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 HASH MAG ARCHIVE 1993: RUN NO.500 Run Date: 17 May 1993 Bogs, Buses & Binbags Well, for a start, was it the five hundredth run? Over the years, when the numbering system has failed (you put one number after another, rather like walking, but too difficult for most Drake H3 members), a number has been plucked from the air and this continued until the next failure, about two weeks later. And so, rather like one of Fferret's accounts of where he went on a hash, it probably does not stand up to close examination. Then there was the incorrect start time, the Gods were not pleased with this and caused us to be rained on all evening, with a five minute break at 7.30pm. just to show us what could have been if we had followed the natural laws. On On John when writing the hash mag after the first run had said prophetically, "Any Hash that can change its start, at the last moment, from a pub car park to a muddy bog, 'has the seeds of greatness within it'" How true. Let us consider some of the triumphs of hash over reason over the years; the three hour Arkle run, the survival of the Horse Trough era, the loss of Jimmy the dog, the Arkle children, IAT (several times), Fferrett, Mimi et al, dustless runs, the twenty minute Yesman run, Snakehips injuries, SCUM productions, mist, hail, snow, Deadly, lycra tights, Thumpers left hook, the Albaston Relays, the list is endless. And what has been happening to the rest of the world whilst Drake H3 has been progressing majestically from disaster to disaster? You will notice from the use of rhetorical questions that this is a work of literature. Well, the answer must be, not much really. The only thing that springs readily to mind is the rise and fall of 'Absolutely'. This involves asking a question and answering it at the same time, leaving the answeree with nothing to say but "Absolutely". One sat watching television night after night waiting for a man of courage to look the camera full in the eye and say "Bullshit", but it was not to be. So, the five hundredth, was this to be a mega bash, with Scottish Drunks, those naice people from Cheltenham, and Eric ("I am Eric, therefore I Hash"), gracing our bogs? Apparently not, Drake H3 was to examine its own navel. One just hopes the fluff was removed first. For months a certain group would huddle secretly in the corner of the pub. Now normally this is because they are examining the latest excess of Deadly and how best to smooth ruffled feathers, but on this occasion Deadly was amongst them. Could this be another coup? Committee members eyed them wistfully in the hope that it was. Occasionally one of us lesser beings would be summoned from the throng to be questioned and then dismissed quickly when it became apparent that intelligence lay elsewhere. Despite evidence that the hares had been examining maps some ten miles from the start, muttered threats that torches would be needed, and a gathering storm, the usual numbers were there at the Plume of Feathers at Princetown. Apologies were not received, and not expected, from absent friends. Despite all attempts at secrecy we were still infiltrated by two harriettes from Tamar Valley H3, Brenda and JJ, and very welcome they were too. Hadn't they heard of our reputation? And so to the run itself. Wimpers is giving more cause for concern, on this occasion he came dressed in the bottom half of the uniform of the Swiss Papal Guard. Dire warnings about there being 'no shortcuts', were shouted at us by Deadly. We professional shortcutters smugly kept our silence. We knew there were always short cuts, you can't keep a good shortcutter on the trail. These skills were not to be wasted just because it was the five hundredth. run. In years to come this may be known as 'THE BIN BAG RUN', they seemed to be the height of fashion on this occasion. One of the problems about starting a run from the Plume of Feathers is getting on to the moor with the pack of hounds intact. On occasions this has been decimated by the time it has got up the track towards South Hessary Tor. Not so on this day, at least I wasn't too far behind, after a couple of checks before we turned off for the delights of Hart Tor Brook. If you think you have recovered from an injury, those tussocks will let you know very quickly whether you're right. Zippy was already showing signs of entirely failing to get a check right all evening. I'm sure his dogs, Hannah and Megan, are less than impressed as they find themselves forever chasing this lunatic back and forth over the moor. We crossed the brook one more time before climbing to Hart Tor for a regroup. Deadly had been here in a thunderstorm whilst laying the trail and had had to cower amongst the rocks. This location, in fact, marked the end of Deadly's part of the trail and less than half an hour had gone by - were the hares' threats not to be realised? Once