Run #3166 by Ham Kar Chan at Unknown

Well, well… what happens when the official scribe completely drops the ball? You get this half-drunk reconstruction of events, stitched together from beer-soaked recollections and outright lies. Run #3166 kicked off at Charlie Market with a respectable mob of 40 miscreants, led (or rather reluctantly volunteered) by stand-in hare Ham Kar Chan (Paul S) — stepping up after a parade of commitment-phobic wankers bailed on their hare duties. Shame. Shame. SHAME. 🔔 Trail? Allegedly 5.5 km with 350 m elevation, but who’s counting when your lungs are trying to escape your chest. After a few brutal on-ups that had the pack questioning their life choices, it became clear this was a runner’s run — long stretches, minimal sympathy, and a cruel tease of downhill before more climbing. Classic hare revenge plot. Eventually, survivors were spat out onto the hash highway for a long, leg-burning stagger back to civilization. Highlight of the day: the resurrection of two long-lost brothers. VicTim, returning after more than a year away, decided to celebrate by bringing along a guest — clearly someone he hates — who barely made it to Olivia Peak before throwing in the towel. Mid-run bailout. Weak. Meanwhile, Cumming Soon reappeared fresh from escaping Trump’s Middle East circus, swapping Dubai sand for Penang mud like a true degenerate. Welcome back, you poor decision-maker. Circle was less “organized ritual” and more “weaponized nostalgia.” VicTim got the full treatment — every dusty gadget and questionable award dragged out of storage and deployed with enthusiasm. Down-downs flowed, accusations were made (most likely false, all probably deserved), and songs were butchered in the usual off-key fashion. Plenty of other charges happened… allegedly. But your scribe, in peak professionalism, remembers absolutely none of them. In fact, the only surviving “evidence” of this entire run is a blurry mental snapshot of Balansing heroically wobbling along at Carla Peak, trying to conquer the trail in beach flip-flops like some kind of budget mountain goat. And yes — before anyone asks — that’s entirely the scribe’s fault for not documenting anything else. Verdict: Solid runner’s trail, heroic last-minute hare, disgraceful memory from the scribe, and one immortal image of flip-flop stupidity. Could’ve used more paper, less quitting, and definitely more note-taking. On On — and next time, someone chain the scribe to a notebook.