Glade Runners

Motormouth Hashgate TT3 Donut Hilary Simple Mr Blobby Mrs Blobby Honeymonster Shitfor Desperate CIAC HeyBabe Billy Bullshit Cerberus Caboose Tinopener Lilo and dog Emma Hitchiker Spot Roy OldFart Iceman Centaur Potty Nutcracker Quack Slippery BlouseBlazer CabinBuoy Pat OldDog Lonely Baldrick C5 C4 Ms Whiplash Flash Utopia Salome Twanky BlowJob Septic Posh Bomber Zebedee Florence Aussie FannyBag Bogbrush J-Wax Dunny Diver NappyRash PP Uplift Bomber Posh Centaur Dwight SlowSucker Madam Cyn Nick Escort LoudonTasteless Spex Matt SlackBladder Little Stiffy Anorak Ladybird Grommet StinkingBishop

BH³ ‘Fun’ Run 2007

A collective sigh of relief has swept through the Hash like a breeze through a pile of old leaves waiting to be swept up. Most of us felt exactly like a pile of old leaves etc. immediately after completing our annual 10k’ish cross country race. Quite how we manage to dredge up the enthusiasm for this torture every year is beyond me. Yet, as you can see from above, plenty of us are daft enough to forget the previous year’s agony and give it another go. For those unaware of the arcane traditions of the race, let me explain that this is a handicapped race where the walkers and walking wounded set off first. They are followed at minute intervals by waves of successively fitter and faster runners, the fittest setting off about 30 minutes after the original starters. The idea then is to level the playing field, the ideal result being a dead heat, with everyone crossing the finishing line at the same time. Fat chance. The handicapper is one, Motox, who has spent years perfecting the art of assessing form (usually of the female Hashers) in an attempt to ‘get it right’. Now usually he spends his evenings in the weeks leading to the Fun Run in his lonely, candle-lit garret, quill behind ear, poring over past results, form books and an occasional copy of Razzle to lighten his task. However, this year it is obvious that he has wheelie-binned the scientific approach and opted for something more intuitive. Could it be astrology? If the moon rises in Uranus will Twanky slide into an early slot? Could it be palm-reading? If SlackBladder had a hand in it he’d go for number ones, or would it be number twos? Personally, I see the following scenario: Motox, having spent many unshaven days pondering the mystery of ‘form’, finally gets all the slips of paper with people’s names on in the order he wants, on the floor (computers are as welcome as a dose of clap in the Motox household). He stands and casts a final critical, squinty-eyed glance at the roughly scrawled scraps, drains his last pint and bangs the empty tankard down on to the table, uttering a victorious, “Eureka!” Several pencil stubs, liquorice allsort wrappers, empty beer cans, a small and apparently surprised stuffed weasel, one grubby Fisherman’s Friend and the remains of a jar of pickled gherkins rise into the air and thump back down again, causing something else to rise into the air. Dust! Supplemented by a million skin cells that had cascaded drily down during all the head-scratching in the prevous days it lifted ever upwards, heading for the great triumphally flaring nostrils in the sky. Motox breathed in mightily in satisfaction, inhaling twin nasal tornados of whirling motes. What other result could there be? “Ahhhhh pooooohhh!!” Trumpeted the Great Form Wizard, sounding vaguely Chinese. For every action etc. The new slimline Motox hurtled backwards, hit the door with a thump and slid down to a sitting position while watching his brilliant achievement flutter around the room like a pile of old leaves in a gale. Casting his eyes skywards he uttered something that sounded rather like, “Rowlocks!” Which is why Mr Blobby, who started the race in the first group of walkers, won the event.

A Personal Account

Carrying a voice recorder round while racing is a complete waste of time since I cannot speak. It’s all I can do to blasted well breathe. As Desperate found out when I barged oafishly past her after indulging in some very heavy breathing on the back of her neck, with not so much as a “Kiss my elbow”. Of course, I apologised later but I think my reputation has been damaged beyond repair. Motormouth and I had started the race, in fact the entire evening, behind TT3. We had been unsure if the silver Mercedes we were following actually contained the fellow. But we figured out the driver when we got to that junction just under the bridge where you turn left to Grazeley Green. The driver of said Merc. had slowed right down and wavered about on the road a bit so we hung back a little, assuming it was either a smoker of exotic weedage or TT3. We were still unsure until he got past the junction where he could turn left no more and saw us indicating left. He swung right, braked, then accelerated away. Motormouth turned to me, “That’s TT3 then, Dad.” Opined the lad with a degree of perceptive sagacity that could one day see him bestriding the world like some mental Colossus. TT3 also turned up at the 25 minute delay start group. This was a bit of a mistake on his part since he had actually been due to start at 24 minutes. Obviously, TT3’s path to bestride the world etc is by now overgrown, weed-strewn and lost somewhere in The Forest of Life. The fellow decided to make up for his mistake and set off at that plimsoll-blistering pace for which he is currently known. I found this quite useful (if painful) since it meant we cauight up with a number of the earlier starters quite quickly, panting past them and frightening the ladies. We came upon J-Wax who appeared to be idling along, picking daisies. Why not? It was considerably less painful than what we were doing. I decided to stick as close to TT3 as possible without giving him the idea that I fancied him. More difficult than I thought since the blighter kept sticking in short bursts of speed. However, I figured he’d get fed up with a shadow and, fortunately, this proved to be the case. As you know, the trail includes one particular bloody great steep, pebble covered track. There are a couple of these but this one in particular does have the benefit of enabling you to experience a combination of slow-motion movement, climbing Everest without oxygen and having your insides shredded by a couple of razor-toothed stoats you inadvertantly breathed in a while earlier. I finally caught up with Caboose, who had the advantage (well, probably) of starting on -10 minutes and taking a cab for the first ½ hour of the race. Whatever it was I couldn’t quite shake the fellow towards the end, especially when he saw the ‘On In’. “Coo.” He thought. “I’m in with a chance here.” And took off like an illegal immigrant exiting the Channel Tunnel on the English side. We raced towards Simple, plimsolls billowing smoke, ducked for the line and snatched the result slips he held fanned out in his hand. Caboose had beaten me by a nasal hair. Damn! But then he had foolishly taken result slip place 9 instead of 8. Hurrah!

Dumper and Septic had generously opened their fine house to the Hash along with a gazebo that contained a cornucopia of food and a garden for everyone to eat it in and where the beer table was manned by Mr Blobby. The evening was curiously cold for July and everyone shivered while munching their lettuce. Apart from Caboose. He was the only one who had realised that the Mexican chimney thingy contained a lit fire and was radiating more heat than Kylie in a pair of those shorts. Er, well speaking personally, that is. Our grateful thanks go to all the organisers and helpers who, once again, made this event such a success.

Our quote of the night comes from Donut who informed the RA, among others, that it is, “Amazing that you can’t hear very much wearing an eyepatch.” Sometimes I wonder in which direction life is taking me…

On On. Hashgate.

Presentations

Motox presented the following prizes. Unfortunately, he could not present the ‘turd’prize since he had left this item in his shed since last year and the rats had eaten it. Cerberus did offer to supply another but her kind proposal was politely declined.

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