SFH3 Run #1841: No Hablo Ingles Trail
|:||Noe Valley Tennis Courts|
|:||Just Doesn't Get It|
|:||Do Her Well|
It was a wonderfully warm night, the street bustling with people and packed with cars in every direction. A massive stork flew overhead and landed on a building, seeming almost as large as Just Doesn’t Get It. My driver pulled up to a pack of almost twenty people milling around outside the bar, a full half hour before the stated r*n time. I headed inside to pay Muff Daddy, receiving a piece of string to tie around my wrist.
As soon as the clock struck 6, Cockagami and Cockamole gathered the group together, Cockagami ruthlessly sniffing out a pair of new shoes from the crowd. A wise decision, as our trail would have left even the newest of footwear undetectable from the masses. After punishing the offender, Cockamole demanded to know the number of the r*n from the crowd. After receiving incorrect answers from not one, not two, but at least three hashers, she pronounced the correct r*n number to be 1871, though 69 would have been an acceptable alternative answer. With that, the pack was off, dashing down the street. The walkers ambled along, enjoying the clear night. A cow nonchalantly munched on grass at the side of the road, observing the hashers stream by in an almost endless mass.
John Handcock and I sped down one turn, only to discover that a backcheck lay before us. He motioned me over to the side, and we hid in the bushes, only to see the majority of the pack was not fooled by our shenanigans. So we were off, back up the hill to the main road, Just Tony remarking about how much he loved mounting all the climbs. The trail again turned off to the right, with another backcheck, and again John Handcock and I tried to trick the pack, but once again not even Pepe Le Poop was taken in.
The group continued on to reach the first check, but instead of attempting to solve it The Perfect Woman directed the group into a lovely song about how a woman might attempt to please her man. The pack waited until everyone had regrouped, then continued on, voluntarily obeying the backchecks and other directions that had been laid for them by their hare. A police van rolled by, slowly passing the runners and walkers, young men holding their rifles by their sides as they watched the melee with grins.
Finally, we delighted in seeing the first beer check at the corner of the road. Just Michael and Just Daniel, enjoying their virgin experience, sipped on the beer from Uganda Brewing Company with glee. Douchicorn, unused to such an early beer check, nearly crushed his balls with the bottle in his excitement, but one refreshing gulp was well worth it. Just Pearl flew overhead in the falling light, and I pointed out Fuck Norris the beautiful sight with a tear in my eye. She nodded and escaped to get another beer before it could get any more awkward.
Trail betrayed us once more, already at least eight kilometers in and sloping upwards relentlessly. We finally found ourselves surrounded by people once again, small children waving and running beside us briefly. The light was falling into near complete darkness, only the headlights of the cars passing us illuminated the streets. I Cunt Hear You pulled out his phone, but Just Renata slapped it away from him for ‘ruining the ambiance.’
Just when the pack was about to despair, and even Ru Ru Rimmin was begging for a break, the beer van appeared for the second beer check. Despite the late hour, and Primal Vagina asking me if I was okay with great concern, I was grinning harder than ever, enjoying the fine people and the warmth of dusk mixing with the arriving coolness of the night. Several people apologized to me for how long the trail was, a nice change from the comments about trails I usually hear.
Finally we made our way back to the bar, where Cockagami and Cockamole ran circle with an iron fist. Rent Whore pushed her virgin to the front to be recognized, while Just Caroline decided to make herself cum. Big Cock Chains and Just Joel, found to be talking too much, were hushed into submission with the application of beer. Finally, the RAs decided to give Six Tits A Week a hash birthday gift in the version of the hash shit—in the case, the hash shit was pouring all remaining down downs on Six Tits A Week. “The best present I’ve ever gotten,” he said of the occasion with a tear in his eye.
Following circle, I was directed to the line of food where I received in exchange for my wrist band a boxed hot dinner consisting of rice, meat, and greens, which in addition to the fresh pineapple available immediately after the run, made my stomach sigh in contentment. Being driven home in the darkness, exhausted and elated, I found myself very glad to have made my way to the hash.
**Apologies to the Kampala Hash House Harriers (should any of you ever read this) for using my time with you guys as my basis for the SFH3 hash trash, making it a fusion of my experiences and those reported back to me regarding the hometown shitshow-- though I have to say this is likely the most accurate trash I have ever written. Thanks for the experience, and a special thanks to Queenie for making sure I got the r*n info to make my way there!**