In which the Haipussypoogaifoot, a strange misshapen beast, sets a trail; a fowl is befouled; and a hasher is eaten by bears
This trail was set in honour of American Thanksgiving, which as we know is bigger, louder and weightier than ours, as they have more to be thankful for. National Pornographic claimed responsibility, but when it came time to set the trail she devolved this duty on a strange genetic hybrid formed from Hai Poo Gai and Pussyfoot, a sort of trail-setting push me-pull you that, when combined, seemed to have inserted both of its heads into its respective assholes.
But the Hare Troika seemed relaxed and well lubricated when I met them at Mackenzie’s on Bloor across from High Park. That’s another thing. There’s another Mackenzie’s on Bloor at Keele – all of, what, half a kilometre away? For all I know there were another 20 people waiting there.
Just before the run was to start, Natty excused herself and said she had to run home to “baste her turkey.” Now, when I was younger I used to have the same problem. I’d get so excited and jumpy that I’d have to get some immediate, you know, relief. I’m a lot older and calmer now, so that doesn’t happen much anymore. But Natty is a vibrant, healthy woman, so I understand her turkey might need basting. But did she need to be so obvious about it? And did she need to brag that her turkey was big enough for everybody?
So she was gone for the rest of the afternoon. She must have some kind of a turkey. The entire pack by now consisted of Shampoo, Shadow, Prince Valium (who said he was running all the way to Cambridge or something, though he might have had a car with him) and Cherry Trooper (who complained he had gone to the Hogan’s on the previous Friday and nobody was there. He was reminded that the Hogan’s had been last night, and he’d gone to the Victory Café, which was where the Hogan’s had been in November 2008!). Left to hare and provide vague, contradictory instructions were the comedy duo of Pussyfoot and Hai Poo, who took off separately to perform their show-biz magic.
Our trail started off by zig-zagging back and forth across Bloor about four times. Eventually one of us was going to wind up as roadkill, but the trail settled down into the park with several difficult checks – difficult when you have a pack of four, and three of them are lazy.
Shadow was last seen steaming downhill at one of these, eventually to disappear from eye- and earshot and never to be seen again. I believe he was eaten by bears. There were also several Blair Witch-style twig structures found in the park, so it may have been zombies. But later we heard that Shadow was alive back at the bar. So this is proof that the Eastern concept of reincarnation is true, and that if you have had a bad existence you will come back as a lower life form.
Now that we were down to three, every check became a five- or ten-minute ordeal. The next big one on Parkside Drive saw us wandering off in all directions for some time. But eventually we got a kind of momentum going as we went into the interior of the park. The checks got a little easier and the pace sped up as the number of possible directions diminished, though it still required cooperation and attention on the part of the pack – not always our strong points. But we doughty three meshed into a finely-tuned trail-finding machine, deciphering the cryptic, devious, if not incoherent Hai Poo trail markings. Hopes began to soar that beer would be found near the Grenadier restaurant, only to be cruelly dashed as the trail seemed to disappear altogether in the parking lot.
This was apparently where the Hai Poo-Pussyfoot baton handoff took place (at least, Pussyfoot thought that was a baton Hai Poo Gai thrust at him) so the synchronization of the trail here was a little confusing. But we soon found it and with hopeful, gladdening hearts ran the last segment. This took us to the very western edge of the park, where Hai Poo Gai and Natty were waiting at Pussyfoot’s car. It was finally, at last, the beer check.
I think this was what my mother always feared the most for me – that I’d be drinking beer in a ditch in November.