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Run No:- |
1052 |
Date:- 19 May 2003 |
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Location:- |
Wat Yai (near Wat Sing Tong) |
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Hare:- |
Lynda 'No Meat' Sharpe |
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Scribe:- |
Alastair 'Beefeater' Atkinson |
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The sun was
setting and the last dying embers of light began to mark a change upon the
ground. The ground, once bright by the scorch of the mid-day heat, darkened
with the sky’s marked change. It was almost 5.15pm. People gathered in
elliptical shaped groups, or were they circles. People wore clothes that
somehow possessed the slightest signification of impending activity. The
clothes that these people wore possessed symbolic HHH iconography. More
iconography arrived. A person walked. A person ran. A frequently black BMW
car rolled gently on the dry dust of the plane outside the temple. People
walked about nervously. A person that walked kicked up dust; it rode up to
his knee – which was bandaged. He was bearded and went by the name of
Weeks; his beard was not strapped up, but hung free and loose. Dust nestled
in the greying hair of another hasher, a greying that only some fifty odd
years of hedonism can muster. A person ran and the dust rose higher from the
ground. The dust fountainheads rose up behind the runner. This dust ran into
the beard of the walking wounded Weeks. The runners dust mixed with the
walkers dust. It became one dust. It was brown, darkening with every minute,
but brown none the less. The dust from the car plumed like a peacock tail.
At once the dust was a sea, all covering and all engulfing. It engulfed the
runner. It engulfed the bearded walker. It engulfed the icons standing in a
circle. Minutes passed. 5.30pm. The dust did not lift itself toward the sky
anymore, it settled, covering people. People spoke. People listened. People
began to run. ‘On On’ was the cry from the people that ran. ‘On On’
were the words that came into the ears of the people that listened.
The runners at
the front ran hard. They scanned. Their eyes skittered. Scoured the floor
for some sign, some form of recognition was needed. At last some came. AKM
was at the front. The pain on his face showed even at this early point. Pain
from running and pain from easy checks merged to form one overall pain. He
also needed a dump. The runners kicked up the dust from the road as they
journeyed onward.
A back marker
Nid knew little of AKM’s turtle. She and Frisky just saw dust settling.
The dust was now rapidly darkening as the sun drowned behind the horizon.
Unable to keep its head above the trees, it resigned itself to die on this
day, so it could be reborn another day. The cycle of life on its cycle was
told to get off and run. As to was Joylide, who commandeered her own cycle.
The sun fell with a defined resignation. This indeed was how Knickerless
viewed her ultimate destiny as she crossed yet another bridge. “A
Bridge…Ha!” were her pre-emptive words. Fear showed itself in her eyes.
The bridge was narrow, a solitary piece of wood. A plank, rotten in the
middle from years of use and neglect, separated Knickerless from the
darkening water below. No one knew what lay in the depths of the water.
Knickerless didn’t want to find out. She made it onto all fours, winked to
all the runners that spied her from behind, and a transverse of the ravine
ensued. Signs came and were followed. Confusion came and the confused were
followed. The unconfused became the confused. The confused became the
abused. Then the abused once more became confused by circular loops. The
dust that was kicked up was not confused, nor did it want to settle. Yet it
did settle, it settled superbly, paying a definite testament to Newton.
Roads came and
went underneath the feet of the icon adorned journeymen. Mud, dirt, rock,
banana leaf, all passed underfoot. The skies were becoming a fire. A crimson
hue filtered upon people. The golden moments at the end of the day were
pierced once more by distant cries of “On On”. In a tribal dictum,
fellow icons returned the call. Some icons had more breath in their lungs
with which to respond. Some had little and their repost was nothing more
than spiritual meditation.
The heat of
the mid day sun was now being matched by the heat of the bodies that made
their way back to point A. Sweat filtered through the icon emblazoned t
shirts. Patched in moist heated sweat was how the Hares saw the pack finally
return. They took a heated interest in several of the icons as they
returned, breathing heavily and some completely fulfilled; others less so.
An exotic, and maybe even erotic, (sometimes the distinction between pain
and pleasure are not too great) fever was on the foreheads of the hashers.
This fever is one that can only be quenched in one way. Down Downs.
Another
ellipse formed. Graham ‘Graham Bywater’ Bywater played with the earth.
His feet moved back and forth kicking up the dust. He was a bull about to
charge. He charged. Steam flowed from his nostrils. Had someone taken his
last Carlsberg? He sounded a sound of a charging bull and another Carlsberg
was produced just before he could crumple the table with his bulk, his
force, his might, his rage. The redness in his cheeks reduced, quenched by
cool golden fluid; he was satisfied once more. His demeanour gave the
impression that he was at peace with the world. I looked at his foot; it was
still nervously, restlessly, stroking the earth. But he had a beaker of
golden fluid in his hand; I knew I was safe, for a few moments more at
least. People were called into the circle; people drank down the golden
fluid. The fines merged and the ambiance ensued to the 3ON. Fish from the
Klong arrived. Beer from Heaven arrived. Money was offered money was taken;
money went away in a leather wallet never to see the light of day again.
With the golden sun now nothing more than a distant memory AKM attempted to
hire a long tail to journey a merry few to Sathon (Frank’s bar being
championed as the next port of call). AKM appeared successful, the long tail
stopped, U turned, came back to AKM, and parked up for the night.
Negotiations closed. Nine, icon emblazoned, runners effortlessly entered
Frank’s car; Frank even had to move his seat forward a little. A combined
length of fifty four feet made it out of Wat Yai alive.
*****
On Monday 19 May we had 22 Harriers, 12 Harriettes, 0 new
boots and 1 visitor, total = 35. Returners
included Jim "Bimbo" Edens, Mike "Love Canal" Rust and
Clive "Rabid Bitch" Bryan. Congrats
to Faisel "Colonel Khadafi" Mookerdum on completing 200 runs and
Bo "Minus Ten" Eskesen for receiving his 100th run mug.
