Time was, as the mighty Wishbone Ash used to say, when the announcement of the first Sunday run, on a beautiful early fall afternoon, hared by two venerable former Joint Masters, would have brought out a large, enthusiastic crowd. Failing that, one would have thought that the curiosity factor of seeing the reclusive John Burke in the flesh, of finding out whether he had turned into a pathetic, sodden, unsightly blob during his long absence from the trail, would have encouraged a few ghouls to turn out. Although I don’t hash much on Wednesday any more, I’ve been told that this summer’s packs have reached on occasion almost into three figures, one or two people even coming back for a second time; well, on Sunday, it was as if somebody had turned out a light and extinguished the frat crowd (or, as a member of the committee put it, probably more accurately, it was like the cockroaches had scattered when the kitchen light was turned on – except that the idea of lights going out is more appropriate to the end of summer – except that winter is when all the lights have to go on....)

Anyway, those of you who failed to show up missed what can only be described as a cracker. Maybe the good mood started by two weeks’ vacation and enhanced by the fine weather turned my brain to mush, but I wasn’t even bothered by the fact that the trail went almost entirely uphill for over an hour. Setting such a paragon of hashdom is not, of course a feat which should be attempted by mere mortals; only the likes of Hardy and Burke are qualified. The ingenuity displayed in the trail was unparalleled: we started in a more or less straight northerly direction, ,over the bridge into Marble Hill, which for trivia buffs (not those of you who never venture north of 96^th St.), is the only part of Manhattan which is on the U.S. mainland. Temporarily forgetting the genius of our Hares, I figured that we were on a predictable course to one of those anonymous Irish bars on upper Broadway where off-duty police officers meet to get drunk and beat the shit out of each other for practice, but I was soon proved wrong. We headed west into some quite charming parts of Riverdale, before going back across via the Henry Hudson Parkway on to the island and down into Inwood Hill Park. A nasty little detour down to the river was attempted only by Ewa, part goat, the rest of us deducing correctly that what goes down must eventually come back up, this a lesson learned from late-night curry eating.

The Hares continued to fool the pack with their genius, it becoming apparent only at the very end that the

On-In was approximately fifty yards away from the start. Maybe the Hare’s recent pronouncements that "I only ever set A to A’s these days" should have been taken as a clue. We had commenced our trail outside an emporium labeling itself "a new concept in luxury car service"; only now was it clear that this company specializes in very very short rides i.e. profitability through volume. Once in the bar, I realized why I was in such a good mood, the TV confirmed what I had been hearing all afternoon through a little voice in my ear, that the Mets were finally bursting through a cloud of near-failure and heading toward a chance at the playoffs for the first time in the years of a donkey. Although people kept trying to engage me in conversation, I fought them off and, through sheer force of will, caused the Mets to win in the bottom of the ninth. Never was I happier to do a Down-Down.

After the perfect trail, and the perfect victory, I was able to concentrate on the perfect On-In. Even the beer was to my ;liking – pure Budweiser all the way, no foreign muck. My dark, cynical side kept trying to tell me that, a few years’ ago, the prospect of nothing but Bud would have caused Hardy’s nose to turn up so far that he could have scratched his own head with it, but it's amazing what time and doctor’s orders will do, and few people complained. A bunch of surprisingly exotic pizzas arrived in due course (well, mine had onions on it), attracting the attention of a group of local urchins. I made sure to leave my crusts uneaten in the interest of welfare reform.

A surprise arrival was a gentleman with a very large mouth, apparently called Michael Andonov, an exception to the previously mentioned summer rule. Basil was on possibly his last appearance before his impending fatherhood, but I’m sure Melanie, also present, will stay to carry on the family tradition.Religious Advisor Croft conducted the usual humiliations, featuring one to Elaine for holding a birthday party to which nobody from theHash was invited, and another to Hare Burke, who showed his senility by failing to remove his cap. David then proceeded to hand out flyers for his own forthcoming birthday event, which I believe is called squaring the circle. New Young Joy ("I’ve been hashing for ten months and I’ve never heard of John Burke") took refuge on the steps outside from the heat and smoke. These were partially caused by our two artistic bohemian types, Ariane and Ewa, puffing away on Gauloises, the only cigarettes actually made with elephant dung. But that’s a writeup for another day.