With the excesses of the Christmas and New Year celebrations still churning in our bellies, we intrepid Chiang Mai hashers arrived in numbers at the A bucket to accept the daunting 21k challenge laid down by the artful hares for the 2016 Annual Ball Breaker – His Royal Anus and Byte My Yahoo.
At the hare brief, a 21k run through gently undulating country was indeed promised, with 2 beer/pull-out stops at 8k and 16k, and markers at each kilometre. I assumed then that the hares intended the kilometre markers to be somehow helpful, some form of encouragement perhaps? What the f—? I shall return to this cruel joke a little later.
And then we were off – all of us except Seaman Sores and little Able Seaman, who arrived and set off on the run a half an hour late. Able certainly is a tough little fellow, but would he be strong enough to carry his fat old father the full distance, before darkness consumed the trails . . .?
Now, there were a lot of checks, right from the start, and there were mutterings amidst the ranks suggesting there were too many, that we might spend too much time checking to complete the run before dark. At times it seemed that there was a check every 2 or 3 hundred metres. Would we all make it back? Or would the hares be called upon to sweep the trail with torches? Some hashers were getting a little nervous . . .
The first 8k was glorious, leading us serenely through orchards that seemed to trap the pleasant winter warmth, through open countryside and cool patches of forest where shafts of sunlight pierced the canopy to dance before out feet as we ran. In Chiang Mai we are used to runs of 8k or so, and with well-used trails that were easy to run on and well-marked, we were able to complete the first section at a steady, comfortable pace. Even the kilometre markers seemed to pass me bye without undue concern. I felt so good at the first beer stop that I almost believed I could do the entire run with no trouble whatsoever . . . stupid idiot! Oh, yes, I seem to remember now. Wasn’t it Sloppy Rod I witnessed cruising to the front, appearing from nowhere just before the stop? Good on you Sloppy, if it was you, at least someone was ahead of that clockwork-marathon-man Gorf – at this stage at least.
The problem with the second 8k for me was those f—— kilometre markers. As my performance slowed, so did the passing of those sodding markers . . . 9 . . . . 10 . . . . . 11 . . . . . . 12 . . . . . . . 13 . . . . . . . . you get the picture. Gorf didn’t seem to mind though, hopping about the trails like a frog on heat, although he could be accused of being a bloody blind frog too, on more than one occasion missing the paper off a check even though it was clearly visible to everyone else when we eventually got there. But when all is said and done, I think all of us would appreciate the extra checking work he puts in along the way – 26k, a full 5k additional work at the checks – thanks buddy
Anyway, we eventually reach the ‘Beer Is Near’ sign for the second stop, with that million-dollar-hasher Suckit – who has so much metal in his body I was fatally attracted to him every time we passed – out in front, but Gorf wasn’t having any of it and raced off to be first at the stop. A good number of hashers arrived there almost together – Sloppy, Gravy, Tasty, Piggy, Suckit, Gorf, Cuckold – forgive me if I have missed a couple of names here, I was too busy slurping down the energy jellies BMY had brought , and of course a cold beer, to take too much notice.
And finally we were on the final 5k leg. Gravy, Tasty and I headed out first to find that the checks had already been kicked out. What the f—? So we just kept on running until, that is, we came upon the culprits – Doesn’t Get It and Wet Dream – who were busily f—— up a false trail. They had been instructed, as walkers, not to kick out the checks, but hey, what do hashers do when they are told not to do something . . .?
At this point the cruel joke that was those f—— kilometre markers really did hit the mark . . . 17 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20. F—, I hated that last kilometre. F— you, you f—— bastard hares and your god damn f—— kilometre markers. F— you both!
Anyway, Lumber Jackoff was running like an Elk along the trail, with Graven Image hot on his arse looking to bring him down with a carefully placed arrow to the balls. But Lumber finally jacked-off and went wrong at the final check. But it was metro-gnome (Gorf) who inevitably and deservedly led us home, with Gravy, Suckit, Tasty and Jackoff close behind.
And then the rest of the Ball Breakers arrived, perhaps vindicating the hare’s position that you can’t have too many checks. Robin Banks came in, pleading for attention, begging us to acknowledge the extraordinary fact that he had completed the full 21k. And then the normal(?) Saturday runners came in. But what about little Able and Seamen? Well, it was dark when we finally heard them emerging from the forest. Little Able had indeed carried his fat old dad for 21k – he deserves a hashing medal for that immense effort
And so we swam in the muddy lake and we ate BBQ and leftovers from Shagless and Doesn’t Get It’s excellent New Years Eve party and much other good stuff. Some of us sat with gaping mouths as the sun finally disappeared behind the lake, over the horizon, in a spectacular sky burst of burnt orange and pastel blue.
It was time for the circle. What’s this, HRA called into the circle to do a splash? And what a splash!
The stupid bastard dared to challenge Superman about not using chairs in the circle of the Saturday hash. Although there appeared to be some support for HRA’s position, Superman gunned him down in typical Superman fashion. Keep trying, HRA, you might even get your wish . . . eventually
Beers all gone, circle finished, a great day in the history of Chiang Mai Hashing had finally come to an end. Great job hares. Are you already volunteering for next year’s Ball Breaker? You’d get my vote if you drop those f—— kilometre markers