Run:Beach to Boonah Bike Ride
Date:27th April – 29th April 2016
Location: Miami Beach to Boonah
Hares: Sir Slab, Sir Botcho, Ferrett, VD, Kwakka, Weekly
Hashers: 40
Where would one start to begin to convey the semantics (and antics) of the Beach to Boonah bike ride? I took my que from Cappuccino who surreptitiously remarked to me in a private moment “we have been planning and working on it since Christmas” and she surely did not misrepresent the truth when one witnessed the logistical magnificence that played itself out over the entire days of riding and dying that were sequestered in modest pomp and circumstance by all who attended.
A quorum of nearly 40 gathered to herald the sunrise at Miami Beach 27 April to witness a gathering of joyful, rested and exuberant individuals on the wrong side of 50 (with the exception of Jock and Whing.com). Sirs Botcho and Slab were in the throws of action as Weekly and Ferret meandered about looking to usurp any last minute political favours while Kwakka kept to himself. Little did we all know that these men would dictate the epicenter of our pain and pleasure over the next few days.
Prior to departure at 7:30, Sir Slab awarded the Richard Cranium (Dick Head) Chuck to Tuck Tyres (in absentia as he had already gone missing). Someone mentioned that Blue Card physically resembled Truck Tyres – so he was given the ominous pleasure of carrying the bird….and we were off…..!!!
The pack was very, very tight….each person adamant about staying with the pack. Sylvana (Kwakka’s Mrs) and Nasty joined in sending us off but poor Nasty ran afoul of Swollen Colon’s orange safety flag in the first of several mishaps. The initial moaning and bitching commenced when bicycle tyres collided on the small uphill climbs and frequent stops. “OK bitch, I’ll take the blame” remarked one Female Hasher to another.
And we were On On to never ending picture of suburbia that went on via level surfaces over 20 kilometres. Finally, the well herded pack arrived at a road overpass to the first water stop where male and females alike could urinate in peace under the bridge. It was the ominous turning point for the ride as the “hills” lay before us. Sir Black Stump repeatedly implored of us to “don’t talk, just keep grinding away”.
Those words of inspiration held little meaning to those with a $2,000 bicycle that had only been ridden less than an hour the past year as the hapless pack made their way up 5-6 kilometres mountain ranges. The pack literally came apart…and it was here the men were separated from the boys and the boys separated from the exhubriant neophytes. It was TOUGH going and the true Aussie spirit predominated as no one whinged but instead blamed themselves for being overweight, out of shape, over 50, and generally not fit. It became a truly arduous experience and illustrious nightmare for those unconditioned and ill experienced for a two wheeled mountain climb.
Sir Botcho had warned at the outset “those of you too far behind will be remanded to the trailer” and it was Waste of Time and Mademoiselle Latrine both fell forcible victim to the Grim Reaper, Ferret – who ordered the hapless pair to put their bicycles onto his trailer for the sick and infirmed as they walked and meandered aimlessly with their cycles some 6 kilometres behind the pack.
The first and most formidable Hash Crash of the tour eventuated when Cheezy Pizza’s chain derailed on a downhill spurt thatleft im in a ditch with a derailed chain and bloody knee. A passing motorist offered help and, Cheezy Pizza – too proud for his own good – declined assistance, got his chain back on and finished (and just barely, I tell you) to the lunch – looking really worse for wear. In my humble estimation, I accorded Cheezy Pizza “the best of the worst” rider of the day and without a doubt, Tazzy Crumpet held second place. Tazzy Crumpet brought new meaning to the word tenacious. Bear in mind, both of those riders were able to circumvent the Grim Reaper’s pick up van.
Having worked and lived in both Latin America and Mexico, I have a more than fair idea what a good taco tastes like, but NOTHING held a candle to the most salubrious and tasty tacos we had for lunch! The mince had the perfect spice and the tomatoes were as red and fresh as one could get. Swindler, ever the gentlemen, served each person individually, and one everyone gobbled their lunch with delight.
