It was, as they say in the classic Winnie the Pooh feature, "A Blustery Day." And still bleary eyed and fuzzy headed from the Friday nite pub-crawl and other Marathon weekend events (or just marathon drinking events), I awoke and opened up the window in my apartment and said a little prayer of thanks for not being stupid enough to have signed up for the 30^th Running of the NYC Marathon. From what I could tell, those poor souls stranded on the Verrazano were dealing not only with pre-race jitters and shivering cold but the threat of perhaps slipping on frozen human piss as the race took off. (Or perhaps, maybe it was just to damn cold to pee anyway.)

Now, after surviving four winters in Vermont during college, I'm terrified of any weather below 45 degrees Fahrenheit. So when I hit the outdoors on the way to the hash, I was glad I overpacked my bag with my ski parka for the pre-announced On-in at the park. Arriving at the 86^th Street Station at 11:25 a.m. and feeling extremely lazy (it was before Noon, after all), I felt a sigh of relief in thinking that I missed the start due to that great old excuse, public transportation. Walking over to the Guggenheim, I figured out a Plan B to keep warm, which included hitting a diner for breakfast, followed by maybe helping shuffle a bag or two and looked forward to the prospect of not doing any hashing at all. Mistaken, I rounded the corner at 89^th street to spot about 20 shivering hashers ready to rally for a special morning jaunt and realized that of course, a morning hash could never start only 15 minutes late (I should have allotted a whole half-hour!).

And so the hash began - off straight into Central Park at Engineer's Gate, then up onto the Reservoir path. To be honest, I'm not all that familiar with the inner workings of Central Park, so from there we came upon a lot of trees, bushes, rocks, an abandoned fort-looking-kind-of-thing, as well as ponds and rinks to maneuver around. You know, the typical Roy Gilbert kind of stuff. Then we trotted over to the Harlem Meer, where, having been almost too chicken to show up for the hash at all, I would have opted for the Chicken Trail when I crossed the Chicken/Eagle split, but a mark indicating that the "C" was false led me to believe that I had no other options other than to suck it up and continue on (You're such a tease, Roy).

Unfamiliar with the Upper East Side, I have no idea where the trail went from there, but I recall an interesting stone overpass and a bodega and which point I stopped to catch my breath. With befuddled onlookers looking like easy prey, I asked, "I'm trying to do that big running race today, do you know where the start is?" The response was memorable: large guffaws, men clutching their heads in disbelieve at my out-of-towner stupidity and other genuine looks of worry on my behalf (How will we get this girl from the edge of Spanish Harlem to Staten Island in time for her to do the marathon??). I held my composure, until a rather smart-alecky looking kid who "had my number" (seeing that I didn't have a race number of my own) looked at me and said, "Just follow the arrows, lady, that'll take you where you need to go." And so there I was, back on trail in the Land of Oz.

On the corner of First Avenue, where Roy promised it would be a warm place to watch the runners, it was warmer -- but not warm enough. That's when Heather and I decided to hit up the Rite-Aid. Me, for a Gatorade to help re-hydrate from the drunken festivities of the nights before, and Heather, to buy candy - I thought, for the Hashers standing by watching the marathon (Yeah, Treats!!), but actually was later informed that they were "NOT for my consumption, but for the runners, stupid." (Dowh!!) Oh well, I got my lollipop anyway.

At the On-In at the 23-Mile mark, we all shivered and whined in fear that we might not survive the harsh cold. Then, there was the beer-factor to consider. We might even have to deal with the ravages of Exposure, what with the alcohol lowering our body temperatures and all. In fact, the more we considered it, the more we found our situation much more of a challenge than running that damned 26.2. Yet, when those high-visibility cider cups were brought out and the beer actually arrived from a secret, undisclosed location, we decided to take the risk and unabashed imbibing began in full force.

Cheering on our hash-buddies, it's impressive to know that there are actually real runners, with real running abilities in our little informal drinking club. (Oh, to be so multi-talented.) Dave Long was the first recognizable hasher to come along (Jeff and Bo must have been looking really rough then - ed.). Then, to be honest, I got too busy checking out the gams on some of these men, that I don't recall any further order ("Go Hotties"). Suffice to say, we saw Jay, Devo, Brent, Mike M., Crofty, Kerry, Michele, Big John, Marie, Fluffy, Jeff, Bo, Lipstick Lesley, and felt great pride when each looked so springy in their stride (Clearly saving some energy for the On-on-in), and all able and willing to chug a beer or two to get to the finish!!

After the kegs kicked, we headed over to Jake's D. and it looked like a bar you might enter right after the Yankees won the World Series (yet again). Happy and elated faces, drunken faces, faces that looked liked they needed a big old mouthful of pizza and other faces that seemed like they just needed more beer, beer, beer. Oh, and of course, the faces of those who stand typically in awe of us all.

Highlights of the On-on in included, in no particular order, Chris Troise falling down (-down, down, down!), the chicks from Boston finally being able to keep their shirts down (-down) off the top of their heads when they passed out cold in the back (Has anybody checked on them recently and did they ever really make it to Hogs and Heifers??) and well, I know this sounds corny, but all those smiles from our marathon finishers. I swear, if you asked them, they'd tell you that after their run and celebration with us, they were, indeed, going to Disney World.

A personal highlight was giving Dave Long a knee massage, until he asked me to move it a little higher (I don't remember that! - ed.) -- and sneaking past Jerry, who was looking to score a free cab ride home to Brooklyn.

Until the next marathon drinking session,

On-Out.