we were all safely gathered in, we headed off towards the Logan Stone and Black Tor and a bucket of cool gluvin, and I think it tastes better that way. The last to arrive was JJ from Tamar Valley H3. The reason for this soon became clear - she had with her Killer the Hairy Chihuahua. Now Killer, who thought he was being taken out for Walkies, had instead found himself being dragged through tussocks, swamps and rivers. Consequently, he was now beginning to think he had done something wrong. At least in dire situations he does get clasped to JJ's bosom. JJ should keep well away from any ageing hasher confiding in her his injuries, worries or problems. When laying the trail (at 6.00am on a Sunday morning!) Fferrett had come across a couple of hundred Ten Tors Expedition campers just getting up. They watched silently as he went through their camp carrying bags of sawdust to Hart Tor and with amazement as he returned through their camp dropping piles of sawdust. No logic could explain his actions. By this time the shortcutters were composing their thoughts as to where trail might go, was it a lefthander or a righthander? I was for right and Not Norman was for left. We could afford them a little more of our time before making our move. The hares were anxiously eyeing IAT knowing that reason does not always explain his shortcutting. What they knew, and we didn't, was that this was a straight line run and not a loop. BIN BAGS were once again liberally dispersed before we proceeded in an orderly manner down and across the River Meavy. So it looked as if it was going to be a lefthander, which caught me out, as well as IAT (who has great faith in my navigational ability). However, Deadly, who could see the beginning of a nightmare called us to heel and we circled around Raddick Hill to the leat as it thrashes downhill. There was no way to cross safely here so we went uphill to see Begorrah (who had decided we were going back via Crazy Well Pool) way up on the skyline. Vigorous calling by the hares brought him reluctantly back - we don't give in easily. A bit further around the hill and back again to rejoin the Meavy where it goes into the woods. This was serious, an hour gone and we were still going away from the pub! The hares' sanity, and other things, were being brought into question. After reaching a check on the Devonport Leat, which the front runners had avoided, a group of us were shepherded with some desperation by Fferrett. IAT tried to sneak away out to the moors but was sharply to called to heel, "There's a bus waiting at Sharpitor Car Park" he said. Oh no there wasn't! Emerging at last from the woods, the front runners were establishing a good lead going up to the south side of Sharpitor. A number of the women were directed up to the north side of the tor - so there was a bus there? Dishy tried to go with the other women but having Deadly call her a wimp persuaded her to come back. When at last we slower runners got to the saddle between Sharpitor and Peek Hill the front runners had disappeared. So what's new! We carried on across the ancient fields towards the road, when Deadly started calling "On On" to someone behind us, but surely we were the last? Ah sweet justice, it was the front runners who had done a complete circuit of Sharpitor. The final insult was that it turned into a road run for the last half mile, which will take some living down. As we climbed onto the bus, we were greeted by our stewardess for the return journey, Fferret, who was handing out sick bags, although we managed to return without needing them. The Plume of Feathers gave us its usual warm welcome. Killer was given a good rub down in front of the fire by JJ and received many an envious look from we who had also got wet and bedraggled. Begorrah, who worries me at times, warmed himself up in front of the flowers at the other end of the bar. Hannah noticed Not Norman for the first time, and realised the sort of company she had been keeping and gave him a barking to. Those were the days when you could rely an Jimmy having the occasional dog fight in the pub. Teams were being picked for the Albaston Relays (it was not the perfect night to do this). In fact, there might even have been a team list I should have put in this mag, but if there was I've lost it - but I do know that once again I was deliberately left out. But I'm not that easily avoided: Runners are required, for the Drake H3 Rejects, names to Cream Soda. The only requirement is that you must wear a chip on your shoulder. No chip, no run. James of the Plume was pushing a ten mile moor race on Saturday 3rd July 1993 at 5.00pm. It takes in eight tors with a free T-shirt and hamburger to all finishers, walking or running. The entry fee goes to Dartmoor Ponies. Closing date for entries 21st June. Be there. Start and Finish at the Plume of Feathers.
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