GFH3 Run #1,791; 17 January 2015

Several people commented that this year's Boom Boom Birthday Hash was not nearly as unpleasantly cold as it has been since the tradition began back in 2011, when she was just 99 years young.  Temps being well above freezing, Big Balls on Deck had to include the warning, in his brief, that some of the mud was thawed, and therefore treacherous in different ways than in the still-frozen sections.  He also had to warn about watching out for arrows, in order to ensure avoidance of un-permissioned private property, and offered a special graffiti treat!

While 14 walkers hung back for special instructions, 30 runners got themselves down the hill to the first check, and a whole bunch of them checked to the right while the rest hung around waiting.  Eventually, everyone charged off to the left and found their first arrow, pointing them downhill.  Was it Cock in the Crease who complained that starting with a downhill just meant he'd have to climb back up later in the run?  Reassurances that this was an all-downhill trail did not seem to help.

Away we go.

Then there was some confusion in the middle of the trail.  Remember the graffiti treat?  Phoenix Rising, working backwards and early, found it before the others, and found a law enforcement officer on the site.  The L.E.O. informed him he was trespassing, and after a bit of reasoned discourse, with PhR making some salient points, the L.E.O. offered to write PhR a citation.  They both agreed that would not be nearly as much fun as finding a different trail -- which PhR did, eventually bumping up against the main pack and recommending a judicious detour.  So Sean and Not-Jennifer (sorry!) were the only two to run the true trail, as they'd gotten far enough behind not to witness the hash careering off onto false trail, and the L.E.O. was gone by the time they arrived at graffiti central.  Nipple Knocker has promised a photo of the graffiti (he helped BBoD and Paddle My Candee Ass to set).  When he sends it, I'll post it.

No known explanation for any of this.

So eventually everyone made it back to the On In, where Norm was grilling bratwurst, PMCA had finished making gravy, and Jill had filled every horizontal surface in the house with food.  We're talkin' pork, we're talkin' chicken, we are talking about several potato salads and a crock pot full of mulled wine and cheesy casserole and scalloped potatoes and something like chili.  We are talking, ladies and gentlemen, about enough food to feed 90, and sufficient beverages for 150.  (In addition to the 48 hashers, there were about 10-15 friends and family, so while doggy bags were available, there were significant inroads made.)  At last report, no one had attempted the bottle of Wisconsin cranberry wine.

The Associate Mufti, or Mufti Pro-Tem, played his M.C. role to the hilt, lauding Jill and her myriad helpers for the feast, and demanding an on-key rendition of the happy birthday song.  He may actually have blown a kiss to the birthday girl, who looked spry and happy despite all the shouting strangers banging about around her.  "I hope they're not drunk," she acknowledged at one point, but expressed delight at seeing, and hearing, the young folk enjoying themselves.

Here's to 103 more!

And enjoy themselves they did, as shown here.  Thanks to PMCA for additional photos.

GFH3 Run #1,753; 21 May 2014

Zipperhead runs again!  Valiant does not, though the knee went well and looks fantastic (see photo here).  Phoenix Rising also eschewed running in favor of resting his newly-refurbished eyes.  Robin, the hip saga continuing, nonetheless joined Valiant and five other walkers for a tree tour of South Reston.  A complete accounting of the various body parts and their aches and surgeries would take us all week, so there it rests (as does Suck, Squeeze, Bang's foot in its orthopedic boot).

What with work and traffic and light conditions, Wednesdays can make a tough host.  With no one signed up as of Tuesday afternoon, I thought the Buffalo Wing Factory in Reston, where Nipples and Bite Me hosted last July, would make a good On In this week.  Too bad I know so little of the plentiful local trails!  With a few tips from Chip Off the Old Dick and the help of Google's map pedometer, I spent Tuesday evening plotting a tidy little course of about four miles, as you can see here.  So on Wednesday, 'hosting' was just a matter of warning the good people at the Factory and Pub to expect us, and strolling through the woods with a bag of flour and a few sticks of chalk.  Setting, at a dawdle, took 3.5 hours.  And then the heavens sundered, and the storm thundered down.

