A Drinking Club with a Running Problem
A stranger came to the town of Ithaca one day. It was an overcast day, gray and cloudy, utterly typical of Ithaca in the doldrums of Febrary’s dregs. Cock A Doodle Doo Me’s first visit to Ithaca included noble aspirations of a off-weekend hash for an out-of-towner, and the opportunity was right. Here she was presented with a journey away from her native Every Day is Wednesday Hash outside of Washington, D.C., taking a break from her (ig)noble responsibilities as RA, given a chance to hash in a foreign land. In the day to follow, she met Baster, exchanged tales of hashes past, and engaged in lofty plans for a local hash. Preparations were made for that case, and the stage was set.
That day would give way to wine tasting and dinner with an association of charming, witty gentlemen. (Baster and Spike were also included, strangely). Wine tasting involved pirates, and pirates gave way to a banquet. A banquet gave way to merriment, which inevitably led to sledding and debauchery expected and presumed of a hasher as only a hasher can debauch.
Alas, the circumstances gave way to a lapse in the second precept behind hashing: To get rid of weekend hangovers, as phrased in the 1953 charter established by the original Hash House Harriers in the Royal Selangor Club outside Kuala Lumpur. So it was that circumstance conspired to prevent her from hashing, and Gispert poured a down-down for the spirit of the hash. One must always try, after all, to hash when the spirit is willing.
So it was that Spike, Cold Cocked and Master Baster found themselves all alone at Viva Taqueria on this gray overcast day, bereft of a visitor but prepared for a run for beer. The three harriers, ten pounds of flour and five pounds of instant tea set out at 12:45 for a hash. Being both efficient and imaginative, the pack followed not flour, not chalk, but the other ubiquitous substance that comes with drinking beer: urine.
Trail soon turned up Cascadilla Park, soon whereupon Baster stashed trail marking equipment in favor of a lighter load and lighter feet. Thus unencumbered, he was able to keep up with his cohort and brush off the lag of a night of snow football, sled jump craft, aforementioned debauchery and an unreasonable bedtime. Cold Cocked regaled them of tales of home-made sushi, doing little for their appetites as they ran through the cemetery and up Stewart Avenue.
Spike picked up trail along the gorge, deepening the stained snowpath wrought by myriad fraternity guests who no doubt imbibed their share the previous night. As they ran over the suspension bridge and into Cayuga Heights, they alternated between a brisk trot and a steadfast shuffle, conserving their energy and making full use of the hash-trail-begotten-practice.
Moving briskly through down Highland and up Oak Hill Road, CoCo noticed that he’d once done work for was next to what turned out to be Baster’s boyhood home. Trail veered left onto Triphammer, where ZOUNDS! Spike discovered that the trail was false–no trail went through the woods and to the top of the sledding hill. Back-checking towards campus, the pack picked up and sloshed through the slush through the undergraduate dormitories.
As they approached the Dickson Quadrangle, they noticed a respite! An igloo fashioned lovingly by sophomores the night before! As they piled into a space meant for six people, steam filled the room as a sensible amount of minty freshness was shared between the bedraggled harriers.
Duly refreshed, down the steps they went and toward Beebe Lake the coursers loped, passing a happy dog, an absent Pileated Woodpecker, shimmying up the hill, pausing at the bridge, and finding trail leading behind Mann Library and through the Agriculture Quadrangle. On-left was found near the stadium, and soon a secret underground pathway found them emerging into the cavernous Barton Hall, drawing a share of aloof glances from the few spending their afternoons in quiet exercise.
Out the door and skirting Cascadilla creek they went, passing into Collegetown via the footbridge, towards what they sensed to be the on-in. A shortcut along a cleared path pushed them towards 79, where the hare led them across the Six Mile footbridge, along Giles and down, down into the Ale House for the on-in.
Beverages were soon procured for Spike and Baster, while CoCo deliberated thoroughly before settling on a suitable and worthy ale. Thus ensconced, the trio were joined by the indefatigable Porcelain Goddess and the similarly inexhaustible Obsessive Copulaton Disorder, and a toast was shared in honor.
Though we hardly knew ye,
though we followed pee,
though she we did not see,
here’s to Cock A Doodle Do Me.
May the hash go in peace, in Ithaca as in Dee-See.