S3H3#91
Chinatown to D1 Hash
FRIDAY 6 of February
East to west (but really, West to East) we go, like confused salmon with better shoes. We kick off at a charming café where the coffee is strong and beer is better with the attentive smiles of your hosts will somehow make everyone forget stretching is a thing. From there, we zigzag through the backstreets of Chinatown—past mystery smells, secret alleys, and scooters that appear out of thin air—before tumbling gloriously into District 1. We’ll finish where all great journeys should: Mulligan’s Irish Bar, rehydrating responsibly and retelling the run like it was twice as long and uphill both ways. 🍻🏃♂️
🏃♂️ Walk: Around 4km
Run: 7km
Beer stop included
A Point –
62 Vinh Vien (Special request of a mysterious gent)
https://maps.app.goo.gl/dcPDXBEGPUNxGMKt8
B Point –
Mulligan’s in D1
https://maps.app.goo.gl/yVRHGZuPKU6zCpgx7
📅 Check-In: 7pm (Earlier like 6pm for pre drinks if you want like some might)
🚀 Departure: 7:30pm
🐰 Hares: Dick Pic
💰 Hash Cash:
• Pay as you go / solo bills at dinner. Bring cash.
On On! 🍻🏃♂️
Run Report – Chinatown to D1 Hash (aka The Case of the Disappearing Arrows)
The merry band of S3H3 degenerates gathered at the start point with the usual athletic preparation: aggressively hydrating with liquid carbohydrates at Ruby’s, that fine cultural establishment dedicated to the Sophisticated Gentlemen of Saigon. Science tells us this is essential fuel for endurance sport. Who are we to argue with science?
Present were Gobblin’ King, Taste Great, The Mongarian, Dick Pic Cock-A-Leeky, Shitty Slacker, Kinky Jesus, visitor Katoyboy (UK), and Chemically Castrated. Visitor Lurprick (Denmark) materialised halfway through by divine intervention, and eventually the GM, Piss Bath, would appear like a final boss at the On-On.
After several “warm-up” rounds (purely medicinal), Gobblin’ King called the circle and Hare Dick Pic delivered the briefing. Using the skills of our early ancestors fully embedded in our DNA (Drunken Navigation Ability), several wild hand gestures and advanced mime techniques, Dick Pic announced something about 7 km and 50 arrows. Sadly, he forgot one small detail… drawing the first arrow. Minor oversight.
“Yellow chalk,” he said confidently.
Off we went.
Within approximately 12 seconds, the runners (all three of us) came to a complete halt. No arrow. None. We searched left, right, up, down, and possibly into another dimension. Nothing. Eventually Dick Pic had to jog back and physically point us in the “general area,” which seemed to be his main navigational strategy all evening.
Arrows, when found, were rare, shy creatures. Some had mysteriously vanished. Others were allegedly drawn on sewer grids and promptly washed away by wastewater despite the fact it hadn’t rained for two days. A few were hidden under approximately 4,000 parked motorbikes. It was less a trail and more an archaeological dig that Indiana Jones would be proud of — heads down, squinting at the ground, brushing away dust like we were hunting for ancient treasure instead of a bloody chalk arrow.
Somehow Taste Great and Chemically Castrated lost Katoyboy, and Katoyboy lost himself. At this point everyone was basically hashing solo and hoping beer would eventually appear like a mirage.
Miraculously, we stumbled into the 7-Eleven beer stop… only to discover the walkers had already beaten us there. Again. Suspicious behaviour from the “short-cut specialists.” Katoyboy and Cock-A-Leeky turned up late after missing the Beer Stop sign entirely and being casually abandoned. Lurprick then appeared out of nowhere like he’d teleported in. No one questioned it.
Suitably refreshed, we tackled the final stretch through the hẻms of HCMC and triumphantly reached Mulligans… only to receive a WhatsApp saying Point B had moved 100 metres down the road. Because of course it had.
Bootstraps were pulled up. Grumbling commenced. Marching resumed.
Finally, we arrived at the On-On where the GM Piss Bath made his grand entrance (a reoccurring theme) and we got down to the serious business of eating, drinking, and pretending we’d just completed something athletic.
In true hash tradition:
- The chalk was questionable
- The runners got lost repeatedly
- The location changed at the last minute
- The beer was cold
- The food was plentiful
Therefore, by all measurable standards…
A perfect hash.
On-On 🍺