The wheels on the bus...

Headed to Toronto early Thursday morning to attend the big InterAmericas Hash event. Most of the weekend is a blur of running, beer drinking, watching people make fools of themselves, and trying not to look like a fool myself. This picture of some folks at our ball says quite a bit:

Look again. Okay. Now remove your eyes from the mesmerizing bunnies and you'll notice a man peeking over the other man's shoulder for a look. Now look to the left of that and you'll see a man in a wedding dress and tiara. This picture was taken at the "Coming Out Ball" on Sunday night, at which many men voluntarily wore gowns and tiaras but only this woman had bunny pasties that I saw. Most women were just less modest and opted for traditional flashing.

Now imagine 1,000 of these types of people running through the streets of Toronto singing and blowing whistles. Multiply by four days and you see how I spent my holiday weekend.

Things started Thursday evening with about 250 early arrivals running through downtown Toronto. No costumes. Just whistles. And lots of underground tunnels with knee-high water containing lord-knows-what-that-smelled-like-you-know-what. Then food, song, and beer at a beautiful grotto right on the waterfront at Lake Ontario.

Friday was the official start to the festivities. As we boarded yellow school buses to the run start we were each given a red foam hat in the shape of a maple leaf. We were then taken to a park - about 1,000 of us in red maple leaf hats - and led around the city. Pedestrians out for Friday afternoon strolls love that sort of thing and always ask why we are running? Is it a marathon? Are you running to raise money? No people. We are running purely for the sake of running and finding beer at the end. Perhaps it would make more sense for each of us to donate $2 in exchange for a plastic yellow wristband? Nope, beer and making people laugh sounds more productive to me.

Anyhow, much of the weekend is a blur. I think I ran a total of about 30 miles and drank at least one beer per mile. I was bitten by mosquitoes, slid down hillsides, ran through rivers, and had a hefty bag ripped off me during a mock girlfight on stage in front of the crowd. I think the point of the skit was to see how many women they could get to don garbage bags and rip them off eachother to end up topless while fighting for a stale bagel that symbolized a hockey puck. Yes, I was one of the topless women fighting over a stale bagel. Yet another thing to tell the grandkids...

Perhaps the most memorable part of the weekend was the series of bus rides and the antics of the passengers. You see, hashers know many rather raunchy and offensive songs. With 50 people on each bus, and at least 40 of those 50 quite boisterous and drunk, the singing could get quite loud. Most of the bus drivers were quite amused, or easily quelled by a flashing woman, but there was one who was not happy with his assignment for the weekend: Glen. He was a man who had obviously miscalculated his needs for retirement funds and somehow found himself as a 68 year old, grumpy school bus driver chaufeurring around drunks. He would be the driver when you were a kid who would always stop the bus and head back down the aisle to admonish someone. A life of missed lessons in futility.

Problem was, Glen hadn't learned how futile it is to yell at a busload of people and he did the same thing with us except that we responded differently than an 8 year old would. The incident I remember most clearly was that a guy in the back of the bus had his elbow out the window. Old Glen was yelling at him to put his arm in the bus but the guy was singing so loudly he couldn't hear. All of a sudden, our singing stopped as we noticed the bus had pulled to the side of the highway and Glen was coming down the aisle. He was screaming about the arm out the window. All arms were promptly pulled in and windows locked up above elbow level. Then, as Glen headed back down the aisle, an unruly hasher started a song in Glen's honor. The song goes something like this:

He's the meanest
He sucks the horse's penis
He's the meanest
He's the horse's ass...

It goes on, but I think you get the point. Glen was not happy but faced a busload of drunken, out-of-tune adults and had no means of escape. He got us back to the hotel, told us we were worse than fourth graders, and was met with a serenade by a small group who chanted, "Glen, Glen, f*** him!" as they paraded off the bus. I almost felt sorry for Glen but he was so mean it was hard to sympathize. And you must admit that the songs were appropriate.

Another fun incident that was frequently repeated on the bus while traveling in downtown Toronto was that whenever we passed another bus, such as a nice double-decker tour bus or one of Toronto's famous Hippo buses (amphibious buses people pay $35 to ride on), everyone on our bus would start chanting "The other bus sucks! The other bus sucks!" Once we had their attention we would chant "Our bus sucks! Our bus sucks!" The looks from the tourists were priceless and varied from astonishment to laughter to giving of the finger to taking photos. Being hashers, we're used to that sort of thing.

Okay, go look at the bunnies again...