PikeLane Hash House Harriers

Because Life's Too Short to Drink Cheap Beer

 

       Holders of the HashShit:  Rock Hudson & Yoron Weed

 

Make Millions!  Call the Hareline  (770) 455-6952  ext.114 to find out how



Your 2000-2001 Mismanijmnt

 

Grand Master:    Sky Pilot

                Joint Master        Niplets

                  and Mattress:     EZ Cheeks

Hash Cash:          Afterbirth

Hareline:              Sleazy Rider

Haberdashery:   Dr. Doo Doo

Bier Meister:        Rat's Ass

               Master Scribe:    Bite My Gonads

 

Run # 733, March 17, 2001

Hares: Eye O'Red

Venue: Powers Ferry near Windy Hill (up May-retta way)

 

 

What?!! No green beer?!  Aye, there's a hashshit in the making.

 

Ah, it started out as a beautiful day, and Redeye did his best Ding Dong impression, greeting us with hills that are windy.  The pack was as mixed (and mixed up) as they get: 6 virgins, a visitor, 2 AH4 deserters, and a few too-longers.  But they all wore green, ‘cause, you know, that's important.

 


After the usual chalk-talk for the voigins, our hare du jour pointed to the “Death Star” and pronounced the hash a go Houston.  He yelled something about the Cliffs of Dover, and the need for rappelling equipment, but we took no heed, running willy-nilly through the woods that would soon become (gasp!) the Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area.

 

That's right boys and girls we were going to have to face our old nemesis, Ranger Rick. But not until much later in this story.  In the interim, Redeye had us running up and down hill after hill, checking checks all over creation, and the Count Backs did I mention the Count Backs?  (To his credit, the CB's kept the pack together, all nice and cozy.)

 

We hit the running path in the park, where confused onlookers hid behind rocks and trees with the squirrels as we yelled, “Are You?” and then for kicks, drew satanic symbols in the sand.  On The Rag was half-way to Roswell by the time Shiggy Pitts and I found true trail heading south towards I-285.  Sure enough, we headed under the Perimeter and followed the lazy Chattahoochee all the way to Columbus.

 

On the way, of course, we hit the aforementioned cliffs, which slowed down those FRB's Palm Palm, John Queere, and third-timer Scott Blount quite nicely.  As did the CB (again). Yeah, why bother staying on the boring flat trail along side the river, when you can climb up a big ass steep hill where there is no clear path.  And then, come right back down again, sliding on leaves and rocks, causing much consternation in the posterior anatomy area.

 

From there, it was pretty straight-forward, with the exception of the CB that was wiped out by Deputy Dog of River Patrol.  I ran by him, waved in a non-threatening, I'm-just-a-runner-out-enjoying-the-day kinda way, when I hear him radioing ahead to his partner-in-doofness, “The harriers are in the park;  I repeat, the harriers are in the park.  Intercept at the west entrance and detain them until I get there, and confiscate all shoes, socks, and especially those whistles.”

 

Well, that wily Redeye took us out of the park near Cumberland Parkway, where we were promptly greeted by a BN, and all was good in the world.  Except that the sun went away, the temperature dropped by 15 degrees, and the wind was some kind of wicked.  Phred never made it in, so we started Down-Downs without her and Redeye, who went a-lookin.

Those who drank:  virgins Drew Marlar, Mike Spencer, Brian Pierson, Jason Currington, Bryan Fenoff, and Daniel Kenworthy;  virgin bringer Don't Ask, Don't Tell; cell-phone abuser Palm Palm;  recently moved here from Jacksonville Porta Pussy;  he who finally claimed his Hashshit Rock Hudson;  AH4 visitors Cheese Spread and Stick Your Finger In It;  and too-longers Miss Deed and Rock Hudson (hah!) we owe Redeye for a fine job with the trail, and you know he'll just hate having to do that down-down.

 


Scribe:    Rat's Ass