Though rain had been predicted for the 13th, the day dawned sunny and clear as a bell, which meant that it was quite bright in my apartment by 8:00 a.m. Perfect weather for waking me up just 3 hours after I had gone to bed. I managed to actually g et out of bed and move to the sofa, groaning and wondering how, if I left Mojo s at midnight with every intention of going home, I wound up closing down Tom & Jerry s. (Hint: there may have been alcohol involved) Happily, it became overcast around 2: 00, and I was considering skipping the hash in favor of lying on the couch and listening to Bush and McCain goad each other into ever deepening gestures of fascism. But then I remembered that I had promised Dave Long a break from doing the writeups, as his cohort Troise has not been seen in weeks, and hasn t produced pen product in months (I gather he has been producing quite well in other departments though ed.). In any event, I did make it to the start, thanks in no small part to Christine (w ho slept until at least 11:00) dragging herself to my apartment to solve an unsolvable bike problem. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Slow To Blow, who arrived at 33rd between 1st and 2nd via taxi, yet managed to not see the pack of hashers across the street, and ran off alone. And I have it on good authority that he hadn t yet lost a single contact lens! But more on STB s myopia later. The hashers that did find the start were sporting a number of Devo s spare Hawaiian shirts, which he generously doled out free of charge. Then, Peter and Lesley arrived, and we all got lei d. Without beer! I can only assume that this wanton display was what so upset the priest who emerged from Sacred Heart to attempt to shoo us off the church doorst ep. Here, the pack showed remarkable respect and restraint, reducing voice volume so as not to further disturb the bricks and mortar. Trotskyo, though perhaps of the belief that religion is a passe narcotic for the masses, whispered the instructions while the priest gave him the evil eye. We were dispatched without further ado to the east, where we encountered our first check. Lucky for us it had already been solved and marked by STB. Not that this saved us from getting all screwed up at the nex t corner, you understand. The trail wound north gradually via a series of thoroughly sadistic back-and-forth switchbacks, occasionally interrupted by heart-shaped checks. It was also interrupted by the Tudor City steps, up which only Stacy was tricke d into running. By the time we hit Lexington and 47th, Melissa and I had had enough, and followed our own trail looking for a bathroom at the Radisson, which was much more difficult than it sounds. By then, Alice was way ahead of us, so we resorted t o shortcutting the hell out of the remainder of the trail, running straight up Fifth and skipping the pesky Central Park portion altogether. Nevertheless, we spent so much time lost in the Radisson that all of the FRBs were sucking down beers in the Carriage House by the time we arrived. Remember kids, just say to running with a hangover! Once the rest of the pack came in and discreetly slipped behind the other hashers to change right in front of the windows, JM Gilbert called the masses to or der so that no one would slither out without appropriate punishments. After Peter and Lesley (in a fetching grass skirt), Roy caught Dumb Dick trying to sneak out without drinking for his Eco-Challenge size backpack that had apparently been loaded wi th marble slabs in some sort of arcane training regimen. Alas, he left his hat on, and had to drink again. Couldn t have been much help when he had to navigate to his car with the big ol backpack while wearing rollerblades. Danny Choriki was called to the front for the crime of being an actual Hawaiian. Mssrs. Guiley and Cloud drank for being visiting former joint masters, and Vince was overheard wondering if that meant he d have to drink every single time he shows up. Then, once again, Hardy h ad earned the rabbit ears, and actually wore them all night. (Ha ha, just wanted to see if you were paying attention). Martin was awarded a down-down for his impending move to Zurich, which he shared with Slow To Blow for thinking that Zurich is in G ermany. STB stayed at the front to drink from the plunger for his temporary blindness at the start. And finally, a true crime was committed on trail by Firemarshall Bob when he assaulted a fourteen year old. Stories differ, but I am fairly certain th at the that Bob claims to have sensed on the poor boy had nothing to do with children s sleepwear or other dangerous combustibles. When all of the down-downs had been handed out, there was an extended lull during which food usually arrives, but in this case did not. Time ticked by, and sometime around six, amid much high-pitched complaining, pizzas finally showed up, only to dis appear three seconds later. By then, things had already begun to wind down. Yours truly was abstaining from alcohol for the day, but no further nudity was reported, and no one confessed to getting anything other than a lei. Well, there s always the p olar bear run! On out.
