Scribes

Beasts of Bennachie

Run 1295, 04 July 2007
Location: Bennachie Centre
Hares: White Trash, Bruce Almighty

A moderate turnout for a cool but pleasant evening run in a great location, ideal hashing conditions.
I arrived early at the Bennachie Centre to find only the hares, who were discussing whether they could use the 12½ bags of flour, left over from the 13 they bought for the run, in the cooking for the post-run barbecue. 
We were joined by Tom, a new runner. Tom told us he had the choice of joining the Aberdeen hash or the Territorial Royal Marines Mountain Attack Team, but chose us because the navy uniforms weren’t butch enough.  However, as he eyed up the perfectly toned bodies of the three superfit athletes before him (White T, Bruce A and T.Rex C), you could see him thinking that perhaps he had taken on a challenge too far.  Would he be able to keep up?  Fortunately the next to arrive were our distinguished OAHs, including the gnarled and wizened figure of our own venerable, if not revered, GM, who reassured him that AH3 catered for mere mortals as well as superheroes.
I happened to mention to the GM that, ensconced in my tax retreat in the more rural parts of Ruritania, I hadn’t able to keep up with the wanderings of the AH3 tribe due to the continuing failure of scribes to fulfil their duties. [Missing scribes – you now who you are – send us something for the run you were covering. H-Hare] And was duly given the responsibility of scribe for this run.  Being an expat, I had no paper to cal my own, and so I apologies for any small errors that might have crept into this account due to failing memory.
The Penguin was a fellow returner from his latest world hash tour of Australia and the south of England. As was Megane, who turned up attached to a white rat she referred to as Farmer.  This animal distinguished itself by trying to ferret up several hashers legs, but failed to be seen on the run itself. (Like his namesake.)
The hares gave the usual pre-run explanation of why we would be unlikely to find any flour between checks, which suggested that they must have been completely blotto when they set it.  Off we went, heading away from the hill. Remarkably, there was an abundance of flour on a tree marking the first devious route deviation, an abundance the front runners managed to run right past.  There was some good running through forest and along tracks, with the added bonus that the never seemed to pick up where you thought.  However, we then had a longish stretch along tarmac accompanied by Bruce Almighty muttering, “I’m sure I hid flour behind that stone.” “I’m sure we marked the trail around about here:” Were you in the same county when you set the run Bruce? 
Due to the danger of the pack spreading out across the highlands searching for flour at every check, your horny scribe felt obliged to stay at the front of the pack and parp his little horn, rather than his usual amble along at the rear.  Consequently I only caught a little of the usual run gossip, which I have summarised below.  The only bit I can remember was that Sergio and One Foot have given up outdoor sex and started a 150 miles per day cycling regime in preparation for the forthcoming Tour de France.  Sergio reckons the upside of losing weight and getting fitter outweighs the drawback of callouses on the bum.  Purely in journalistic interests I then took the opportunity to examine One Foot’s bottom very closely.  I can confirm that every little bit appeared to be in perfect condition.  I decided a similar check on Sergio would be pointless.
I did overhear part of an interesting discussion about how global warming would affect the hash.  Apparently next years’ skispedition has been cancelled in favour of a bog-snorkelling trip to Thailand.
Oh yes, I forgot. Sir Edmond Hillary told me how excited he was getting about the midsummer rave up he is organising at the Hogshead.  Disappointingly, Englebert Humperdinck has had to cry off at the last minute, but Hillary has secured half of the original Black and White Minstrels for what should be a groovy evening.
After leaping across streams, plodging through boggy bits, and clambouring over too much barbed wire, we came onto a track I recognised from last year’s Bennachie Midsummer Run (unaccountably not voted run of the year).  However, instead of turning west to follow a pretty stream up to the nirvana of Bennache north, we headed south.  This could only mean one thing.  Aghast, I took a sharp gulp of mountain air.  Could the hares be so cruel? What was that looming ahead? Was it? Could it possibly be…? [Literary note. This device of repeated rhetorical questions and ellipses to try an enliven an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative was first employed by Capt.W.E:Johns in “Biggles Flies One-Handed” (Hodder & Stoughton, 1943) and used subsequently in every Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. Ed.)
Yes. The fabled Bennachie West face route.  Hashers have not ventured up this route since the “Massacre of the Innocents” hash of 1976, when Piss Poor spent three days on the mountain trying to find her way back from a false trail down an unsuspecting ghillie.  Obviously White Trash and Bruce Almighty had not listened to the local’s tales of the two lost hashers whose bodies were never found on the upper inclines of the West Face route (and, what’s worse, to this day, we don’t know whether they got the beer stop or not). 
I saw Tom the new runner forge on ahead, unaware of the possible danger.  Weren’t The Penguin and Hippo there to warn him about the beast? At least Bruce A had the foresight to provide a detour for the smallest (and tastiest) hasher present, Nipples’ lad, so he would at least live to tell the tale what could happen near the summit.  
Sanso and Mrs.T did their best to keep our spirits up during the dreaded climb.  Sanso gave us an interesting lecture on the cost/performance ratios for the various patented under-floor heating systems he has been testing.  And Mrs.T was very erudite on the sexual pleasures to be got from electric fencing.  Hair-raising!  The climb gave us some pretty views over the mist clouds.  And fortunately the upward trail quickly gave over to a rapid downhill descent eminently suited to T.Rex physionomy.  At the bottom, most of the ladies got confused by the presence of flour, which they chose to ignore, and therefore arrived late at the beer stop.  But not as late as Numbskull, who had decided to make a solo run.  And give or take a stop for One Foot and Toy Boy Tom to admire an old ruin or two, or possibly themselves, that was the end of the trail.
As he missed out on the gossip, Numbskull wasn’t able to entertain the circle with any made-up tales of alleged misdemeaners.  However, down-downs went to Megane for having two wee ones, to Tom for being a new runner and to Sanso and Numbskull for being Sanso and Numskull.
White Trash was by now cooking non-vegetarian beef burgers and one hundred percent guaranteed meat substitute processed steaks for the winding down barbecue.  And Cinders, the stand-in hash beer, had left us some cans to wash it down with.

This is what hashing is all about.  Another candidate for run of the year.

T.Rex Cock