DATE : 11 JUNE 2001

With Farmcow co-riding, Scribe was not short of intelligent conversation, which was frequently interrupted by numerous phone calls, mainly from Animales who could not find the confounded runsite. “Korky, you go to the usual Awana runsite, where Tiger Lee farked-up, look for Hash signs. Then opposite, near the flats you can find the car park,” Farmcow gave his clear and cocksure direction, when the lost soul called for directions.

There was a Hash sign on the main Cheras-Kajang Highway. That was about it and we went to the usual runsite and could not find any more signs. “I don’t know-lah, I lost my directions, when I was talking to the wankers (on the mobile phone),” defended Farmcow, when Scribed screwed him for not being sure. He could give others directions, but he, himself could not find the runsite. “Somewhere near the flats-lah,” he insisted.

The sight of McFoong, driving and talking agitatedly onto his mobile phone was indication that he was also lost. “If you fellows have not come along, I would have gone home,” confessed Mc later to Scribe.

Anyhow, with Mc following, we circled the area a few times, and eventually hit a Hash sign. “There, there’s the Hash sign,” pointed out a relieved Cow, feeling vindicated. The site was really beside a highrise, on the carpark of the golf course. Good site! But it was at the foot of the same intimidating hill of previous demises.

The point of all this is to remind all hashers, that putting up good signs is a part of a good run. What’s the point of a run, if one could not find the site, or spend hours looking for it?

“Ang-Mo-Kau is the Hare-oh. They have to cross 5 hills,” Gold Prick was trying to scare Scribe.

“Oay, who ask you to go in front,” GM asked Fruity Lee who was ahead, when the run started. The tone was enough to get Fruity to meekly get in step behind the All-mighty.

Paper started along the edge of the golf course. “Fore, fore,” shouted the golfers as a ball was heading towards the runners’ direction. “What kind of a Hash call is that,” asked a confused Arsehole Joe, looking behind and obviously a non-golfer. “Dai, fore is in front-dah, not behind,” Hi-lo added to Joe’s golf education.

Down the slope, a stream was crossed and then it was up into the infamous hill. The hares had chosen a virgin trail, bashing through the undergrowth and thorns. The first hill was conquered with little effort. The second was the mother. The slope was steep and wet, although it was not raining that evening. But the thick foliage had protected the soil from evaporation. The first few runners had scrapped away the top soil, exposing the slim underneath. The 5^th and back runners would now have struggle up, sliding back down, every few steps.

“Out of form-lah, too much drinking last weekend,” a pumped-out GM acknowledged to the overtaking Scribe, near the top of this 2^nd hill.

Up and down this unvaried and monotonous terrain, the runners went. There was apparently a 3^rd hill, but it was difficult to tell. The same stream which started at the top as a mere trickle, eventually built up a credible flow at the bottom, must had been crossed several times.

This stream was clear, unlike the polluted rivers that run through built-up or so called civilized areas. Several hashers took the opportunity to dip into the cool and inviting water. Slowly, where erosion had taken its course, the water became unattractively muddy. It took a good 20 minutes to tracked downstream to the taman, at the edge of the hill. Where the stream flowed underneath a road, McFoong, Tiger and Turbo Ong were seen washing and trying to soak away their permanent alcoholic stench, What a wasted effort! Mud could be washed away, but alcohol?

In the taman, Turbo Ong saw a head-covered young Malay lady, entering her house and asked, “minta air sejuk, untuk minum.” The lady even offered Turbo a hot drink. Who would do that to a dirty, sweaty, alcohol-smelling stranger? The lady did. How’s that for muhibbah! Turbo claimed that it was his looks which prompted the lady to do what she did. You believe him-ah?

As we struggled up the last hill, past the high-rise to the car-park, Scribed remarked to McFoong, “Why are we doing all this (torturing our bodies in the run). Why don’t we just eat less and give up drinking.” Stroking his chin, McFoong replied deliberately in a sagely manner, “Well if I do this, firstly my wife would think that I am sick. Secondly, I would be a nag at home. Lastly and most importantly, life would be boring.” “How to survive without beer,” Turbo interjected, reflecting his one-tracked mind.

We reached the Beer-wagon in about an hour 40 minutes. Last home was Motorbike Pete in just over 2 hours, quite merciful, consideration previous runs at this hill, by the same consultant hare.

Gold Prick did the run in a hour and a quarter. “The bugger farked me-lah,” said Ang-Mo-Kau, “the last check, I put up the hill and he had to climb up and down again.”

“Well done,” Scribe congratulated the consultant. The objective of the run is not to screw up anybody, especially the last runners, which would be quite easy to do. The trick is to slow (screw) up the FROPs and the way to do it, is to have back-checks and false trails. If one could get the FROPs out in about an hour and a quarter and with the back runners in, about 20 mins later, it would be considered an ideal run. The gap on this run was about an hour. It was not ideal, but an improvement.

During the circle, many were iced. Refer to On-sex list of offenders.

Direction to on-on was simple to follow. “Just leave your cars, just where they are parked and take a 50 meters walk to the golf club,” directed RA Messy.

Sit-down diner in the club was unique. The restaurant was looking onto the driving range. Drivers could drive their balls across the gully to the 300 meter markers on the other side.

Inspired by beers, a turf raced was cooked up by Turf-King Shit Chan. Runners were to run down the gully, touch the 300 meter marker board and return to the start point. First in was the winner. Simple as that.

Significant “horses” were Messy, Eric the Plick, Jungle Man and others. The favourite was of course Shit Chan. Bets were placed. Excitement filled the air. The countdown began and GM triggered the start. The race began. Cheered on by the spectators and those who had invested, the “horses” ran down the gully fast, almost all neck to neck. Up the opposite slope, Shit Chan was leading with Messy and Eric close behind. They touched the marker, turned around and let gravity took it’s course. Going uphill the second time, really took toll of the lesser horses. Shit Chin showed his excellent form and widened the gap from the next runners. He was the undisputed winner and took the prize of a few hundred ringgit! There were no losers that night, only winners. The prize money was converted to beers!

Singing somehow got started and Scribe was requested to do his favorite numbers. Commando and his partner of Kajang Batang were the star attention of the “Smoke a Cigar”. He was impressed enough to order several jugs of beers. With beers flowing freely, the singers found it hard to stop. GM, although not having been press-ganged into military service, did a perfect “Air Force” song. Big hand!

When the management shut down the lights of the driving range, it was a hint that the party should stop. Hashers slowly trickled out. There was still unfinished beers left and some finger-food could be “tar-paued”.

Another great evening, thanks to the hare, LOOKFIT. By the way, this run is commemorated by a “Lookfit” T-shirt, which could be worn in public without infringing decency laws.

On on!

…………………………………