As the brightly clad men and women assembled in a quiet, snow-covered car park, we laughed off the shivers with the enticing prospect of a shitty trail and beer ahead.

Locals, wrapped tightly in scarves and common sense, eyed us like the weirdos we undoubtedly are. They hurried homeward, tugging laughing children on toboggans, as we prepared to follow a precariously laid trail courtesy of Hendl My Cock and Sourdough Start Her.

Why precarious, you ask? Because snow, flour, and a sense of direction are natural enemies. Struck by a sudden and clearly ill-advised bright idea, the hares had decided to lace our precious trail markings with turmeric! Yes, turmeric—having apparently drained the local Rewe of its entire stock. The resulting trail glowed the hue of dehydrated urine—or, as the season would have it, the exact same shade as the scattered autumn leaves. Brilliant.

And thus began the saga of Hash #892. Leading the charge was Goatfucker (never a harbinger of smooth sailing), as we headed north toward BMW Welt. Here, we briefly picked up a gaggle of curious locals eager to join the fun—but, strangely, they disappeared long before the beer stop. (Puzzling priorities.) Pressing on, we reached the Olympic Stadium, where the wind had apparently enrolled in a winter warfare training program. It blasted right up the kilts of those who'd chosen to bare just a little too much leg. Mercifully, this was where we found the Hash View, immortalized by a quick photo to prove we braved weather that even a brass monkey would call unreasonable.

The trail then teased us with checkpoints hinting at a detour up Olympia Berg. Thankfully, our collective willpower—or laziness—prevailed, and we avoided the climb. With the sun making a hasty retreat, we trudged onward toward the Beer Stop. Here, Hendl My Cock unveiled not Eggnog, not Bombardino, but Eierlikör—a concoction that tastes like sugar, egg, and unapologetic alcohol. Just as the bottles were being shared, a bush nearby rustled ominously. Out popped Benana Beater and Baggy Snatch, timing their arrival perfectly for drinks without the burden of the trail. Coincidence? Unlikely.

With our bellies fortified and daylight officially clocking out, we made for the On In. Around the glowing circle, weary hashers gathered for sustenance: Glühwein, beer, and soup shared among the steadfast. Accusations flew with reckless abandon—virgins, visitors, and back-trackers hauled before the group like defendants in a kangaroo court. The usual gripes about the trail being too hot, too flat, too well-lit, or too easy to follow rang out, because hashers never let reality interfere with a good complaint.

Special thanks went to BirdBrian for stepping in as Biermeister and to Mother-Fucking Theresa* for gracing us with her song-leading prowess. The circle also celebrated Gay Sailor and his 100th Hash Hip Flask—a milestone achievement and yet another potent item he can keep in his shorts for future chilly runs.

On On!

Your faithful, beloved, incredulous, humble scribe,
Morning Latte x

 

*without an "h" - otherwise it would be rude.