Keep Doing It
Velcro Lips had set this run before, or something like it, for a lesser hash, only for everybody, or some, or most to get lost. “Right,” she announced in her best scoolmarmly manner, “you’re going to keep doing it until you get it right!” Little did the innocent Northern New Territories hashers realise that vengeance was to be exacted upon them.
The hard core of the hash turned up, nine runners in the roseate glow of the sports ground next to the temple, for that is the sort of place Sha Tin is. Lanky towers surmounted the middle distance, but here at the start it was all village villas and synthetic sports pitches. The lamp-posts were zipped up in the sort of padding that is normally given to rugby goalposts. They must have some extremely quick and powerful footy players here.
As the hashers jockeyed for position on the starting line, or more accurately yawned and scratched, it was cognised – all of a sudden – that there was no ice! Not my probbo, said Velcro, who’d brought the drinks. Nor mine, said Bukkake, I only agreed to bring the esky. Hash Beer Eunuch remained conspicuously silent. The GM appealed for somebody to run to the 7-Eleven to see if they had any ice, which Golden Balls magnanimously agreed to do. Fifteen minutes later he hadn’t returned so the pack set off as rain started falling, following urban ways up towards Lion Rock Road and then up through shiggy on to the path for Amah Rock and up to the Lion Rock catchment path.
By this time Golden Balls – who had found ice and got back some minutes after the pack set off – was following up behind and turned right at the marked check on the catchment, only to see a host of torches approaching. The pack had been hoodwinked by a kilometre-long checkback. So eastwards they ran as thankfully the vermin macaques stayed in the trees and didn’t stress anybody with their sneaky and insidious hooting attacks. Bastards.
The wimp trail went down to San Tin Wai while the rambo went up the Wilson Trail to a pagoda before coming back down shiggy to rejoin at San Tin Wai for the final urban kilometre run back to Che Kung Temple.
One Eyed Jack did a shortened route nursing a detached retina or some such. When front runner Liberace returned he seemed to be enraged. “Short cutting bastard!” he screamed. It turned out that the verbose vanman had short cut the run himself. All good hypocrisy, and it set the tone for the post-run craic, which was, as always, superbly entertaining. Good effort Velcro and SP Sticky.