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To all those of you who think that I must have no life whatsoever outside of hashing and writing about hashing, I would like to offer my emphatic response - you are all absolutely, utterly correct. Despite having been in denial ever since that fatefu l day last May when I was press-ganged into this job (I think I was lured by the "sex" in the title), and delusions of a social life and even (gasp!) other hobbies, I now admit defeat. My life is sitting at this keyboard, musing about matters hashato rial (?) for future use as beermats, toilet paper or napkins. I would like to thank the good people at UPS, their mothers and fathers, and anyone else who knows them, for keeping me captive here for three days waiting for a delivery and thereby affor ding plenty of time for reflection on the sorry state of my life. May they die slow, painful deaths. Right, now that's off my chest, on with the writeup. Laird, hare for the day, is a god in New York hashing and as such has the power to control the weather for his runs. So it was that after two of the most miserable days this winter of incessant rai n and snow, the city was bathed in "glorious blue sunshine" as one radio announcer once put it. As proof that he is indeed a god, Laird even has his own T-shirt - he being the origin of the Hashers Against Long Trails (HALT) movement. Only old farts like Hardy and Marie of course have those kind of vintage T-shirts any more. By the way, the HALT revivalist movement started by Jimmy and Chris appears to have stalled somewhat - apparently they have abandoned their hashing ideals in favour of doing sensible grown up things like getting married and breeding. In fact, there are rumours of a brand new movement afoot - HAHA (Hashers Against HAshing). No runs, just on-ins. Now there's a thought The trail headed predictably and joyfully into the park, where we were soon gallivanting across the still-fresh snow. Dodging through trees, I drifted off for a moment and imagined I was Henry Fonda in The Battle of the Bulge, but fortunately no Tige r tanks were spotted. Not many marks either by me, but fortunately the front runners were doing a sterling job and taking the guesswork out of it so we at the back could just enjoy ourselves. Of course this too was an illusion, and I had a reality ch eck as I lost the pack while attempting to shortcut at a check by Lasker Rink, until eventually sighting them again on the far side of Harlem Meer. I resisted the temptation to short cut across the ice and went the long way round. The trail left the park at 110th & 5th, with a little sojourn into Harlem, before reentering the park on Central Park North and heading west. Exiting at CPW, I witnessed Marie in a spectacular fall in which she performed a double somersault with reverse twist and pike, and no doubt gave the waiting car drivers at the lights a good laugh. Fortunately, no serious injuries, a few nasty grazes though, a bruised backside and wounded pride. The check on the far side of CPW went south a block and west on 109th, although most people seemed to just ignore this completely and go straight across 110th to Morningside Park. There then followed a strange two tier hashing episode, where half the pack followed the real trail into the park, while the rest followed It's Pat st raight up the hill. We tracked the progress of those down below to make sure the trail hadn't doubled back, and of course felt very smug about all the energy we'd saved when it emerged from the park heading west at about 120th St.
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The much-awaited Second Annual Polar Bear Day 2000 dawned damp and chilly, perfect for a February beach day. It would leave a mangy crowd of hashers wishing for more body fat and a coat of fur. For weeks I had been looking forward to my Japanese tele vision debut and the simultaneous Atlantic Ocean swim, my first in 20+ years. I expected a slow subway trauma to be the day s first obstacle. The journey to Sheepshead Bay, however, proved to be speedy and uneventful, unlike my subsequent ride home in which a subway terrorist repeatedly shot at me with an invisible gun, but th at is another story. Much of the pack was sighted milling around Sheepshead Bay a good 20 minutes before the posted start time. The smart hashers, or at least Michelle and Devo, camped out under the station s heaters. Long before any hares were prese nt, the crowd of 25 scruffy runners was joined by Japanese television celebrity Sally and her entourage. Hare Jerry Fluffy Lockerman arrived, mumbling about cups as the producer trailed after him. Joining Jerry shortly thereafter was his complement of co-hares, Arianne, who lately sets every trail, and Danny, driving a big ass car, huge enough to fit th e bags, coats, thermoses, and half the pack, leaving me wondering how he drives in New York and suspecting that his life is lived as a Montana flashback. Thanks to Jerry s promotional efforts, a number of visitors traveled from afar for this run. Flash from Kobe (the only native New Yorker, to the television producer s dismay), Soft something or other from North Carolina, a