Swindler then nominated himself to be Kwakka’s aide de Camp and ensured the proper signage was posted in the appropriate places. Every Harrierette will tell you that to do a good job you need the right tool but Kwakka ruined a perfectly good hammer that had been in his family for generations because he drove screws with hammer instead of a screwdriver. All the signage still didn’t help. Of all people, it was RADAR who got lost and did not find his way to the happy our drink stop in Beaudesert.
Amongst us, we had one modest, yet venerable Hashman who had flown in from Myanmar/Burma named Lion. I saw Lion softly weeping at the first day’s Happy hour and I asked him what was wrong. He said “nothing- I’m so happy” About what? I implored. “You Hashers are the best….you have a Lion’s club and the Lion’s club donated the shed where we are having this venue and we just finished riding our bikes down Lion’s road…I’m impressed beyond words”. And Lion was ostensibly correct. All of us were impressed beyond words. The first days ride was theoretically 85 kilometres but all the odometers evidenced something more than 92 kms. It seems that everything for Kiwis is approximate or “ish”.
At happy hour the grog was flowing and the Hash ladies glowing. Everyone was on their best behaviour and most of those in attendance were more than elated to have survived the day. Weekly, the omnipotent and revered BOOZEMASTER was thoroughly in his element and well prepared – ably assisted by Sir Botcholism. There were proper, hand polished wine glasses…you name it – it was available – we were situated next to an authentic Japanese garden and the sun had returned to grace us as well after a cloudy, windy and drizzling ride over a mountain range earlier in the day. The Happy Hour(s) was/were first class.
Magnificent. There was even Henkell Trocken (trocken in English is dry) sparkling white wine – the world class German bottled leg opener on offer. Whing.com took a commanding and much appreciated role with her ability to chant and recant a myriad of hash songs we all so love (and don’t remember) to each down down. I had never seen our esteemed, incessantly jovial and beloved Boozemaster spit the dummy – but it happened LIVE in the circle when Ginger beer got mixed with REAL BEER – the sacred hash BEvERage.
You had to laugh at all the attention paid to Deb, the Bar Mistress who announced who would be sleeping with whom the first night at the Beaudesert Hotel as she unceremoniously handed out the keys. It was parma night at the pub and therefore nearly everyone ate that. There was a booze circle of sorts where gossip and lies are exchanged and Caustic Crusader, Phantom and two other Hashmen were told LAST DRINKS about 11:30pm by the bellicose barmaid.
Day 2: it always amazes me that people feel they can cure a hangover with a cup of coffee. No idea how many hashers attempted to absolve themselves from their misery with a paper cup of brown water and milk that morning. The hard realisation that I had missed out on the REAL party at the Beaudesert hotel was when I saw the spent condom in the drain of the bathtub in the men’s bathroom.
But, 8 am we were off. The road out of Beaudesert offered up a very dead hare and I was eternally grateful Sir Rabbit wasn’t there to witness it. Amazingly, the tempo for the first 14 kilometres was as amazing as it was brutal. The tempo of the best and fittest averaged over 30 kilometres per hour while the less fortunate found themselves dismounting their bicycles. I had always wondered why real Australians referred to bicycles as a “push bike” or a “pushie”. Now I fully understood. I watched Tig, Swollen Collen, Waste of Time and nameless others PUSH their bike up the hill as they stumbled along with it. Much to my amazement, I watched Magician RIDE by – up the hill – whilst smiling. I begged and pleaded with him at the next rest stop to give me one of the pills he had taken that morning – to no avail.
After the first break and water stop, Sir Slab advised the next leg would be 10 kilometres – 5 and then turn right to avoid the Lost Valley. Fcuk me dead mate – after we turned right to the Hillview Crest, Hashers came off their PUSH BIKES in record numbers. To be honest and statistically correct – virtually EVERYONE dismounted and pushed their cycles up the hill with the exception of five Hashers:
- Sir Slab
- Vomit
- Radar
- Honka (travelled 2 kilometres per hour – the pace of those walking!!)
The fifth hasher was Tig, who collapsed and was taken by the Grim Reaper (Ferret) whilst navigating the arduous 18 degree inclined hill. The Queensland government had posted a sign at the bottom of the “Hill” stating “not suitable for campers and trailers” I can advise with veracity it was not suitable for bicycles or push bikes either!
