R*n 310: Bowland Bridge

Warning: this report refers primarily to the "official" LVH3 11.00 a.m. run; viewers wishing to receive LVH3+1 may need to re-tune their set-top boxes!

'Twas a cold, damp (typical) July morning when a suspiciously small contingent of LVH3's finest (yours truly, Highway, Chemical Alley, Bitter and Twisted) assembled on the pub car-park at the pre-ordained and WIDELY PUBLICIZED start time in eager anticipation of the arrival of many more of their hashing buddies. I should point out at this stage that the common factor linking this disparate (desperate?) bunch, apart from their athletic prowess, was their aversion to camping; Twisted's request for the construction of a 4-star hotel at Duddon Valley complete with gym, pool and sauna had fallen on deaf ears, and I have always maintained that, if the Good Lord had intended us to live in tents, He would not have invented the 25-year variable rate mortgage! Besides, who wants Baldbrick to be put out of work?

The WIDELY PUBLICIZED departure time came and went with no sign of the tent-dwellers and, while we all had a little blub 'cos we thought they didn't love us any more, there followed a period of frenzied phone-calls by the hares to determine the b*ggers' whereabouts. Eventually it transpired that they thought a change to a noon start might be a good idea! This we took to be hash code for "the hung-over b*st*rds are all nissed as pewts and haven't got up yet" and, as some of our number couldn't manage the later NOT WIDELY PUBLICIZED time, we reluctantly decided to haul ass and get the show on the road.

Even Bitter's photographic wizardry cannot do justice to the valiant exertions of this fine group of elite (delete?) athletes. With levels of stamina which made the Kenyan and Ethiopian 10000 metre guys look lethargic, we were off the mark like greased sh*t, with Chemical Alley in particular off the blocks like a whippet. While missing the company of the other drunken s*ds, we took some comfort in the fact that they would have slowed us down considerably!

The r*n itself was a balanced mix of roads, lanes, tracks, primordial rainforests, foul swamps, plus the stunning views across the valleys that you always get in this part of the world. We managed to keep together as a group, apart from when we lost Highway for several minutes towards the end. We shouted for him (not sure why, as we probably wouldn't have heard the response), and when he finally caught up with us it transpired that he doesn't "do" tarmac! Give the lad a field full of knee-high grass and stinging nettles, though, and he really comes into his own. At one point the trail took us through someone's garden, which seemed a little weird, and Highway cracked a joke which I shall not quote here; if you want to hear the funnies, you will have to turn up at the WIDELY PUBLICIZED time in future!

After an hour and a half of perspiring, puffing and wheezing we eventually made it to the comfort of the On Inn (the Hare & Hounds, Bowland Bridge) for some well-earned liquid refreshment and first-sitting lunch. While Twisted and Bedside Manner held an impromptu "Protuberant Belly" contest (unaware that Baldbrick would prove to be the outright winner), yours truly put his protuberant lugholes to good use and could just make out the anguished cries of "on on" from the breakaway group (the Provisional LVH3? the Continuity LVH3?) mingling in the distance with the plaintive bleating of the sheep.

Lunch over, we went outside just in time to see the seditious rabble drag their weary and, frankly, not very fit frames across the finishing line. Most of the "official" runners had to leave soon thereafter, so I was the only one of the early-birds present at the circle. I received a down-down for running naked (funny how the consumption of alcohol not only removes all inhibitions but also erases all memory of the event) and Baldbrick was similarly admonished by being made to drink his beer from a frying-pan, presumably to atone for some disgusting act committed during the camping weekend. As we parted company, I could not help but notice how LVH3+1, with their single down-down, seemed to have developed a sudden aversion to alcohol. I wonder why....

Many thanks to Bedside Manner and Thunderdick for a varied and enjoyable r*n, and, in conclusion. to all those who think we should hold all our r*ns at 12.00 like some other hash groups, I say just this: do you REALLY want to have to put up with me whingeing "Where's me dinner? I want me dinner. Gimme me dinner" every other minute?

On On

Right you 'orrible lot, listen 'ard while I report on the Military Manouevres wot took place on this 'ere Sunday mornin'.

We undertook the Trail hemployin' a well-proven tactic, the Double Phase Assault. In this instance the First Wave took place at eleven 'undred hours, when 'arf a dozen troops, respondin' to the time circulated hon the hinternet, met the Hares, sorry, 'ares, in the pub car park in the otherwise sleepy 'amlet of Bowland Bridge. Corporal 'ighway was sporting a remarkable pair of combat trousers, by the looks.

Set orft and apparently had a jolly good run round the assault course, finding their way with a strategy of leaving the markings in place so as not to make it too easy on the second wave.

'Foresaid second wave consisted of the lazy boundahs from the Duddon camp who thought that just because they'd done a couple of runs on previous days that this justified a lie-in and a 12 hundred hours rendezvous. Wouldn't have won the war with that attitude, I can tell you, we'd all be eating sourkraut for breakfast by now.

Second assault went well, up the 'ill and along a lane to gain haccess to a splendid bit of countryside. Damn good place for an hambush kept me eyes peeled I can tell yer. Then back down to the village.

This dratted "downdown" ritual was shortlived when the only fellah among them with a damn decent 'aircut was ridiculed for the mysterious meat-cooking hexploits the previous day and presented with a frying pan as a momento. Caring thought, what? That Speedbump chappie should have had one for turning back two yards short of flour when checking out, only to do the same thing on the next one. Strange shape for a fellah, that one.....

Only casualty was Private Fullmember who turned an ankle silly buggah.

Second wave was greeted by the remnants of the first, first wave having missed the opportunity to blow up the bridge, must have forgotten the ruddy dynamite.

Anyway retreated to the local and fine meal enjoyed by all, damnably good way to round orft the weekend.

Spiffing exercise, thanks men, whatever shape!