regular visitor from The Ne therlands, and a virgin and a visitor from Ottawa were on hand. The television crew looked desperately for good pre-run interviewees but settled on the likes of Sucks after Dark and Danny, perhaps because of their me me me chirps and their elbowings to stand before the camera. The run began and the pack trotted off. It quickly became clear that TV Sally is no hasher. She and a lone, loping camera man trailed far behind the pack. It was obvious that this was Sally s day on the small screen, to the neglect of our running pro wess The run, well, it was an outer borough run. It had houses, streets, elevated trains, whiny runners. But all that was not what had drawn us south to Sheepshead Bay. We reached a beach boardwalk and looked for our promised vodka and caviar check. Alas , we were not at the right beach, yet. More street running was required, but soon we encountered the support vehicle and Danny who insisted that we run with our packs (hey, I would have brought less crap if I had known that!) the last mile to the be ach, as his land barge is no 4x4. There we found our highly touted bottle of bad vodka and a vat of cocoa laced with schnapps. We stripped down and raced into the sea, some of us enacting childhood mermaid fantasies. Quite a number of idiots splashed around amid squeals and shouts of shrinkage. The likes of Rudy, Roy, Pierre, Scott, Sucks after Dark, the visitors, could be s een enjoying the water sports. Especially avid swimmers like Devo and Bob returned to dry ground only after their entire lower bodies were afflicted by numbness. For the record, one of the Canadian visitors and this guest writer were the only women t o swim. Co-hare Danny finally completed his bagman duties, skipped down to the shore, and was seen performing somersaults and water tricks a la Ethel Merman. Just as hypothermia subsided, and we swimmers were dry and ready for more running or at least beer, who should arrive but Sally and the television crew, who demanded reenactments of our herculean water feats and a Chariots of Fire victory run to the beach. The pack divided up based on swimming versus running costumes for two unbearably tedious acting sessions. We gratefully abandoned the beach to find the on in, more pack carrying and staged slow motion running shots required. Heading out of the park, we passed Timmy, so far unseen, barreling toward the beach for a solo dip in the waves. The pack meandered along some waterway to the on in at Captain somebody s where we found Danny parking his white behemoth of a car. We overtook the bar for rousing down downs and staged cheers under the bright television lights. In addition to dislik ing running, Sally was no beer drinker, and our efforts to give her a down down were unsuccessful. The proud winner of the bunny ears was speedster Paul, who claimed that the ears were spiky, hurt his head, and thus unwearable. The Asshole of the Week plunger went to Sucks after Dark who had been darting between the running acting troupe and the swimming acting troupe in desperate attempt to star in both the sea and land footage. Not only that, he had been seen throwing Sally over his shoulder and carrying her out to the beach. Scott was renamed from his unused Dutch blowjob name to Hard N ipples. Down downs were assigned to Debbie & John and to Timmy who didn t notice the 2:00 start time. (Any hasher who showed up Sunday for the Saturday run deserves a down down at the 3/5 hash.) At a corner of the on in, a circle of cranky hashers hopefully unfilmed--deflected responsibility for hosting the visitors. m hung over. You do it. re an officer, you do it. Christ I always have to do it. I already was nice to the visitors onc e today. You do it. All too soon (yeah, right) the film crew broke down their equipment and departed, much to the dismay of Sucks, who had been warming his ass on the heat from the lights, or perhaps he was just trying to get that part of himself on Japanese television too. As the night wore on, festivities included the singing of the hash hymn, during which hashers bolted from their conversations and dove into a singing/gesturing frenzy. The on in was surprisingly un-New York, with the above noted singing, the flashing of a North Carolina ass, a few tits out for the boys cries, and a body outlined in chalk on the bar floor. Devo took to repeatedly inserting quarters up his nostrils. The coin stuck each time, leaving Devo to fear, each time, it was up there for go od. Debbie, have quite small nostrils, only managed a dime, but John at least stuffed a nickel in his nose but was unwilling to go for more. For the rest of the night, a desperate cry for tweezers signaled that another coin had found its way up Devo s nose. For good or bad, there was not a single naked sighting on that beach, though an alarming number of Brighton Beach residents reported eyestrain from the excessive glare caused by too many white bodies. I had hoped the Polar Bear hash might spawn some South Pole Winter Over Team adventurers, but it appears not. Perhaps next year. But is the South Pole ready for the hash? On out. 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