Run #3178 by Tu Koh at Kali Corner

Some runs are measured in kilometres. Others in suffering. This run will instead be remembered as a work of art. If Claude Monet had swapped lilies for leeches and stained-glass windows for dripping jungle, he might have painted something close to what Tu Koh served up at Kali Corner. The morning skies had emptied several hours' worth of rain upon Penang, leaving every leaf polished to emerald perfection, every tree trunk glowing a richer brown, and countless little waterfalls cascading down slopes that had been dry only yesterday. The jungle looked less like a forest and more like the inside of a cathedral, each shaft of sunlight filtering through the canopy as though passing through coloured glass. Miraculously, despite the deluge, the mud never reached its usual ankle-sucking enthusiasm, allowing twenty appreciative pilgrims to wander through nature's latest masterpiece. Like any respectable artist, the hare had thought about composition. The trail was clearly marked with sensible Long and Short splits, allowing the ambitious mountain goats and the ageing pensioners to each pretend they had made the correct life choices. During the run the scenery constantly changed its tune: ridges, gullies, damp jungle tracks and fresh streams all blended into one colourful mosaic. There were enough climbs to remind everyone that beer must always be earned, yet enough variety that nobody could accuse the hare of simply dragging us up one hill and throwing flour around for decoration. Perhaps the greatest miracle of the evening was that everyone emerged safely before darkness had the chance to collect its usual victims. The circle master wasted no time exploiting this rare luxury by finally dragging Big Max and Bala Gimbo onto the ice after what felt like months of successfully dodging their frozen destiny. Just when the Circle had settled into its usual rhythm of accusations, lies and selective memory, Sammy burst onto the scene demanding photographs for the beer supplier. Naturally, such a serious request deserved an equally professional response. Someone suggested sending a photograph of Sammy's bare backside instead. To everyone's absolute horror, Sammy immediately began unbuckling his trousers with alarming enthusiasm before a rapid intervention team managed to stop proceedings mere seconds before twenty innocent hashers would have required emergency retina transplants. From there the Circle descended into the usual glorious nonsense. Charges appeared for reasons nobody could remember, down-downs flowed with the same enthusiasm as the morning rain, and insults flew so freely that even the monkeys probably took notes. Tu Koh received a well-earned Indian song in appreciation for laying such a cracking trail—a perfectly fitting tribute, naturally, to the proud traditions of Great Britain. Nobody questioned the geographical logic. This is hashing, after all, where facts are optional but beer is compulsory. Verdict: A jungle transformed into stained glass, a beautifully crafted trail, two overdue ice victims, and one Sammy trouser incident that should never again be spoken of. Outstanding run, outstanding entertainment, and thankfully no permanent blindness. On On!