HEROES!!

Thankfully, Blow in the Hole had already volunteered to leave early and freshen up any marks that got washed away by the deluge, and when Paddle My Candee Ass and Big Balls on Deck elected to join her, we had sufficient reading glasses and map-reading skills to feel confident of success.  Another eleven runners and six walkers having gathered by 7:05, we had a tidy little hash ready to take on the overcast evening.

Sadly, only our valiant band of three completed the true trail.  Apparently the not-early contingent took so many false trails that most of them turned back at the 7-11, leaving Pickled Peter, Air Horn and Radar to carry on.  By the water stop, those three had over four miles on the GPSes and at least two more to go, and it was 8:00 and darkening fast.  No one remembers what happened next.

TOO DARK!!

But soon everyone (except BitH, PMCA and BBoD) was tucked up cozily at the Wing Pub, and snacking on pizza and wings and salads and IPAs with gusto.  Do we all agree that the waitstaff there handles our group admirably?  They seem completely unfazed by 17 separate checks for 22 people (reservation for 18 to 30) arriving at irregular intervals over the course of 45 minutes.  Bravo, Wing Factory! and brava, Nipples, for introducing us to this fine emporium.

Mufti started his roll, sotto voce, and sometime after calling PMCA but before BBoD and BitH, those wanderers arrived, with 6.5 miles on the GPS and some dark-ish patches on the t-shirts.  PP made it to 333 (the triple 3s!); the Mufti advised he play the lottery.  The Jazz Swinger admitted that she wouldn't even have been here if rehearsal hadn't been cancelled.  Radar called for volunteers to assist him as he hosts next week, and expressed hope that the pool would be up to 80 degrees, from its current, and disappointing, 78.  Nipples offered to take Gale's jacket home to her, or at least drop it off in the mailbox.  Everyone (I really hope) paid their separate checks, and went their separate ways.

FULL PINTS OF BEER!!

Thanks to BitH for the co-haring and for photos of two bucks on trail, which you can see via the photo link in paragraph one.

GFH3 Run #1,745; 29 March 2014

“Perfect Hash weather,” the Mufti congratulated hares and hosts before the brief began.  Perfect, indeed – or at least it may have been in San Diego, maybe, or one of those Mediterranean islands like Capri.  Perhaps Phuket, in Thailand, is experiencing an idyllic spring, but in Oakton this afternoon, we had a firm, steady rain and not quite enough Fahrenheits to make it feel friendly.  On the plus side, these conditions weed out the fair-weather hashers, leaving us with a close-knit, élite group of 26 to brave the elements in our various ways.

Big Balls on Deck briefed the team, explaining that the rain had probably washed away most of the Xs and many of the Ons, so, y’know, good luck.  He also advised that credit for any good parts of the trail go to Paddle My Candee Ass and Mini Schlonga, while complaints regarding less-good parts be directed to him.  It’s easier to be gracious like that when you’re 6’5”, don’t you think?

Haaashing in the rain; I'm haaashing in the rain; what a glooooorious feeeling
[jazz hands, everybody!] I'M HAAAAAPPY AGAIN!

So ten runners slid down the wet clay hillside to the trail, while 11 walkers split up into at least four contingents.  One of those contingents was BC3, who made it as far as the car, which she then drove to Target, claiming later that she had the most challenging route of the day.  The runners will take leave to disagree; their four-mile true trail included plenty of mud and at least one stream that hadn’t been there in the morning.  Dances with Bulls went in mid-way up the calf; rumor has it that Air Horn wound up practically swimming the thing.  They were further slowed down by scores of trees that were generating fluffy white foam at their bases, which looked confusingly like flour – although the actual flour was mostly shades of yellow-brown by the time the hashers found it.  Nonetheless, not much more than an hour after the brief, the Davis deck was thick with successful and now semi-dressed hashers changing into dry things.

