Bali Hash House Harriers 2

A Bridge (in one way or another) Too Far

Last week’s run at Cau Belayu which is near Sangeh Monkey Forest, which is up the road from Blakiuh which itself is in the middle of somewhere often referred to as “nowhere” reminded me very much of a James Brown song called “Sex Machine”. This is so for several reasons which I will patiently explain if you would please calm down and stop yelling “what is this lunatic talking about now?” Don’t think I didn’t hear you. Ahem, in the live show execution of this “classic” example of frantic early nineteen seventies funk and soul (in fact on the album version of “Sex Machine” imaginatively titled “Sex Machine”, there is an 11 minute version of the masterpiece itself) a wailing, sweating, pleading, eye rolling, raving, mouth frothing and to all intents and purposes epileptic protagonist and proponent (which would be Jimmy B.) repeatedly entreats his audience and followers to “get up, get up, get on down, get on down, stay on the scene, stay on the scene”). Somewhere in about the middle of affairs the band kicks it up a key and a high pitched Mr. Brown shrilly and breathlessly exclaims (many more times than than once) “I’m just tryin’ to find the bridge” (the middle eight bars of the song to we “musos” and funksters). Yep, if you were on last week’s run, that just about neatly sums it up. So does J.B.’s accompanying stagecraft of insistent urgent up and down hip, pelvic, knee and thigh thrusting motions mirroring Hasher’s moves down the steep valley side and up the somehow even steeper other side – especially when we crossed the quite chilly pudendum-high river (chest high for me), and there you have it, the analogy is complete.

Have I mentioned the bridge yet? I think I possibly did. This is one popular attraction around this close neck o’ the monkey woods, I must say. Just up the road and in view of the run site, bridge enthusiasts seem to come from miles around to, well, sit on it. It’s as well attended a bridge as this Hasher has ever seen. There were bridge sitters as we drove across it to get to the car park and wantilan, off from whence the run took (grammar). There were sitters as we crossed it on foot coming back from the run and even a couple of them taking their lives into their own hands perched on the bridge curb in dark jackets and black or dark pants (trousers, trews, strides, slacks, jeans) in mid-evening as we accelerated from the site to head south with bellies full o’ Bali Hai. I would not have wanted to be in their dark or black shoes, but who am I to question these cultural differences? Who am I? Who? Am? I?

It was an extremely scenic and challenging run, given the perpendicular nature of the valley walls. In fact the view from the bridge is about as a dramatic a drop as you’re going to get anywhere – a distant crawling river below and lushly coated jungle walls erupting green and dense on either side and continuing far off into the mountains. The run trails echoed this marvelous spectacle on the ground where we were more closely engaged with its lush beauty. It was a much better version of a run from this site than we ran on the last visit here and we thank Hare Gizzard for his fine effort. Four days later and I’m still gobbling Voltaren like M and Ms with no recovery in site for my suffering lower appendages (legs, that is, the river water was cold, but not that cold).

Speaking of music (Were we? When? How easily we forget) there was an interesting collection of crotchets in the circle last week. For some reason or other the song, at least the tune of the song “Hernando’s Hideaway” a faux tango written by a couple of Tin Pan Alley poofs as a show tune in the early fifties, made a couple of coinky-dinkical appearances. Firstly as rendered by Organ Grinder, Spook and Night Jar in the form of “As I was walking through the woods, I shat myself I knew I would, I called for help but no one came, and so, I shat myself again, ole!” after which Jangle Balls took a stab at “ I know a dark secluded place, where you can sit upon my face, until it has a doughnut glaze, it’s called, Hernando’s Hideaway, ole!” Who knows what dark forces were behind this mysterious serial manifestation? Forces that perhaps draw their strength from Mordor.

Speaking of which, and I’m not making up non- existing segues into ridiculously disparate issues (am I?), circumcisions have evilly conspired to take Sex on the Desk away from us and she leaves for sunny Florida to “join” hubby Captain Pugwash, who no doubt relishes the opportunity to “join” her more often. He has long been a FIFO from another hemisphere, and “joining” is something they just have not been doing enough of lately because of the tyranny of fleshly distance. We bid both a fond farewell, and hope to Christ they don’t come back, har, just kidding, we know they’ll be back (they ALL come back eventually).

So it’s not goodbye, Sex on the Desk, it’s Bon voyage, auf weidersehen, sayonara, hit the road, frappez la rue dan kablok jalan. See you in the soup, we’ll have a pea together and all the hairy breast. Give my husband your love. From all of us.

On on,
J.B.