December 2013 | By: The Scrutable Scribe
Maybe a Bit Too Medium'
Well, it’s official: two (TWO!) really good runs on the trot (runs on the trot??). In this case the trot was Pasar Ponggang, allegedly 13k north of the Ubud turnoff from the Sayan Road as the crow flies, but certainly not as the Terios trundles. The odometer clicked past the 13k peg more than a few tumbles, but who was counting? Nobody with a map that says it’s a straight road and because ‘why’ is a crooked letter anyway here in Bali, and you can’t make it straight. Besides, we saw the crow flying overhead and he said “faarrk”.
Labia, the hare, (you must remember, this is Hash Language otherwise “Labia the hare” isn’t going to make a shitload of sense) announced proudly, but somewhat confusingly, that there were three runs: a short at a third of an hour (huh?), a medium at an ‘our and a ahf’s walk, and a long at an ‘our and a ahf’s run’ (we were all with him on the last bit, at least). BUT, also that there was a high and dodgy suspension bridge and that if you were careless enough to fall off, not to come back and ask him to go and get you (huh? again). Never mind, we were off!
The first section of the run, after the initial asphalt dash, was a markedly “closed in” affair with cloistered paths obscured by overhanging vegetation on either side. This seemed to go on for quite a while even when the short and medium diverged (not that I noticed this as I was bullshitting to whoever would listen) and the path widened, we still weren’t out of the woods. We also seemed to be proceeding steadily uphill. Suddenly we were in wide open territory surrounded by golden mature rice, then just as suddenly in even wider open territory with views that stretched, astoundingly, all the way to the distant ocean and a huge adjacent mountain.
This was a jaw dropping development, I must say. Land a Goshen’ (I wonder what Land is doing when it is a Goshenin’). So what the heck were we looking at anyway? There were as many opinions as there were hashers: “It must be Candidasa, there’s an island”. “No, that’s a cloud, it’s Canggu”. It may as well have been Mt. Fuji for all I knew. It certainly looked like it; had we come that far? It wouldn’t have surprised me, I was knackered enough for it after a ridiculous Christmas day and night that I barely remember due to a very strong rum pudding, Your Honour.
I hadn’t seen nothin’ yet though: It wasn’t long before we were scrambling down the side of one of the most truly lush and beautiful (not to mention vertical) valleys this little House Harrier had ever laid eyes on. The views were astonishing in between gasps and fibrillations on the way up the opposite valley wall. Here I’m going to use a word that shits me to tears but I have no choice in this case; it was (grind) awesome. The whole affair was well above your average hash and thanks to hares Labia, Labia Minora and I believe Yo Yo, well done. The last valley bit was pretty strenuous for those of us feeling as if we’d been whacked in the back of the neck with a Yule Log (Yuk!), but worth every second of suffering.
There were some, though, on the long who had spent a good two hours of non-stop exertion and were far from amused about its length. I can well see this point of view not to mention sympathise with it. It has been many a time in these pages, hares and potential hares that I have championed the contention that there is no need for runs that are absurdly long, difficult and daunting. It is a very few of us indeed who appreciate being in a jungle or ravine at seven p.m. at night, or just unnecessarily and totally friggin’ exhausted; maybe two per cent, which is possibly the same two per cent that lie about wanking.
It was bigger than Ben Hur at the circle. The last run of the year attracted a heap of Romans. I couldn’t even find a glass initially and had to use all the stealth and strength I could muster to steal one from a six year-old, just kidding (he was four, but he was big for his age). It didn’t stay a horde too long though, they pretty much drank up and pissed off. By the time Grand Master Night Jar was shriving, reciting, crooning, vocalising and gesticulating wildly as he does (and thank Christ he does, for it is much fun) the crowd had diminished to a comfortable size. Enough for Jangle Balls to Dung Beatle his way through a tender ballad from the double “Brown Album”: “Brown turd coming in the dead of night. Take this broken wind as a sure sign” and then “Shove ‘em Up Yer Bum”, a stirring sing along tribute to the all-conquering power of suppositories.
For some reason we went onto bottles when there was still thirty-odd people (hashers are by nature odd) left and reason states that they would have easily knocked off another keg containing sixty glasses of piss. Somethin’ just ain’t right with that there cipherin’. Why assume they’re going home shortly if they’ve hung in that long and they’re still singing and telling jokes?
So that was it for another year folks. BHHH2 scribe wishes you a very Hashy Trashy New Year, if I may be so bold, and all the hairy breast for it. On that note and in those “spirits”,
On on.