So happy he did not have to hash on Sunday, when today's rain ceded to giant chunks of frozen slush.

Once re-dressed, they headed indoors to where Jill, Norm and PMCA had ensured several groaning boards of pulled pork, beans, chicken slices, four salads? or five?, and a multi-veggie casserole, plus chips and dips and cheese on every surface and brownies somewhere.  Many, many bottles and one Black Box of wine and a beer selection that included a growler and Warrenton’s finest Bust Head English Pale Ale enabled everyone to wash down as much food as they could stuff into themselves.

Mufti announced his own 1,497^th run, and his dear wife’s 497^th.  Coincidence?  Hmmm...  But if he stays home for the next 20 years, she can catch him up.  Boom Boom reached five, Phoenix Rising 700, and Irene the double-6s (600 to the Number of the Beast!).  Dave, who volunteered a portion of his lawn for Drill Me Fill Me’s trail last week, chose this as his first hash (99 to the cup!) and he and his brand-new sneakers got thoroughly baptized.

After threatening "another boring Mufti run" Our F.L. helped host this one instead by bringing dessert around the room.

For a visual lesson in stream-jumping form, check out the photographs here.  (That first one, of BBoD – he is making a funny face on purpose.  Never mind why.)  For a sunshiny beautiful hash, keep your fingers crossed and your aura shiny, and join us at Valiant’s next week.

GFH3 Run #1,735; 18 January 2014

Worth celebrating, yes?

Brisk, bright, breezy, to the point of being downright freezing, and nonetheless a near-record crowd of almost 50 hashers, plus a whole bunch of friends and family members, showed up in Oakton for Irene/Mimi/Boom Boom’s 102^nd birthday, and the Hash’s 1,735^th run.  This is the third or fourth year of this annual happy birthday tradition, and may it continue for decades to come.

Big Balls on Deck and Paddle My Candee Ass set a 4.7 mile true trail for Grandma’s big day, much of it on the inter-county connector trail that runs right along Jill and Norm’s back yard.  Handy!  BBoD warned the walkers that the dirt paths by the streams were pretty slick (clay/mud/something-not-quite-ice) and recommended the gravel paths in preference.  An officer and a gentleman, he’d marked the quarter-miles on one path so walkers could choose a distance for an out-and-back walk.  Handy!  Hardly anyone complained much about the cold, and the farthest I heard anyone mention running was a bit over six miles.  That said, the pack did get awfully strung out, with Mini Schlonga and Jeffy Lube finishing way, way before Chip Off the Old Dick, Phoenix Rising and Don.

Study the form, future FRB-ers.

There was relatively little trail-talk at the On In, where folks were busy stuffing themselves with the traditional Mimi family German buffet of wursts, sauerkraut, potatoes in many styles and more, all washed down with glugwein, other weins, Double D Double IPA (Air Horn’s pick), bourbon and more.  Then there were all the little Germanic bon-bons (gut guts?) for people unable to wait for cake.

Cake, however, had to wait for Mufti, and he had the long roll to get through.  Flowerkraut celebrated her own anniversary of 700 runs (“Get a life,” the Mufti advised, from the vantage point of 1,492 runs) and did a bit of caroling in her native German, waving a sausage jauntily.  Rick returned to us from the west coast in time to hit 94 runs or thereabouts.  In his eagerness to reach 100, he has recently taken a job in the DC area, accepting a 3,000-mile commuter marriage as the price one pays to make a GFH3 nickname possible.

This 'man' has a nickname, and who wouldn't want to be like him?

And then... and THEN... BBoD slid the big ol’ cake in front of Mimi, with the ‘102’ candles blazing, and the Hash chorale rendered a passable version of ‘Happy Birthday.’  (“Sing it nicely,” the Oral Advocate roared as the cake settled into position.)  Mimi blew out her candles, and everyone cheered and cheered.  The Mufti presented her with a Hash nickname, Boom Boom (that’s her nickname already!  And she’ll tell you you’re naughty if you call her that.  Must get backstory.), and a Mufti Appreciation Day GFH3 t-shirt (“Don’t wear it in public,” the Oral Advocate muttered).  More cheering.  Hip hip on ons.  Etc.  And CAKE!

