One of the many useful things that I have spent tens of thousands of dollars
to study was medieval history. I learned that during the middle age, people
were fairly obsessed with the Christian apocalypse, which was always assumed
to be right around the corner, and how to save their own skins when it actually
occurred. They developed intricate and complex oracular systems designed to
alert the populace that doom was upon them, involving ever more arcane interpretations
of the seven signs. One of them, divined by the reading of goat entrails, was
almost certainly "Devo and Scooter as live hares." These same entrails-readers
were rather definitively not obsessed with bathing, a disinterest that persists
even today in parts of Europe, particularly the parts home to men flying in
for the New York marathon. Once, they believed that bathing brought on the grippe
and death. Now, the modern thinking seems to be, "Well, I am going to get all
sweaty again next year, so why bother with a shower?" But I digress.
As the world still continues, more or less, to go on, I think it is safe to
assume that Sunday's run didn't herald the end of time. But that doesn't mean
that all of us weren't really, really worried. Scooter's last minute "hey, can
someone help with the bags" broadcast wasn't exactly reassuring, either. For
me, heading to the start was sort of like agreeing to meet an ex for drinks.
I may be fully aware of the ensuing torture, but show up anyway. Arriving at
the 96th and Lex start, my attention was immediately diverted from dreading
the trail by the presence of a handsome, quiet, smiling stranger. I dashed over
to introduce myself, and his mother Jean, hashmobiler for the day, actually
let me hold the new hasher until the hares called the pack to order. I reluctantly
turned him over, dropped trou to reveal my running tights, and prepared for
my first real run since the marathon. The hares insisted that we give them an
eight-minute headstart, and for the most part, the pack waited patiently. Predictably,
however, a few cheaters took off about five minutes early.
The trail went north, and then west into Central Park. Though they stuck to
trails for the most part, the hares managed to find a few stream beds and muddy
patches to run us through before putting down a check above Lasker pool. It
was sufficiently difficult enough to reunite the mid and back of the packers,
until we finally solved it heading north out of the park. The trail disappeared
by an enclosed flea market, then picked up again through a construction project.
The presence of a security guard, "hey, no, hey, no, you people aren't children!",
wasn't threatening enough to keep us all from barging right through. The trail
continued north through Harlem to a massif of sorts in Marcus Garvey park, atop
which Crofty is reported to have fallen on his behind. He was so shaken up that
he required Roy's assistance to continue downwards without further mishaps.
I have this only via third party reports, as there was no way I was climbing
up that sucker.
Instead, I ran around the base of the mini-Uluru with Kerry and Rebecca in tow.
The trail picked up again at the northeast corner, and did a funny little u-turn
under a viaduct before turning north again. Up near the entrance to Ward's Island,
a check scattered the pack and sent us back south. It was at this point that
Marie "3:08" Wickham and I, foolishly tailing Too Long, realized that we were
pretty much running our trail of last winter backwards, albeit in a more inept
and less picturesque fashion. It was also at this point that Geoff Baldwin,
laboring to overtake us, huffed, "There are too many fit women on this hash,"
a sexist crime for which he would be duly punished at the on-in. One last mile
straight down, we found the on-in at Hooligan's. Except for Robbie, that is,
who blew straight down First, oblivious to the chalked directions.
Devo must have done his famous striptease for the owner's wife or something,
because they were unusually generous with beer, and provided dish after dish
of free food. Even with Ed "Lunch" Lynch in a feeding frenzy, everyone actually
seemed to have enough to eat. That makes two 'loaves and fishes' episodes in
a single weekend. Amazing. As the eating was subsiding, the bartender gave me
$5 to make jukebox selections, but I had to restrain myself until JM Roy dismissed
the pack.
First up were the Two Horsemen, Devo and Scooter. Opinions on the trail were
pretty muted, considering how low the expectations were from the outset. Robbie
drank next for false starting. Crofty got yet another falling down-down. Ed,
proving that no good deed goes unpunished, got one for helping Crofty over the
rocks. Ewa, supposed hareraiser, performed her famous speed chug for failing
to raise any hares for the next few weeks. Geoff got one for chauvinism, and
I had to drink alongside him for being the object of his griping. Scooter came
forward again to drink for his geeky Hillary t-shirt, and finally, Suli, sole
virgin for the run, drank her first Bud Lite among us.
With down-downs dispensed with, I was finally able to turn my attentions to
the jukebox, and the wonderful opportunity to force the pack to relive my auditory
high school experience. I was most gratified to see a number of people singing
along to Bryan Adams and Guns 'n' Roses. When I felt the urge to dance on the
bar taking over, and Scooter offered to help me up, it was time to head out
to a reasonable dinner.
On out.