As Dickhead, our Phone
Sex for the day, announced: a wonderful day for hashing!
"Yeah, right!" I thought, driving East on I-10 through driving, ice
cold
wind. "I wonder what kind of a turn out we will get? A shiggy run on the
East side, in lousy weather. Only the true hashers will be there."
And so it was! Arriving at
the start, I was pleasantly surprised to see the
number of hashers milling around, cowering under umbrellas and assorted
garbage sacks.....
Among them some faces which have been sadly lacking recently, like Gonad
the Barbarian and Grind Slut. And it was not an all male pack, either,
with SOS, Salt Water Taffy, Fuck Me Running and (relative newcomer)
Heather among the notable harriettes. Clearly, memories of glorious shiggy
runs in the area, laid by (among others) John Boy, Grind and Baby Huey drew
out the true aficionados.....
"I guess we are heading
for the bunkers" Gonad commented to me, Yeah Baby!
And there is some gnarly stuff between here and there!
And so it was. After the usual
superfluous "Chalk Talk" it was off into the
woods. Heading roughly east, we single-filed through the undergrowth until
we stumbled up to a fence that threw the pack into a quick about-face to
the North. A check at the fence's end, where the thick woods gave way to
more open territory, spread the pack somewhat. Until we were on again to
the North and another check at the edge of a large ditch. Gotta be across,
but no one wanted to be the first into the frigid waters. Things got a bit
confusing as two trails were found on the other side. PP led the stalwart
ones into the deep water South of the check and looped around, to find more
hashers pounding towards us on our flour. "you are going backwards"
we
yelled. "We are coming off another check" they replied....... so they
backtracked to the check, where once again, trail was found heading East.
Good shiggy running to another check at the edge of more water. Heartache
went south, the pack went North. the pack were right!
Back into single file mode
as we stumbled through the undergrowth. Not much
chance of getting off trail! with flailing thorns on either side and shoe
sucking mud underfoot. It was a modest pace! But amusing to observe the
numerous hashers assuming the ostrich position, as the bent over to secure
their footwear.....We eventually came to more open ground at the edge of
the ship channel and a check. In the immortal words of Geek "It's got to
go
either right or left here": Even John Boy's fascination with water
crossings would not ask us to swim the Ship Channel!
Off we went to the left, through
a deepish gulley and towards the 610 loop
ship channel bridge. Such a Puss was observed living up to his name as he
whimpered in anguish as a little thorn had penetrated his tender flesh.......
As we popped out to the cleared
ground, the rump of a harriette was
observed disappearing into the undergrowth ahead. After taking advantage of
Menage Myself, who was assisting faithful hound Molly through the fence,
Heartache headed for the scrap of tape fluttering in the undergrowth. "This
is stupid, he thought. There are clear paths through this shiggy a few
hundred feet North!" but, the overpowering urge to follow trail got the
better of common sense. And regret quickly overpowered righteousness, as
the trail had obviously been laid by a demented midget...... At points,
bending over was futile and slithering on one's belly was the best way.......
Eventually, it started opening up to a check (wrong way again, Heartache!).
Then on we went, to come across a deep gully where the front runners had
succeeded in removing all handholds on their way down. Heather and SOS were
slip-sliding down as Heartach got there. Ha, he thought: superior hash
experience and the words of a ski instructor in his ears: "keep your weight
out over your feet.... lean away from the slope" The ladies turned to watch
his elegant progress down the slippery slope.....
...as he tobogganed down on
his ass, subjected to an enema of primeval
ooze......... to be brought up short by a tree-trunk, cunningly guided by
the hash gods between his legs........ and, to paraphrase a well known
yarn "Rectum? damn nearly killed him!"
And up the other side, following
SOS, who seemed to be equally
traction-challenged...... Achieving the summit, it was off again, SOS
sprightly, but Heartache slowly, due to the need to expel quantities of
ingested ooze enema...
Eventually out to a right of way giving way to that darn open path that
some smart-asses were seen to be sprinting along. But wait: that's FRB's
Saran Crap and PP. They must have checked the wrong way! Heading east, the
pack arrived at the famous Ammo Dump maze. Where a back check seemed to be
causing some confusion.
your scribe tried one of the
laterals, for a way with no luck, but vague
shouting was heard off in the distance. Hmmm: Let's head through the woods
to the next lateral: Good call, as flour was evident on the path. But no
one around!