What to get for the woman who has everything, including
great grandchildren and 102 birthdays?
A portrait of yourself, on technical fiber, of course!

Questions remain, of course.  Who said, “Get your hands off me,” to her beloved, and why?  When will Suck Squeeze Bang run again?  How slow will she be by then?  Why was Flowerkraut groping at Jeffy Lube’s chest?  Who were all those Bavarians, jaunty red feathers in their jaunty green caps?  And the lovely young ladies with blonde braids?  Why was this cake not soaked in hooch, like the amaretto one BBoD brought for PMCA’s birthday in December?  Who puts out a bottle of bourbon at a Hash?  What are we going to name Rick, and then Lori, and SSB, who is rapidly approaching 300 though never rapidly enough for her?

Feel free to look over the photos whilst pondering these mysteries.  Thanks to Mini S. and SSB for camera work.

We all love you, Mimi.  Thanks for putting up with us.

GFH3 Run #1,712; 21 August 2013

Gracious, what a lot of soggy corn chips remain after the hash has departed...

So, it was hash hero time again, and once more unto the breach, dear friends.  The Veggie Wedgie (what a dumb name) threw open the door of her gracious McLean home (and promptly started shrieking, "Bugs!  Bugs!  Shut the door!"), welcoming 29 hashers on an overcast evening that wasn't quite as hot 'n' humid as feared.  The call for volunteers yielded three:  let us now praise our favorite hashers.

The brave, smart, strong, sensitive, witty, beautiful, noble, chic, fascinating and in-all-ways wonderful Paddle My Candee Ass arrived from distant lands (Warrenton) at 7:45am to help set, prepare food, lug furniture and beer around, and accidentally do all the cooking and most of the hostessing, before leaving about 14 hours later.  The thank-you note is in the mail; it ought to be a medal.

Chip Off the Old Dick, whose hash heroics are already legend, arrived about 3pm (fresh from Phoenix Rising's retirement lunch, but a smidge confused on how this retirement thing works if he's still going to be, well, working), and headed up the street to navigate the entire trail as insurance that VW hadn't messed it up.  Along the way, he came upon six teenagers commencing some sort of carnal activity in the woods -- when was the last time that happened?  And when he got back to the future on-in, he declined to shower and change because, gods and nature love him, he was happy to sweep up after the pack.  So he just shotgunned about three quarts of ice water and greeted the slowly-gathering hash.

HEROES!!  Photo taken after PMCA got all scratched and hot and dirty setting trail, and before she got all scratched and hot and dirty making dinner.

The Mufti, may his name be praised forevermore, arrived about 6:30pm with the much-needed ice for the future cold beverages.  Thank you!  And shortly after him, the rest of the crew made their various ways to the driveway, and with the clouds lowering, blotting out the setting sun and rising full moon on an evening when the trail warranted as much light as possible, we kept the brief brief and kicked everyone out onto the street.

The walkers got a one-mile turkey or as-long-as-you-like eagle trail, and a few actually opted to eagle it a bit.  Eagling also offered more off-pavement walking, so it's a lovely choice.  Having finally put enough "T" and "E" marks on that sidewalk that they actually found the split, I shall now retire that trail.  The runners' trail, however...

It was a thing of beauty, I'm assured, to the 'true hasher' (Phoenix Rising is, apparently, a 'true hasher').  For the 'regular runners,' who just want to get out and back as easily as possible, it was somewhat uglier.  Radar came down somewhere in the middle:  "It's a great Saturday-afternoon trail."  Meeee-OWW!  Rrocks Starr thought it so good I should set it again, sometime when the hashers can actually see it.

