Despite the uncertainty in the skies, 25 of us made it to the Algonkian Parkway and Spurt's home, where he and Lezley had spent the early afternoon setting trail with flour, blue flour, chalk and an occasional squirt of spray paint in case everything else melted or washed away. The Mufti reminded us that there will be a big ole party (plus some irritating exercise-y stuff) at Byte Me! and Eat It Raw's home at 11:00am on New Year's Day. See you there!
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| Our heroic hares answer the eternal question, "Where's the second check?" |
But first... Spurt pointed to a big floury circle on his driveway, and we're off... in three different directions... which eventually resolved themselves to the correct one. The walkers wandered pathwards, well-bundled, while the runners slipped and skidded down the slick pavement. Spurt and Lezley sent them on a compact circle that didn't take much time but required the resolution to slop through woods full of both obvious and carefully-camouflaged puddles and rivulets and minor ponds flooded with ice water. So everyone made it back in less than an hour, but with sneakers full of slush and semi-frozen toes.
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| You can see how avoiding the water hazard might be a skosh tricky. |
Good thing there was a big pot of turkey chili on the stovetop, waiting for hungry hashers to dish up and decorate with cheese and sour cream and corn bread and salad and vegetable lasagna. Yum! There was also good beer in cans -- if someone gets up the nerve to add a comment (just click the "[No] Comments" link below, type away in the box that appears, then choose "Anonymous" from the 'Post As' drop-down menu, and hit "Publish"), you can confirm this and specify the type. Given my respiratory distress, I'm sticking with water for now.
The magnificent Mufti called the roll, with three hearty cheers for head chef Susan. No newcomers today; no significant injuries; plenty of witty repartee. Photos are available for those who like that sort of thing.
Forgot to mention that before the runners set off, Air Horn was recalling that the last time he ran from Spurt's house, someone had knocked him down on a paved downhill stretch, and landed on top of him. His memory of the event was hazy, but he estimated his attacker was a Caucasian male, about 50 years of age, six feet or a bit more, possibly mustached and with a Harley Davidson logo somewhere on his person. No vengeance seemed to have been wreaked on trail, though. Good thing -- we all know where that sort of thing can lead.
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