Run No.154 3rd Ocotber 2021

Run No.154

Scribe: Bloody Nipples

Date: 3rd October

Hares: Whore with No Name + Semen Commander

Run type: A to B

Distance: Eagle 10.7k, Turkey 7.7k

Weather: Cloudy sometimes rain

Participants: 23

Our early October hash starts under a gray sky, with faint hints of drabness, on the equally colorful gravel of a Kita-kurihama park/playground. Children mill about, and a wee child's statue stands nearby, seemingly unaware of the clutch of vulgar runners preparing to celebrate seeing other humans by jogging their way through another month of the pandemic.

Whore with No Name, in honor of the most alcoholic and therefore most widely shared German tradition of Oktoberfest, welcomes the house with some deeply questionable German. But the German child inside of your correspondent forgives him, given his shameless afternoon lederhosen. Semen Commander is likewise dressed for the occasion, although her German accent leaves much to be desired.

Bloody Nipples begins his re-union run with Whiplash, and although initially concerned that as a broken old man, he was just going to watch Cliffhanger run off with the entire FRB pack, thankfully everyone has totally lost the path as soon as we arrive at the Houses. Scattering every which way and cursing either erased or poorly laid paths, many innocent Japanese yards are investigated by suspicious looking hashers dashing up front steps and staring quizzically at pathes.

But the intrepid leadership of the FRBs eventually sniffs out a path, and the Eagles tear away, and Bloody Nipples and Whiplash muddle along in the middle (passing a few feet from Bloody Nipples Kurihama home). Friendly wheezing and jogging continues, at a slow enough pace that no extra pathing work is needed, the FRB exhausting themselves to lay out the path ahead. In a curious attempt to mix the traditions of Oktoberfest and Halloween, our hashers are led through "Spider Alley", populated with spiders roughly the size of cornish game hens. More frighteningly, the FRBs are not generally as tall as your correspondent, who inadvertently smacks into some of the remaining webs at forehead level. Fortunately, screaming and adrenaline are great fuel for a hash run.

Knowing the FRBs have taken the Eagle path, your correspondent and Whiplash nobly take the path less trod. A lo, after twenty minutes, they've rediscovered the Eagles, catching them at an intersection between the paths! At first, the sudden sight of other hashers creates a rush of camaraderie and kinsmanship that we decide to just follow the flock--but alas, hubris. Being so close to the grace and speed of the FRBs, we are suddenly enticed with the prospect of sneaking ahead of them to win the race, thinking we can rely on the brainpower which is sometimes lacking amidst the earnestness of an FRB. Whiplash confidently declares the location of the party and the end of the race, and we dash a good kilometer or two simply heading straight there--showing those daft eagles what a couple of clever turkeys are capable of!

After a few clicks, we wonder if perhaps that's not the rally point, as your correspondent notes that there's a beach nearby, and Hashes always end at a beach. As in, always. So long as there's a beach within 10 km of your starting point, head to the goddamn beach. Some quick research revealed that Paul and Susan's house is not actually a beach, which increased the chances we were heading the wrong way, and are now a kilometer or more off path. At this point, we swear to never admit to the eagles that we thought we could outsmart them with such simple footwork.

Ah, but rescue! Here comes Semen Commander, heading towards a beach with her aDORable dogs, and we decide that hanging out with and following her furry canines is a stronger play than any sort of sensible route following. And turns out, we still ended up at the beach while there was beer left, which is the core measure of success for any good hash run.

The end of the run might have seemed dour and disappointing, as we huddled, cold and wet under a tent, rain assaulting the gray Kurihama beach. But what cold rain can overwhelm the warm and cheer of home brewed IPAs and Stouts in Oktoberfest cheer? And as Whore with No Name presented his glorious alchemical miracles, a beautiful window of blue in the sky opens up in the horizon, sliding towards the beach with an inviting eye.

The Hashers socialized, commisserated--Code Poo, Pasoconti and Cliffhanger briefly catching up with Bloody Nipples, Sweetie and Dragonfly holding court as always, while Santa Maria thought deep poetic thoughts. Understandably drawn by our cheer, some young (maybe?) Japanese lads came over to hit on everyone. First they tried to woo some of the ladies, then they proceeded to hit on all of the ladies, then they began to flirt with Cliffhanger (understandably, given that he'd removed his shirt earlier). At one point, they asked Bloody Nipples to dance as they held music. Sadly, Tapeworm and On the Side did not receive any sexual advances--but don't worry mates, there's always next hash. Their leader professed he was a Japanese rapper, and when asked his rapper name, identified himself as the not-yet-famous rapper "No Name." Your correspondent couldn't tell if Asset Stripper or Love Shag were impressed.

Then, we trundled (at least, for the fellow pulling the wagon, it's an appropriate verb) over to the after party. And to our delight, Susan and Paul and orchestrated a smorgasbord of an Oktoberfest! Between schnitzel and sausage, a fantastic time would be had. But what happens at Oktoberfest stays at Oktoberfest, and your correspondent is not about to violate the privilege and sanctity of Semen Commander's sausage party.

Cheers, and until next hash,

Bloody Nipples