrate. Take vitamins. Ensure complete post-Halloween recovery. Pre-medicate with Advil as it may be instrumental to marathon weekend survival.

DAY ONE: PRE-MARATHON PUB CRAWL November 3, 2000 Hare: Christine Hinz Start: Revolution, 9th Ave. & 44th St.

AVOID HEDONISM (UNTIL 9PM)
7pm. I knew the night and the weekend would be about pacing. Accordingly, I was locked in my apartment, chanting, "I will not be a hedonist" in a desperate attempt to survive a Christine Hinz pub crawl.

930pm. I arrive at Bar #4 to find the pack in an alarming state of sobriety, suggesting they are prepared for a long evening. Danger, danger. Not to worry: I quickly realize it is only a façade and the pack soon is as disarrayed as ever. In addition to the usual derelicts, I recognize Westchester visitors, hashers from afar, civilians and even a stray marathoner or two.

11pm. After a stint at Bar 5, we have hiked off to #6. Rees's Pieces of L.A. impresses pack with Spiderman skill in scaling midtown's only tree and various phone poles. Nice crowd, nice smoke, nice ambience, until Michelle deposits her Bud lite into my cider.

2am. We have passed through more bars. Our numbers have dwindled. Our hare has long ago been bundled into a cab. We take to crying in our beer over dead cats and ex-wives. Even those of us with neither.

DAY TWO: PRE-MARATHON WARM UP HASH / POST-CRAWL RECOVERY RUN Run: #856 November 4, 2000 Remote Hare: Michael Bahamonde Start: Columbus Circle On In: Yogi's

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE REMIND ME WHAT'S FUN ABOUT HASHING?

3pm. We cluster at the start. It's clear who crawled and who didn't the night before. "I will not be a hedonist," I tell myself in fierce whispers. It's the pacing thing again. "I'll go for a short run and leave after downdowns." (Right.)

330pm. The pack realizes we are missing the hare. Surrogates from mismanagement stand up and announce hare is rock climbing and they are (stuck) babysitting his pack.
335pm. High point of the day: DB2 leads pack through the 26-mile marker.
340pm. Checking. Pack confused by unmarked marathon/eagle split in park.
350pm. Eagles still checking.
400pm. Eagle trail found heading south on CPW. We follow it to Lincoln Center, south, west, north, except for the times we lose it.
430pm. Eagle trail micro-pack on trail, sort of. Getting tired. See civilian runner Pat Cuff who alerts us to hashers off trail miles away. We inform her that that is the trail, which we've run.
440pm. Stuck on check near Riverside and 79th. Micro-pack is checking. It isn't pretty.
450pm. Still checking. Separated from micro-pack. Hungry. Tired. Thirsty. Forgot emergency quarter.
500pm. Solved check. Stuck at different problem check. Alone on trail. Tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Grumpy. Want to sit down and sleep.
510pm. Solved check. Lost trail. Found trail. Stuck at different problem check. Alone on trail. Soon it will be dark. Tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Bitchy.
520pm. Solved check. Lost trail. Found trail. Arrive at Yogi's after an hour forty. Panic that I am on wrong trail as I am at the site of the Halloween on in, followed by relief when I see runners organizing search party. Hungry. Tired. Thirsty. Really fucking pissed off. 6pm. Decide running the marathon would be easier than the related festivities. Hypothesis corroborated by mismanagement. Downdowns assigned to visitors, virgins, (not that either variety will return after that trail) and various crimes. 7pm. Recant death threats against hare. Temperament improved. Slightly.
Later…. Escape slightly before the final band of stragglers. Successfully avoid cat/wife discussions.

DAY THREE: MARATHON HASH Run: #857 November 5, 2000 Hare: David "The Body" Croft Start: Guggenheim Museum On In: Marathon Trail, 23 mile mark On On In: The Back Page

THERE'S GOTTA BE A KEG AROUND HERE SOMEWHERE

10am. Stock up on power bars and other survival rations. Load pockets with water bottles, quarters, metrocard, cash, Amex card, cell phone. Just in case.
11am. Meet pack outside Guggenheim Museum start. Shiver together.
1130am. Pack on trail, checking with same level of skill as we exercised on Saturday (none).
12pm. Still on trail, checking outside of Giuliani's house, hoping perhaps this year it's the site of the 23 mile mark. I have it on good authority that the Marathon Day trail is ALWAYS short. 25 minutes then straight for the beer. We are now at 45 minutes. In a surprising display of good sense, I seize a shortcutting opportunity by following Trisha. We fly overland straight for the 23 mile mark, through police barricades, crowds and campaign shiggy, and pick up the trail in time to see mismanagement piloting a minivan over pedestrian paths and whimpering for help.
1pm. Aaah. Dry clothes. Warm marathon potion cocoa. Nice hash gloves. Bagels. Beer. The first wheelchair athletes. The Moroccan FRB. Life is good. (Translation: "no more running for this hasher.") Later… Marathoners. A lot of marathoners. Marathoners and a hill. Tired marathoners. First the fast ones. Then wind. Then the slow ones. Then gale force winds. Then the wounded section. It's cold. Colder. Colder. Colder.
5pm. The last hasher makes it in. We break camp, shivering. We hike to The Back Page where wings and more beer await us. Marathoners insist it's easier to run the race than to cheer on the sidelines. The pack drinks to that. Marathoners drink to that. We all drink more. Rumors of nudity in the hallway trickle through the crowd. The pack dwindles, glad that most of us survived, nowhere near ready to do it all again. The diehards linger until the room doesn't smell so good (it's the wings), the bar manager has stacked the chairs on tables, and once again we are talking about dead cats and ex-wives. I think I survived. On out.