The Sydney Moleskin Hareld ________________________
First Run 1967 O N O N . A L W A Y S . Number 2433 February 17, 2014
RUN REPORT: DAVIDSON/ SMILEY & NAUTILUS
Smiley of the Overflow
Nautilus of the Undertow
Distance: 5.82km / Elevation Gain: 200m / Calories burnt: 508 C
There was movement at Macfarlane, for the word had passed around
That the Naut without regret had had his way,
And enjoined wild bush Hashers, together with co-Smiley also crowned,
So all Bumcracks and Hanois gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted Hashers from the suburbs near and far
Had mustered at the home/start for the night,
For Poshmen love hard running where the wild bush heroes are,
And the Super snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Major D, who made his pile when Rivkin filled his cup,
The old man with tan hair once as white as snow;
But few could run beside him when his blood was fairly up –
He would go wherever hare and man could go.
And Smiley of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better Hashman ever marked a trail;
And no terrain could throw him while his stomach’s girth could stand,
He learnt to Hash while roving, swigging ale.
And Salty was there, a stripling yet no small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Kitty Litter – three parts thoroughbred at least –
And such as are by mountain women prized.
S Bends, hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won’t say die –
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in one bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt ‘Dub’s power to stay,
And the old man said, “That Hasher will not do
For a long a tiring gallop – lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful – only Smiley stood his friend –
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s halfway to the end (see pic)
For both his balls & cock are mountain bred.
God Knows hails from Lane Cove River, up Scud and Calic-side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where no horse’s hoofs strike fear into folks and make them hide,
GK at 80 holds his own, that’s good enough.
Soon the Bungaroo gun runners on the mountains mouths do foam,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
(Tho I’ve seen many Hashmen full since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet like Kitty have I seen).
So they went – with Flasher Hasher by the big mimosa clump –
Who raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And Nautilus gave his orders, “Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy running now.
And, Poly, you might feel them critters that give weals to make you dance.
Run boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet were Hashers afeared of hills of stinging ants,
If once you crush their treacherous holes and hills.
So Frenchie ran to wheel them – his training wheels did sing
Where the best and boldest runners take their place,
He raced passed fellow Duckweave and he made the ranges ring
With new socks from Vinnies then wheeled to a-bout face.
Then Tartan halted for a moment, while he swung his kilted lash,
As athletes saw the darkening mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the ‘scarpment to Cascades, a sudden splash,
When Shitty One took them off trail, into mountain scrub they flew.
Then Neat the Poshman followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of his tread,
And the ONON cries woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild Hashmen held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And Carefree muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them up the other side.”
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Plunger took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of Wombat’s soul, that beard had died a death.
But the champ all know as Cinders let the Brylcreem leave his head,
And he swung his vision round and spotted Goanneer (see pic),
Then he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While Centrepoint just stood and watched in fear.
‘Dub sent the Scotsman Flying, but the Foxy kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Roseville River never missed a beat –
It was grand to see that mountain Hashman run.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And ‘Dub never drew his breath till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the Hashers as they climbed the further hill,
And the walkers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the Reeboks fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing, shorts oh so cute.
Then they lost Yak for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but at last a glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside Kitty finds Swampy’s name is set (see pic),
With the other from the Rockies at his heels.
When Choice ran them past Mid Harbour Creek white with foam.
He bounded like a hound on Bare Creek Track,
Past Druid halted but not beaten, then he turned his head for home,
And alone and unassisted brought the pack back.
Tho’ no-one ON’s a phoney, they could scarcely raise a trot,
There was blood from hip to shoulder from the scrub;
But their pluck was still undaunted, and their courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain too much for Jack or Jock or ‘Dub.
And up by Thomas Mitchell, where the eucalyptus raise
Their torn and rugged battlements do dice,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the salmon steaks ablaze
And where fluffy rice joins lemongrass and ice,
Where all around Cascades, Poshmen swig and sway
Where light breezes, and the rolling hills are one,
The men from Davidson are household words today,
And Poshmen tell the story of their run.