#321 : The Countdown Run

We kicked things off at Budds Beach this time around. After last week’s absolute shenanigans trying to navigate our way out of Tom Rose, the committee collectively decided that sticking to tar and concrete was a much safer bet for everyone involved.

What was originally scheduled as a committee run quickly turned into a massive “aha!” moment for the pack. It turns out the “countdown” title wasn’t some cryptic masterpiece; it literally referred to 3, 2, 1, matching the exact number of the run. It didn’t take a high IQ to figure that one out, but tracking that logic seemed to be a monumental achievement for this group. Then again, they all seemed far more interested in slamming down chilli flavoured tequila than paying any attention to the incredible neurology transpiring right off the back of a full moon.

The Trail: Walkers, Runners and Parasitic Hares
A walk and a run were set for the night. The walkers headed off in one direction while the runners took another, eventually crossing paths at a beautifully planned intersection as we wound our way through into Surfers Paradise.

The runners managed to push through the bulk of their trail with a surprising lack of cheating and only a normal amount of shortcutting. The real hurdle was the constant irritation buzzing in the back of the hare’s mind that the local barbecues might get automatically switched off at 8:00 pm. As it turned out, the barbecues were still firing away at 9:00 pm. This doesn’t say much for our hare’s local knowledge, but he had just stepped off a plane from the UK where he was drowning himself in unpasteurised Guinness, so we can comfortably chalk it up to a severe case of Guinness brain.

The walkers had a brilliant time on what initially scored as a highly rated trail. That was until our resident hare confessed that he didn’t actually lay or set a single piece of the trail. The bloke had merely acted as a total parasite on the gourmet hashes run from the previous night! Come to think of it, those markings looked way too clean and clear to ever be the work of someone like Baah Sinister.

The circle delivered its usual brand of madness with plenty of charges being thrown around. Our favourite Canadian somehow found himself nominated to stand in front of the hot plate cooking up the snags. He did so under the incredibly watchful, micro-managing eye of Eno to ensure maximum turning of said snags and chopped onions. We are thrilled to report these were served up with fresh white bread and cheese.

The down-downs opened the floodgates for an immense amount of shit-talking regarding upcoming colonoscopies (and no, Tristan, that is not the same thing as a colonic irrigation). This medical banter highly inspired our Leader to live up to his namesake and go take a massive CaCa in a remarkably clean public toilet.

Ballbags completely missed out on a spectacular gourmet meal and a fantastic walk, but hey, it is what it is.

The Raffle:
The raffle wrapper delivered a world-class outcome. Our two favourite soccer supporters were forced to don the clothing of their current favourite team, Arsenal.

There was only one glaring issue with Freshmead’s purchase: he had clearly gone shopping in the kiddies’ department. This structural limitation wasn’t about to stop Baah Sinister from attempting to squeeze his way into the gear. I am incredibly pleased to report that through sheer determination, he succeeded. Meanwhile, our Canadian friend looked like he was revisiting the birthing canal just trying to force his head through the neck hole of his shirt, but he persevered and got it on.

All in all, it was another brilliant night out with the crew. Good beer, good food, good walking, goodbye.

OnOn