Baltimore Annapolis Hash House Harriers

The story of this trail begins for me in the car ride up to the hare’s lair, from which I will share two illustrative points:

First:

After picking up Armenia/El Paso transplant Drop and Tug from the Metro, wearing the kind of standard skimpy girl’s running apparel that I wore to my first trail at BAH3 before I knew what I was getting into, Bobbin’ 4 Buttplugs tossed a pair of rugby socks into the backseat and the following conversation transpired:

TnD: No thanks, I already have socks.

SB: BAH3 tends to set trail directly through every thorn bush in the state of Maryland.

B4B: When ECDC taught me how to hare, the first thing he told me was that haring was your opportunity to be evil.

TnD: [changes socks]

 

Second:

As we drew closer to the hare’s lair, the scene began to take on the same feel as the scenes in Lord of the Rings when the hobbits are approaching Mordor.

The rain started coming down hard right on cue at 3 pm, and the hare set off to re-mark his trail, thus turning a previously dead trail into a semi-live one, kind of like Dr. Frankenstein’s monster. Much like Dr. Frankenstein’s creation, this trail was confused, incoherent, and abusive.

The pack sat in the shelter of the garage for several minutes, and likely would have retired to the pool immediately if the threat of being struck by lightning hadn’t been so great. Instead, we set off on trail, confidently following flour to the end of the driveway, at which point we lost trail in what seemed like a permanent way. After 20 minutes or so of wandering aimlessly, someone spotted flour about a half mile up the road, and the pack was off to search for more flour in the leg-shredding underbrush. This went sort of okay, I guess, until we found ourselves back where we had started, re-running an earlier portion of the trail. Much confusion ensued, until we figured out that the hare had been dumb enough to lay the trail back over itself running no-no for a spell. I thought for a glorious moment that perhaps we were almost done, but instead the hare kept going in the opposite direction and tortured us for a few more miles of thorns, cornfields, and alarming the neighbors. Despite spending a significant amount of time running and yelling through people’s yards and crops, no hashers were shot, possibly because we could not be heard over the thunder of the storm ripping down branches and power lines all across the state.

We finally broke out of the last field and back to a check, which I was having a bitch of a time solving until Couff came up and pointed out that it was the same check the pack had passed earlier, and it looked like we were supposed to run no-no again back up to the house. Regardless of what the hare wanted us to do, we had had enough at this point, so we ran back to the house and drank beer in the pool, which probably now has an oil slick on top of it from all the poison ivy we were madly rubbing off of our bodies. At Your Cervix, Velvet Vulva, CP, Silence of the Clams, and Pump and Dump looked exceptionally relaxed due to their (clearly correct) decision to avoid all that running around in the woods shit.

Circle began, and multiple safety violations were handed out to the hare for nearly killing all of BAH3 in one fell swoop. For some reason, we were all treated to a view of Silence of the Clams’s junk, at which point we received conflicting stories from him and Pump and Dump regarding pool-related shrinkage or being a “grower not a shower”. The scribe removed her top for a safety violation so that she would not drive home reeking of beer, and was immediately introduced to the wide array of extraordinarily long hash songs that she had no idea existed and resigned herself to the fact that she will probably get a safety violation every week for the rest of time from a pack ever hopeful that she will always forget to pack an extra shirt. Circle went on for a long time and was a lot of fun, but I just remember the naked parts. Sorry, limited number of brain cells, had to prioritize.

Then we went back to drinking beer around the pool and eating a bunch of rabbit food. I mean, gluten-free vegetarian cuisine. I guess the one good thing I can say about this trail is that nobody died (at least that we know of).

Despite the trauma of Extra Creamy’s trail, we’re teeing up to do it yet again this afternoon up in Patapsco. See you wankers soon.

 

On on

Something Black