*S3H3#95
Won’t you be my neighbour day*
This Friday’s run will take the hashers through some scenic spots around An Phu. Along the way, we will see signs saying “Cấm đổ rác”, around which are clustered large amounts of litter. Many Vietnamese clearly struggle with the meaning, as the sign means “don’t throw trash!”.
As upstanding, respectable and sophisticated sirs of Saigon, we shall use our superior understanding of the Vietnamese language to do as the sign says and pick up the trash as we go, especially around these signs. We shall need large trash bags, as they must fit both the dropped litter, as well as the numerous amounts of Tiger and Saigon beer cans that we may pick up along the way.
A to B trail:
A point (meet up)
https://maps.app.goo.gl/aMCtKtiMpYPWPcjX6?g_st=ac
B Point (end)
https://maps.app.goo.gl/ffZa9knyg1tcCCbB6?g_st=aw
🏃♂️ Walk: Around 4km
Run: 7km
Beer stop included
📅 Check-In: 7pm
🚀 Departure: 7:30pm
🐰 Hares: Spare Dick
💰 Hash Cash:
• Circle beer 100K per dude/ solo bills at dinner. Bring cash.
On On! 🍻🏃♂️
S3H3 #95 – Won’t you be my NeighbourDay
Attendees: Piss Bath (GM), 3 Shitty Tits, Tootsie Robinson, (yes, Piss Bath again – hydration is key), Python in ya Beaver, Spare Dick (Hare – allegedly), Lovely Linda, Tastes Great, Chemically Castrated (paparazzi-in-chief), I Couldn’t Cum (glorious return), and a surprise cameo from Cocktail Fail.
The evening began, as all questionable decisions do, outside a humble Circle K in Vietnam. Our illustrious GM, Piss Bath, arrived armed like a true professional: a 2L water bottle (for appearances) and a can of Tiger (for reality), all while rocking sandals that screamed “health and safety violation.”
Hashers trickled in—some on time, most on “hash time”—until the pack was complete and sufficiently lubricated. Spirits were high (entirely alcohol-induced), and for once in S3H3 history, it appeared that everyone actually ran. Alarming.
The trail launched us straight into the gauntlet: highways, alleyways, and anything with wheels trying to end us. Miraculously, we survived and reached the beer stop in a brisk 30 minutes—clearly a mistake, as it suggested competence.
During our refined roadside interlude, we were treated to an unexpected masterclass: a teenage boy casually operating a mini-excavator, loading it onto a truck with surgical precision. The group watched in stunned silence, collectively realising it would take the average Westerner 3–5 business days, two permits, and a breakdown to achieve the same result.
Refuelled and slightly less coordinated, we embarked on the second leg. This is where things took a classic turn. The trail—laid by our “dedicated” hare, Spare Dick—became… interpretive. The group fragmented faster than New Year’s resolutions, scattering across highways and side streets like confused pigeons.
After much wandering, creative navigation, and mild accusations of sabotage, hashers began to trickle into Point B: Celito Lindo, a welcome oasis of Mexican salvation. One by one, the lost, the found, and the directionally challenged reunited.
The closing circle was held with the usual dignity (none), recounting tales of survival, questionable markings, and unexpected construction admiration.
All in all: a run that had everything—danger, culture, cardio (briefly), and chaos.
On On!