BFM #39
Posted on November 18, 2004
18 November 2004: For many weeks, this club has longed for the hilly hinterland of Manayunk, far away from aggressive traffic and occasionally troublesome police. Manayunk, familiar to marathoners, bike racers and other overachievers as some of the most challenging terrain within city limits, where the paved streets are shiggy just by being as steep as the wrong side of the Matterhorn. Manayunk, where a car in neutral gear will roll into the next ZIP code on its own. Manayunk, home to T. Hogan’s Pub, and for a night, our kennel of urbanized boozehounds. GFM LF Winkie did his research and found us not only a place that had pitcher service, but a pitcher and pint special. Way to go, chief!
As our crowd assembled for the first time far away from William Penn’s gaze atop City Hall and dug into pre-hash pints and pitchers, many flashlights and head-mounted miner’s lamps were to be seen tested for fit and brightness. Seems that notorious OAC Bastard Child’s notice about poor lighting and convenient proximity to Fairmount Park was well heeded. It was clear that he was just aching to draw the short straw and lead us all on a merry slide through the dark in the sort of mud and bramble that would give a seasoned Ranger headaches, but tonight’s lottery went to Cause for Blindness, who had hared for Philly Hash (#1402?) only the weekend before.
Before Cause could dash out the door, Rash asked me if I happened to have any trail flour on me that night. I then wondered what she did with the ten pounds I gave her last week. (Perhaps she baked a very large orange cake.) I gave her six pounds of bright red flour with reflective additive, and Cause was on her way through another neighborhood yet to be conquered by the Mob. Winkie was in a generous mood and decided to give Cause a full ten (actual sixty-second) minutes to lay trail. Of course, nobody kept time, and we all headed out when our glasses were empty.
Out the door we went. (One can only imagine how quiet it was in the pub after our departure.) Not three blocks away, the pack ground to a halt at a check and fanned out across the intersection, heads and flashlights held low, searching for the red mark or at least its green glimmer in the lamps. At this point, Winke and Rash brought it to my attention that red was a poor choice of colorant for an evening hash on terrain littered with fallen leaves. Perennial greyhound Tinkerbell caught some trail, and we were off again, heading uphill, huffing and puffing like a bunch of steam locomotives with perforated piston rings. At last we came to a plateau and another check, and the pack split, half going downhill. The other half, led by Full Moon’s Strap-On, went up a staircase a block long and sixty feet high, and fanned out yet again in search of spoor. The thinkers in the hunt noted that the trail was paradoxically leading uphill and away from the pub, despite the great distance and change in altitude from our A. The rest of us just ran into the night, following the trail, our noses, or just plain old intuition.
The pack fragmented further and regrouped about twenty minutes later, led by Bastard Child. We went back pretty much the way we came, back down the helluva staircase and through more side streets, housing units with more staircases built through them, and finally back onto Ridge Avenue and what must have been the on-in. Waiting for us was our crafty bunny, wearing a smile wide enough to park a Cooper in. Yet another successful hare for her.
The Mob went on-in and were later joined by autohashers Tastes Like Chicken, Wolfman Jackoff, Lunar Digit, Skin Fiddle, Sly Fox and (much later) Scooby Snatch. As Wolfman called the circle and downed in the first in (Tink, of course) and last in (Beer Sucks), the floor was opened to accusations. Lake Flaccid and Oral Offender were accused of some sort of overt horseplay and/or fraternizing, and I was accused of providing nearly invisible trail flour. Other accusations may have been made, but as the night wore on and the pints added up, they were lost to history.
S*!tty trail, s*!tty apres, the Mob is pushing forty. We’re still a bunch of college kids just old enough to buy beer, and that’s how we’ll always be.
Your humble vice-vice-scribe,
–
Pound it In
ANNOUNCEMENTS:
I’m haring for Full Moon’s 77th on November 26 at Drinker’s (Market Street between Front and Second). On-trail beer check with bottles that would be called “domestics” in Munich, crappy door prizes for visitors, boots and overachievers, and a trail that covers some of Philly’s most historic districts and two ZIP codes. Be there or be square!
Mobsters LF Winkie and Rash are the hares du jour for Philly Hash’s 1406th run on December 11, location TBA. Yes, this is the same day as Reading’s Santa F*!ks the Hash. Decisions, decisions…
The BFM holiday party is still on December 18 and still at McGillin’s. Rash still wants you to pay up.
Bastard Child adds:
For those looking to run off the 12lbs of turkey you will eat on Thanksgiving and be an over-achieving ass clown, Pretzel City Sports will be organizing The Dirty Bird 8.88 mile trail r*ce in French Creek State Park on Sunday November 28th @ 10am. Contact Bastard Child (saltfly@comcast.net) or Rash if you are interested. Beer may be provided afterward. http://www.pretzelcitysports.com.futuresite.register.com/_wsn/page8.html
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