I did mention in the brief that there was a half-mile stretch of bushwacky/shiggy-ish stuff that might feel a whole lot longer.  And provided a water/beer/Mike's/DCoke stop, and provided a sweeper who knew where he was going and what everyone should be doing.  So there.  Nonetheless, when called on for a merciful mission, I zoomed out and collected a handful (bit more than a Honda-ful, but not quite a someone-will-have-to-sit-on-Mike's-lap-and-don't-pretend-you'd-mind-that size load) of hashers who'd gotten fed up.

Speaking of fed up, what with water-stop providing and mercy-missioning, I abandoned PMCA with two large pots of boiling water and a mess of corn, potatoes, sausage and shrimp to turn into dinner in a strange kitchen.  (If she ever came over to make a nice supper for me, my kitchen would not be strange to her.)  Anyway, all the walkers and two runners returned before I did, demanding wine and chips, and PMCA coped so admirably she should be knighted or something.  I did make sure she had a glass of bubbly, and I don't mean Perrier water, before I took off.  And I think that helped.

Her shrimp boil got highest praise, most of the runners covered true trail, the cookies were warm from the oven, and the beer held out, if only barely.  The generous hashers even showed willing to sit outside in a light drizzle rather than plonk their shiggy-ish selves down on my cream-colored couch.  So all in all, I'm claiming a success, and extra points if first-timer Karen (99 to the etc.) actually shows up again like she said she will.

What with one thing and another, I had limited time for photography.  However, there are a few photos; you can click here to look at the pix.

Doggy bags and everything!

A million thanks to the Mufti for ice and to INDY for starting a discrete clean-up while several of us were still drinking under an umbrella, a hundred million to COtOD, and a gazillion magillion jillion to PMCA.

GFH3 Run #1,693; 20 April 2013

About 35 people gathered at Spurt's in Sterling, amidst sunshine, blue skies, colorful flowers in spring bloom and happy birds trilling their delight.  Strac showed off his knee scar some more, Easy Strider peddled syrup from a saddle bag, and Maggy and Peanut and Cammy and Abby and Kylie bumped noses and chatted a bit.  The group divided up into a dozen or so walkers and four runners.  So who were all those other people, who started out on the runners' trail but wound up back at Spurt's long before the real runners did, without having experienced at least two spider checks, a double-back-check, and a short sprint through a back yard?  You may characterize them however you wish, assuming there are no impressionable children around when you're doing your characterizing.

Yes, it's true -- Spurt, Paddle My Candee Ass and Cockpit Ejeculator committed hours of their day, their considerable brainpower, and a few sacks of flour to creating a devious and inspiring trail, and two-thirds of the pack was too confused, sleepy, ungrateful or some combination thereof actually to follow it.  The discipline in this group is whatever the opposite of inspiring is.

Yes, that's a check.  Spurt is famous for this sort of thing.

The semi-runners also missed out on a small but highly entertaining playground.  I wonder what the photos show about that...

At least they didn't miss the On In, which was chock-a-block with excitement.  There was lasagna with rolls and salad, and wine in a black box, and beer and stuff.  And there was the Mufti calling the roll, and Byte Me carrying out a darned fancy chocolate cake, with a big fat candle, in celebration of Dave's birthday, and a bonus cake that looked like flan or cheesecake or something (too busy hoovering up the chocolate shavings to get a definite read on that), and a terrifying caterwaul that passed for singing, and a birthday boy who doesn't seem to have caught on quite perfectly to the speech-giving protocol (there are no rules), and there was Jess there for her first run, and finally there was the Mufti, double-checking his lists only to discover... (whispering) he made a mistake.

Turns out it was Joyce's 100th run, and the fez came out, and the nicknames considered were, almost without exception, absolutely stupid as could be (Cums with Novocaine?  Really?).  But the final choice was pretty entertaining:  Beef Strokemoff.  That's the kind of thanks you can expect for feeding this group home-cooked gourmet extravaganzas.

YAAAAAAAYYYYYY!!!!!