A few blasts of the trusty
whistle and off... to a check nastily placed on
top of one of the bunkers. Off again, to run into front runners PP, Saran
Crap, Grind, Salt Water Taffy and some others. Off through the woods
again, to another bunker-top check. And then straight up the path, out
over the open ground, a road, a ditch and a climb to the edge of a large
landfill. At this point, Heartache's flagging spirits were lifted by the
appearance of Fuck Me Running, who blasted past flashing her rump like a
white-tailed deer.....
An arrow at the top pointed
us to the right and down, where we skirted the
dump, round the corner and on for a while before again climbing up to the
rim. The front runners were again spreading out, with Heartache making vain
efforts to keep up with them as we started traversing the lunar landscape
of sand, mud, sludge, ooze..... But what's that off in the distance on the
other side of the fill? A white pickup, manned by the hares?
And what is happening to the
front runners? they are slowing up - and
getting shorter! As they made a bee-line for the truck, the going got more
and more treacherous!
Little Pussy and Fuck me Running,
along with Saran Crap, were heading
straight towards the truck, getting deeper into trouble with every step....
Gonad, Grind, and some others were skirting the deeper parts by traversing
to the left. Roller Balls was like Daffy Duck, torn between heroism and
common sense. As Heartache caught up, he advised RollerBalls to store the
testosterone and follow him!
We made our way to the rim
of the fill, skirting the dreaded quicksand
(only getting knee deep!). One last sting in the landfill's tail was a
little ditch, just wide enough to prevent clearly leaping. Heartache led
Roller and leapt to what looked like solid ground, to disappear up to his
bollocks in quicksand.... Roller chose a better spot and surged ahead....
And we ran into a small group of wankers lead by Rear Layer, who had
crested the first climb up the landfill escarpment and, seeing the FRB's to
the Left, ignored the arrow to the right and done an excellent short cut.
(This is my only criticism of the trail: the hares should have led the pack
round the fill on the low side, to force 'em all to traverse the killer
quicksand....... after the front runners, everyone short cut and missed the
quicksand!)
;~)
Running the rim towards the pick-up, we were amazed to observe what looked
like a couple of Silurian reptiles trying to extricate themselves from the
clutches of the quicksand. Who the heck was dumb enough to persist in the
folly of crossing the deadly dump? To our horror, one was none other than
Fuck Me Running. But she was not quite as deep as the other and seemed to
be escaping from the ooze. The other was up to the armpits and flailing
weakly.
Who is it? L'il Pussy, whose
testosterone drive (and overwhelming desire to
impress FMR) had overcome what scrap of intelligence glimmers in his
temporal lobe. Will he make it? Or is he doomed to be a fossil discovered
by extra-terrestrials who, while on an archeological dig to find remnants
of the long-extinct human species, come across his scowling visage
perfectly reproduced as a siltstone sculpture.....
The hares, who had chosen
the exact spot to have their beer check work as a
honey pot and draw in the unsuspecting hounds, seemed totally uncaring as
Li'l Pussy, with his dying gasp, extracted himself and retreated to take
the circuitous route.....
Too fucking cold to accept
any frozen beverages, the smart ones pounded off
in search of trail to the promised sheltered end. Rollerballs, in true
masochistic spirit, stopped for a couple of beers......
And down to the path which
skirted the fill and past some bunkers towards
the end, with a nice little 1/2 mile sprint to sort out the athletes from
people like Heartache, still somewhat bemused to be in the FRB pack at the
end.....
Which was in a candle-lit, propane heated bunker, much welcomed by the pack.
Numerous auto-wankers, such
as Dick the Boy Wonder, Pump Me, Hershey
Highway and Mindfuck were at the end to greet us. Hershey Highway was
overheard to comment to MindFuck "looks like a good one to have missed"
as
they observed the shivering runners dripping evil-smelling mud.
WRONG! a more glorious hash
experience could not be had! While somewhat
masochistic, perhaps, this is the real deal. The joys of a true shiggy
trail in typical Aberdeen weather cannot be described! As the pack
straggled in, there was a plethora of praise heaped on the hares for a job
well done! Beer was drunk, munchies munched and heroic stories swapped, as
we awaited our RA, the Hammersley Butt-boy Pipes, who as usual was out on
his own in the gathering dusk.....
But Pipes had his own back
on the pack by insisting that the circle be held
outside. Justification: the poor acoustics would make his discourse
unintelligible.....
Duh; like we understand a word he says at the best of times!
Great Job, Hares! Old-style shiggy. God-awful weather. Perfect!
Heartache
"Je Hash, donc je suis" or, if you prefer: "Hasho, ergo sum"
Warning: consumption of Stout may cause extreme personality disorders......