Mick Neil Cerberus Hashgate Wally Lemming Mother Theresa Baldrick 2Bob Spot Carl Foghorn Steve Paella Vanessa John Kay and Gnarler the dog BGB Cheating Bomber and his tart(sorry; didn’t get the name) Ms. Whiplash Eth Salome Iceman Anorak Trainspotter and Dave Steamer Greenfly Squirrel Motox Lonely and Beaver the dog…and much later Dumper Septic Lynda …and even later Trembler the rag and bone man(collecting T shirts for Africans)

When Reading Roadrunners Dave, Dave and Margaret turned up in their commemorative road racing T-shirts we took the mickey. The ‘I done a real long run in 1999’ logos had us tittering and pointing at this gauche display. Little did we know how prophetic this would turn out to be. We had forgotten of course that Mick and Neil fancy themselves as ‘runners’ and they would consequently lay a trail that would take me longer to complete than a real half marathon. By the end of it none of the dogs had any toenails, several Hashers had suffered plimsoll blowout, some had hurled themselves into a duckpond in the vain expectation that drowning was preferable to running any more, one or two wandered, drooling and gibbering, lost in the never-ending wood. But let’s start at the beginning.

The day started bright, sunny and carefree. Rather like Mother Theresa before she met Lemming. Ms. Whiplash our GM (she who must be obeyed) welcomed the nancy Reading Roadrunners and before we knew it we were off, Neil not only pointing the On Out but leading the pack as well! This set a standard for the day. Wherever we fetched up, be it lost or at a check, there he was, grinning at our discomfort like some minor demon and gently prodding us on our way with a metaphorical pitchfork. He was later joined by Mick and Cerberus who joined in wholeheartedly with the grinning and prodding. Our first off-road view was a stunning panorama of rolling English countryside at it’s best. Green and fertile, it spread beneath us down to the valley bottom hundreds of feet below… Urk! We slipped, skidded and for those with larger feet, ski’d down the verdant Black Run, realising with a mental grimace that what goes down has to come back up. Motox, Iceman and Cheating were already checking when I arrived and I took a timeout to watch Lonely and 2Bob struggling to understand the workings of a 5-bar gate before travelling on. Somehow or other Cheating, Iceman and I hit the front and streamed over hill and dale, passing the walking John and Vanessa on the way. "You’re going well." They smiled. Then smiled more broadly as we were called ‘On Back’ after losing the trail by missing the infinitesimal bar check that led us off at a tangent into the forest. This was a foretaste of things to come as there were a number of sudden darts to the left or right off the obvious trail and if you were mainly watching where your feet went they were dead easy to miss – as Foghorn, BGB, Iceman, Motox, Cheating and I (among others) found out.

Of course, there was plenty of water about and Foghorn and Lemming took full advantage of this to splash almost everyone. Foghorn probably had the best effort when he and I sploshed through the middle of a muddy track while various Hashers minced along the edge. Not content with this, Foghorn then sploshed his way back again, clog-dancing through the shiggy with a very satisfying result. But he had his payback later when he managed to fall a**e over head in the stuff. The regroup came after a spectacularly steep ascent requiring oxygen, crampons and a couple of fags. Bomber led the way to the oddly inscribed ‘R5’ closely followed by myself and 2Bob, both totally wrecked and badly in need of an iron lung, or any old lung that still worked. We crawled over to where Bomber was doing a few press-ups and squat thrusts (just to keep in shape) and lay gasping like a pair of beached whales. Some time later Baldrick turned up and came over to whinge about not hearing any calling from the front. Amazingly enough not one knee from either 2Bob or myself contacted Baldrick’s dangly bits at this point – although it was a close thing. Of course, the only reason the sod can’t hear anything is because he’s too far behind. Perhaps a little front running might be called for?

We On Outed and I managed to get lucky and hit the front. Ah, such rapture to cruise down track and road, enjoying the scenery, past pretty thatched houses, harkening to the merry cry of the little seen woodcock… finding the bar-5. Bugger. So back past the bloody woodcock (wish I had me 12-bore), the thatch (why am I thinking ‘Twisted Fire Starter’?), the ruddy road and the tossing track to the very back of the pack where at least I managed to splash Wally as I hurtled past. And shortly after began the forest Odyssey. Bomber, Iceman and I burst into it. Bomber turned off left and we took a right and that was the last we saw of him. We didn’t mind; we were cruising, fast and sleek along the trail. Not much flour but what the hell? We were having fun. Again, our mistake. We managed to miss a tiny bar-3, evidently laid by a miniscule woodland elf using a tiny bag of magic, disappearing flour. The pack backed up. The trail lost itself among the trees and so did we. We trampled about vainly seeking anything white, Iceman in desperation running off after a clump of fungi – which earned him a Down Down later. This sort of thing was repeated several times in similar surroundings by various groups of people. Two or three blobs would be found and that would be your lot for a bit. Hashers flitted hither and thither, to and fro, back and forth. You could tell the Hash was going well as the whinge-level rose. Eventually, a few of us – TrainSpotter, BGB, Foghorn, Dave, Iceman, Motox etc clumped together and chugged on and on, up and down, then up again and a bit more up before going up for a bit of an old change. TrainSpotter and I finally sorted it, following Iceman over the On Inn and yomping back to the car park to arrive back at 12:48! Crikey!

As we sheltered from the storm RA Motox presented the following :-