It wasn't looking good. Hurricane Floyd was looming and its effects could already be felt in the form of a steady rain falling on Manhattan. Seeking reassurance that the trail would be at least partially visible, I e-mailed Marie early Wednesday afternoon and almost pleaded with her to use flour on the trail. "Sure thing Longie", came the reply, "I just talked to Tricia and we're going to get some extra flour". Phew.
So, the first sight that greets me at the start is Marie with a piece of chalk in her hand, greeting me with her usual cheery hello.
The pack was huddled under the only available awning at 77th & Lex, which is outside some jewellery shop I think, nowhere near as interesting as the lingerie shop under whose awning we huddled the last time it rained. I don't think we did a lot for the business of either place. The only person who was not under the awning was Bob, who as part of his hurricane preparations had donned a fine yellow sou'wester with matching yellow oilskin raincoat. He looked like the guy from "I Know What You Did Last Summer" meets the Gorton's fisherman (that's Captain Bird's Eye to all you Brits). But hey, they laughed at Noah too.
The trail sent us west and early signs were encouraging. Plenty of large flour blobs, some chalk, but this had thoughtfully been placed under cover for the most part. Surprisingly considering the darkness, the first check led to an on-trail in the park, around the Great Lawn and another check by Delacorte Theatre. After Robbie had briefly led everyone astray with a false "on" sighting, the real trail was sighted heading into the spooky darkness of the ramble. This was the first time I can remember feeling the need for a flashlight during a city hash. Anyway, everyone appeared to grope their way through this part O.K., (no sniggering at the back) and we headed back east towards the zoo. Right to the zoo gate in fact, unfortunately the hares don't seem to have reckoned on the zoo actually being closed after dark. And you thought the monkeys were all inside the zoo gates? Things stalled a little at this point as everyone stood around scratching their heads and other bits. One hasher who shall be nameless, but his last name rhymes with "ding-dong", actually started running the trail backwards believing he had found the on-trail. Where do we find these people?!
After some ado, a few people found the on-trail heading east on about 61st St. It was round about the tramway that weird things started happening to the trail. It would suddenly change direction at corners without warning, thus adding in a few unofficial "checks" to add to the real ones. Believe me, it is totally possible to make an arrow shape out of flour - I've seen it done! Anyway, we headed inexorably east before turning north on York. Now, this is what you get for trying to help people in New York. Having not seen a mark for a couple of blocks, I ran into a group of hashers standing around looking lost (they were). So off I go to find the trail, and having done so, return to let them know. Not a soul. Gone. Probably phoned the hotline and were even now supping their first beer as I soldiered on through the rain. Maybe they mistook me for that idiot who'd been running the trail backwards earlier and decided I couldn't be trusted, not a bad choice in most cases.
The remainder of the rapidly vanishing trail went up the East River Walk, over a footbridge and back down York, where it finally gave up the ghost. Hotline time and Roy did the honours; it's always somewhat frustrating when you call the hotline and find out you're about three blocks away from your destination, especially after slogging through the elements like tonight. Myself and the rest of the stragglers trudged up to American Trash and saw a familiar sight, a bar full of happy, drinking hashers. Seems like no one had any problems at all with the trail and had breezed in ages ago - guess that makes it official, I am unquestionably the world's worst hasher. Either that or the only one who didn't take a quarter for the hotline. Just to rub it in, Lawrence had the cheek to ask me whether I had stopped off for a beer or two on the trail. Cheers mate! On a roll, he then went over the edge by accusing Idaho Sue of being a virgin, and was quickly put in his place.
I must admit I had never considered American Trash a suitable hash bar, unless perhaps we were ever to do a Hell's Angel theme hash. I have to say though, that the clientele doesn 92t seem quite as grungy as in the past - maybe all the bikers have migrated to Hogs and Heifers. The decor however was exactly as I'd remembered - enough bits of metal crap hanging off the walls and ceiling to build another space shuttle. I can imagine this place has been the venue for many a lively discussion on U.S. foreign policy with signs like "Boycott Jane Fonda Viet Cong Traitor Bitch" hanging behind the bar. My disappointment at seeing more suits at the bar than leathers was tempered by hearing "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath" start up on the jukebox, followed by Motorhead's "Iron Fist". Now this was more like it! Spirits further perked up when I caught sight of the tattooed barmaid with the ten gallon hat and twenty gallon cleavage. I'm not sure even this sight could have cheered up poor Rudi however, who was an unfortunate victim of one of those "missing bag" occasions, and was left without even a Metrocard to his name.
Meanwhile our very own weatherman Bob staunchly refused to take off his rain gear even though we were inside, in fact he looked eager to get back outside just to prove how waterproof he was. He later performed one of the more unusual down-downs by drinking from his sou'wester, sensibly turned inside out so it wouldn't then get stuck to his head. Marie did her usual trick of throwing her beer all over the floor - come on, it can't be that bad and anyway it's only a cupful! We're going to have to hold her down and force feed it to her next time. There were a couple of loud newcomers, one of whom introduced himself as "Fred from Fredville" - hey, the FBI may have bought that one pal, but you don't fool us. I think he was an acquaintance of Elaine's, which may explain why he's a little confused. Anyway, he (voluntarily) did four down-downs, obviously thinking this was a good way to get top value for his $15, and had a nice trick of making the empties stick to his obviously perfectly flat head. Loud Person #2 was guilty of not just heckling but talking complete bollocks as well. But then, that's never done Hoffman any harm - this guy's obvious officer material!
Having stayed way too late and drunk way too much, I trudged home through the rain, contemplating my impending death from either the hurricane, encephalitis, or pesticide-spraying helicopters. Even if I survive all this, the Elaine and Pat "Redemption" run awaits 85.God help us!
On out.
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