Sunday June 15th 2014
Bodrum Hash House Harriers: Run 155
Number of attendees: 28
A disparate group of no hopers descended on the delightful Camlik, sat around chatting, without a care in the world; a blue cold box was dragged into the assembly area and cries of Vulture Culture and Virgin have arrived - cold water was guzzled, fees paid and beer coupons distributed; everyone sat and waited and waited….the two hares (what’s a female hare? A harem, or maybe harette?) returned, dehydrated and exhausted but as only harettes can do, were smiling, whilst querying why their water support team hadn’t arrived. Excuses, excuses before 5 semi dressed men wandered into the middle of the nearby field; everyone watched…what would happen next? No feely touchy stuff, just standing there intently discussing serious issues and then cries of “Circle!” disturbed the quiet chatter. And so a strange assembly took place with a circle of the no hopers formed around two aged silver foxes who barked orders; hands were raised for food orders, the harettes explained where they’d been that afternoon and suddenly a group of five (FRBs) leapt off…
Into the Valley of death strode the 5(00) Hashers, never to be seen (or heard) again, well not until the pack returned from their exertions.
Dopey and the remaining dwarfs strode along a dirt track chattering away, noticing the odd traces of chalk; a sharp right from the dried river bed took us through scrubland, with the inimitable thorn bushes only found in these parched Mediterranean lands; no snakes of note were seen; onwards to a short stretch of tarmac leading to a building site and a selection of directions with opposite pointing arrows neatly dovetailing; a new dried riverbed, continuing up and up with clear chalk marks all the way; our virgin hasher soon detected the red ribbon (perhaps the eye operation wasn’t too successful for our RA?); upwards through the fields across the stone walls – to another track and a ‘Check!’ – without hesitation our pack of walkers took the correct direction, stopped to wonder at the stunning panorama, then meandered down the track; Dopey spied a dead bird sitting on a branch (presumably it had just flown there?); and onwards, down to another road, following paper until reaching one of our harettes…’Wow where have you come from? You’ve just done the FRB’s run!’ she exclaimed, so we wandered on, led by our Virgin hashette arriving after some 70 minutes; our mute FRBs (even they, the esteemed ones, lost themselves, presumably in translation, just meters short of ‘home’) were mingling with the SCBs, duly ignoring the wonderful achievement of the finely tuned walkers.
And so, with due aplomb, the aged silver foxes called the assembly together, forming yet another circle. Drinks were drunk; guests were welcomed; ‘pink’ and ‘dresses’ were punished, the harettes were praised in typical hash fashion, new shoes infected with athletes foot were used as a drinking vessel; the silver foxes were duly punished for being old and silver and forgetful or something along those lines. Food was served. Our 28 attendees exceeded the expected 22.4467 runners (the average number since time immemorial), putting pressure on Mehmet and the staff of Sir Sofrasi – extra sheep were seen, herded into the abattoir, to feed the masses (relieving the sad looking bedraggled dog who was being fattened with the left over bones); and so onwards and upwards, some to their homes, others for further imbibing, the remainder presumably to someone else’s abode; the sunset on the return journey led to the exclamation ‘what else could anyone want?’ – Well, perhaps a glass of wine and George Clooney (presumably for the ladies?) was the retort.