Then came the down down down down down – also at 18 degrees. We had one amongst us who confessed to NOT using his hand brakes despite speeds of up to 70 kmph. Somehow, Waste of Time alleged he went hands free down the hill. I needed BOTH brakes on in FULL GRIP to avoid cashing in on my life insurance. You tell me.
Death awaited the unsuspecting on this morning. The landscape was betrayingly beautiful. There were great expanses of land that are the picture perfect scenario of the way Australia is idyllically portrayed in its auspicious splendour. There was a total consensus that AUSTRALIA is an amazing place and the unspoken and unheralded organizers had taken pains (literally) to ensure that each of us could bear witness to the beautiful hinterlands of Queensland.
The weather was an epitome of perfection…..but there were “undulations” or mini hills or just hills that preyed upon the weakest amongst us. The second day had sorted out those upon whom who the vultures stared and was it ugly. Many had relegated themselves to their fate by succumbing themselves to the Grim Reapers chariot. The first was Rockhard, who complaining of a heartbeat in excess of 80 whacks a minute fell out at 10 minutes then Cherry Pizza, also Mata Hari, then Lion; Swindler lost his lust for pain, Blue Card found himself to be a better driver than rider, Kimasutra (overwhelmed by coitus non interruptus and Jake the Pegs magnanimous efforts), and Flasher – whom much to his chagrin – found no way to short cut- all fell victim to the Grim Reaper.
Having collapsed myself at 11:23 am, the Grim Reaper moved in on me. But to behold – there was no room in the inn for another casket. With a full boat, Ferret was rubbing his hands in jubilation and Blue Card’s vehicle had only one seat left for the physically paralysed. In the distance, we could see Phantom and Tazzie Crumpet ambulating towards us. Tazzie’s front tyre wobbled so badly she would have been done for drink driving on the spot. Phantom’s English language ability had been reduced to two words- “I’m Fcuked, I’m Fcuked”. The Grim Reaper and his assistant had full loads going onto the lunch break at day 2. Thank God – the beer was cold at the pub.
Hamburgers highlighted the mid-day feeding frenzy and those who felt so inspired raced off for the last 18 kilometres to HAPPY HOURS where huge white plastic chairs had been laid out for the decrepit and agonized masses. The infidel hordes could hardly move but their elbows were in prime form, I tell you. I, personally, had not seen that much grog on display since Interhash! GMs were called into action for the Circle and Sheep Trills navigated with his emotive way as Whing.com read hash songs from a notebook. The ensuing char grilled steaks from the Super Butcher made a perfect evening even better! Lots of behind the scenes work transpired to see dogs were treated like Kings!
Day 3. After a hot brekkie, Jigsaw and Cheezy Pizza refused to mount their push bikes for reasons/excuses known only to them. Phantom had departed early, knowing he would lag eventually. Madamoiselle Latrine stole Jigsaw’s bike and rode it for the first 25 kilometres – making such a decable of himself that Jigsaw commanded back his pushie and rode it on home. Cheezy Pizza decided that he’d spent too much time on his bum and motivated himself to ride – and did well.
The final circle evidenced that innumerable personalities had given their best but also their worst. Never to be outdone, Sir Botcholism had a litany of awards for the motley crew which included:
- Most time in the Sag wagon Award – Cheezy Pizza
- First to The Bucket Award – Vomit (nepotic decision!)… First home most days
- The Cussing Award – Trazzy Crumpet… “Not another effing Hill”
- Dragging the Chain Award – Truck Tyres… Last rider to the start line
- The Early Bird Award: Kimisutra – For loving an early rise
- The Look At Me Award – Radar…Taking selfie while riding
- The Mustard award – Flasher- Always keen to get stared
- The Ferret Award– Dimprick…Always first in line for the nosh
The circle concluded at 1:38 pm and one Hasher saw Sir Botcholism collapsing under the incessant strain of having produced a perfect event!
On On
Madamoiselle Latrine
