So, there we were standing in the middle of nowhere two minutes before the off, and not a hare in sight! Wait though - what was that we could see looming on the horizon, at the top of the hill? Could it be our old buddies Speedbump and Dormouse coming down to greet us? It was indeed, but why did they keep stopping every few yards and bending down? Surely they couldn't be continuing to lay a trail, even though they were in direct line of sight of both us and our cars, could they? They could, and you all know how I abhor the wasting of flour. However, I managed to prevent my righteous indignation from pouring out, and off we went.

It was, of course, the last day of the London Olympics, and it is appropriate at this point to pay tribute to such a fine display of athletic prowess. I am, of course, referring to LVH3, and certainly not that pathetic bunch of losers we saw poncing around the track in London. Usain Bolt? Call him a runner? Lying exhausted on the ground after just 100 metres? You didn't see any of that on our r*n - 101 metres into it, we were still fresh as daisies. Admittedly, he managed a bit better a couple of days later, completing 200 metres before collapsing in a heap, but so what? We'd covered nearly 300 metres before we started to feel the strain. And why, I ask you, having chosen a site in London perfect for running, did they spend six years flattening it out and clearing away all the mud and rubble? So a bunch of pampered pansies wouldn't get their r*nning shoes dirty, that's why! There was only one strip of shiggy in the entire stadium, which they kept raking over to keep it all nice and pretty, but whenever these so-called athletes got to it, they would try to jump over it and keep their feet clean! Bunch of wimps.

Our hares had chosen a far more demanding and possibly deadly trail for us. Apparently, as it was "the glorious 12th", the traditional annual cull of hashers was in full swing. I'm not sure exactly what was going on, but it seems that one of the local gamekeepers had lined us up as potential prey but, being a sporting sort of a chap, promised not to open fire on us as long as we followed his prescribed route across the moor in complete silence. We probably owe our lives to the fact that Baldbrick and his bl**dy bugle were not in attendance that day!

No silence in the circle, though, as we launched into a rousing rendition of "God Save The Queen" in honour of Team GB's Olympic successes, omitting the verse about "rebellious Scots" in deference to Dormouse. Unlike Paul McCartney and his pitiful attempt at "Hey Jude" the week before, we actually remembered the words. We also remembered to celebrate Speedbump's 100th r*n in the time-honoured way, with the presentation of a suitably-inscribed glass tankard.

On then to the On Inn, the Royal Oak at Spark Bridge, where a wide range of fine beers was on offer, including John Smith's Extra Smooth, John Smith's Extra Smooth, and John Smith's Extra Smooth. After lengthy deliberation, I opted for a pint of John Smith's Extra Smooth.

On the drive back home, we reflected on the fact that the distance covered on that day's r*n was about the same as Mo Farrah ran the previous weekend - round about 10,000 metres. His time was slightly better than ours, but he didn't have a beer stop, so his performance wasn't anything special really, compared to ours. Did I hear anyone say "dope test"?

On on,

STT.