So Beef S. got her purple t-shirt, poignantly accepted the cup from her own daughter, took one mouthful of the beer-water-wine mix within, and, in tribute to her profession, rinsed briefly and spit the swill over the side of the deck.  Her heartfelt tribute to the joys (?!?) of hashing kept getting interrupted by cheers and shouting, so she quite reasonably gave up.  Probably wishes she'd tried that giving-up thing before she got a purple t-shirt that invites the world to think of her as "Beef Strokemoff."

I did not get a photo of the spitting, but most of the other stuff described is pictured here.

GFH3 Run #1,680; 19 Jan 2013

Happy Birthday, Irene/Mimi/Boom-Boom!

Blue skies and sunshine smiled on Oakton in celebration of Irene's 101st birthday.  You read that right:  101 years old.  Cockpit Ejeculator and Paddle My Candee Ass somehow felt that a hash was the best way to celebrate Grandmother's big day, but didn't want to haul everyone out to Warrenton, so Jill and Norm kindly threw open their doors for about 40 of us.  The runners spent 70 or 80 minutes traversing five miles of Oakton's woodsy trails, and our clever hares threw in a few checks toward the end that brought a strung-out pack back together again, with the FRBs cheerfully pounding back down a nice bit of hill on Miller Heights.  Back into the woods, runners!  And along the streambed of Difficult Run...  I sincerely believe that Spurt tried to check a map on some sort of E.D. (electronic device, for heaven's sake).  There are no rules, but there is such a thing as using your own wit, surely.

The walkers meandered the trails for a bit less than an hour, enjoying gorgeous weather and charming conversation.  So not a lot new there, bar Drill Me Fill Me's handsome white cap.

Everyone made it safely across the run, thankful for the vigilance of fellow hashers.

Back at the house, there was a Festgelage of bratwurst, roasted meats of many kinds, sauerkraut, potato salads, varied mustards and more, more, more.  There are some distinct advantages to having your hash crash a birthday party.  Plenty of beer (St. Pauli Girl, etc.), the ever-popular Black Box wine, a great pot of glugwein of some type, and bottle on bottle of German wine helped wash it all down.  There were also platters of cookies, which was just silly given two gigantic birthday cakes.  However.

Our Mufti having fled to tropical climes with BC3 to celebrate their anniversary (hey!  they celebrated that two weeks ago.  There were flowers, cheers and a kiss.  What is this vacation nonsense?), the Associate Mufti presided with vigor and flair over the roll.  He noted a special occasion with Chugger's birthday, which Chugger claims is his 69th.  One takes leave to doubt.  The hash graciously put forth their usual lousy effort in the traditional birthday chorale, and cheered the subsequent speech with vim.  Oral Advocate also took note of Hasher Flasher's 299th run and threatened the usual exec. comm. session.

Then we got to the good stuff.  With rare grace and elan, the Oral Advocate wished Irene a happy, happy 101st birthday and fourth hash run.  He further advocated for a reasonably in-tune and on-tempo rendition of Happy Birthday, and more or less got it.  The cakes came out, the candles blazed, the birthday girl accepted her cheers with a great string of carnations around her neck.  What a wonderful, charming and patient person.  Here's to 101 more.

The executive committee meeting was about par.  Oral Advocate made many comparisons to constitution-drafting and congressional-dealmaking; various elements debated raunchy vs. nice; the 'inspirations' and votes flew, and in the end I believe some kind of decision happened.  I don't know for sure, as I wandered off to chat with Irene instead.  Much more rewarding.  [UPDATE:  Hasher Flasher was renamed Pink Parts, but upon learning what those are, chose to become Bionic Babe instead.]

Executive Committee members must be hand-fed as they focus on their critical task.

Incidentally, Spurt carefully clipped a recent Washington Post Health & Science article headlined:  "Ancients toasted the dawn of civilization with beer bashes."  Having missed the word 'civilization,' he apparently believes this may be relevant in some wise to hashing.  You can decide for yourself by reading the piece here.

And if you'd like to see some photos of today's hash, try here.