(Courtesy Brown Finger)
I woke up this morning feeling a strange sense of release: muscles like jelly, waves of nerve-end
tingles still surging up and down my body. Only a dream, perhaps, but one so powerful and so
ecstatic in its subconscious reality that I was still experiencing the exhilarating afterburn of my
physical connection to it, lying there on the bed, wide-eyed and nakedly awake. Yes, a dream, but
I was hoping that just maybe it was also a divine premonition and that my dream would become
reality at this afternoon’s hash. After all, Sleeps with Anything was the hare . . .
The songthaew arrived at the football field in good time, and as we waited I became increasingly
astonished as a rare assortment of Chiang Mai hashers assembled in their droves. And forming
gracefully apart from the gregarious male assembly, just as I had foreseen in my dream, was an oasis
of calm, quiet, and demurely beautiful hash girls shimmering in their skimpy, brightly coloured attire,
ready for the run, or just simply to laze about in the balmy afternoon sun to chat, or to gambol gaily
through the trees as they gathered in the abundant foods of the forest.
And so the ever-more-gorgeous hare called us to the brief and explained that the run would not be
a long one because of the exertions of the Saturday outstation. Quite what such exertions had been
I could only imagine . . . And then she said that she was a lazy hare and had set only circle checks,
but by then she could have said anything and it would have sounded to me like the most profoundly
exquisite poem that had ever been articulated throughout the entire history of womankind. Oh my
god . . .
Well, I can’t remember much about the run because I was daydreaming about my dream and its
striking similarities to the hash so far. Would it play out all the way to its gushing climax?
I do, however, recall Chuck Wao. Now he was definitely not in my dream and I hope he never will
be, for then it would no longer be a dream but a nightmare – one of Freddy Krueger proportions,
no doubt. As we headed in the direction of the lakes and hit the first check on the trail, I invited
the ever-fitter (not a euphemism) CW to chose his direction, and I was extremely satisfied (no, no!)
when he said “I’ll go this way – we always go this way!” which turned out to be completely the wrong
way, and when we next came upon each other (no! no! no!) he had received his just desserts for
being an arrogant asshole in the form of a sprained ankle, or so he claimed . . .
Now the other thing I recall about this run is the distance between the circle checks and the
continuing trail. It was getting longer and longer (no comment!), until we came upon one at the end
of the run that must have been close to 200 metres. This is not a criticism of the hare – she is way
beyond the realms of such an ugly word. No, it all worked out perfectly. Chuck Wao went the right
way, but didn’t go far enough. It took the dour determination of Dog Shit and his expert knowledge
of the local terrain to show us the way. But wait, there was to be another “twist” in the Elm Street
saga. From nowhere, and with his “sprained ankle” miraculously healed -no doubt through a soul-
selling pact with the devil – Chuck Wao sprinted into the lead only to be thwarted by the hare’s trail
that suddenly darted to the right, up a low embankment, and into the football arena where the hare
and the other non-running girls were waiting with open arms, and very little else, to greet us home –
well at least that is how my dream would have had it.
So, did my dream become a reality in the end? Well let me tell you, it came pretty damned close, but
the one major difference was that it was all happening to someone else and not to me! Yes, it was
supposed to be me sitting on the ice with all the girls standing around in a very tight circle hurling
abuse in my direction. But it wasn’t me; it was that lucky bastard Human Excrement. Needless to
say, I wasn’t about to hang around to find out whether what followed on from that point in my
dream became a reality for HE. I fled the scene before I broke down in tears of frustration, leaving
HE to his fate. So next time you see him, ask him what happened to his sorry ass in the infamous
circle of wild dreams and sordid expectations!
For me, apart from my obvious disappointment, the Sunday hash continues to provide memorable
hashing experiences. The hare done an amazing job of setting a trail – which turned out to be in
the region of 6k – that had the FRBs running in their own circles for about 55 minutes, which was
great fun and engaged the brain as well as the muscles. Watching Chuck Wao in a state of frustrated
bewilderment was a wonderful sight to behold. And it was encouraging to see such a large number
of hashers. Maybe it was because of who the hare was. After all, who could possibly resist the many
and varied delights of another Sleeps with Anything hash?
I say, long live the Sunday Hash and may it long survive the political differences of the Chiang Mai
hashing community.