Run #3190 by Taliban at Bukit Gambir

Official records will show that Taliban laid a 5 km run with 430 metres of elevation at Bukit Gambir. Those numbers are accurate, but wildly misleading. Five kilometres suggests a pleasant little Monday outing. Perhaps a gentle trot, a bit of jungle, back for beer before anyone develops a meaningful thirst. Taliban had other plans. The opening section even maintained the illusion of civilisation until the first check was solved using that most sophisticated of PH3 navigation techniques: fuck it, bash through the bush in a random direction and see what happens. What happened was that Bukit Gambir gradually stopped resembling a trail and became an obstacle course designed by vegetation with a personal grudge. Little ups. Little downs. Vines around the ankles, thorns reaching for exposed flesh, branches across the face and assorted jungle bullshit filling every available gap between them. None of it particularly dramatic on its own. Taliban’s genius was simply to keep serving it continuously until everyone had been properly tenderised for the main course: one enormous, bastard vertical climb. Up it went. And up. And still fucking up. Whatever conversation had been taking place disappeared, replaced by heavy breathing, dripping sweat and the occasional hasher standing motionless pretending to admire the scenery while desperately trying not to die. At the first summit several bodies temporarily ceased functioning and were left scattered around like casualties awaiting reboot. Eventually lungs restarted, legs reluctantly accepted further employment and the survivors discovered that reaching the top did not, unfortunately, mean Taliban had finished with them. Naturally, the trail then took the scenic route home, carefully collecting every available shit bucket between Bukit Gambir and the beer wagon. By the time the tail finally emerged, this supposedly innocent 5 km had kept some of the pack occupied for more than two hours and delivered them home in darkness. But PH3 is a forgiving organisation. We believe in reconciliation, rehabilitation and giving a Hare every possible opportunity to understand how much his efforts were appreciated. So an appropriate programme of appreciation was arranged. Taliban began on both knees atop bags of ice, drinking like a savage, before progressing through an increasingly inventive collection of uncomfortable positions and questionable drinking apparatus. One charge became two. Two became five. And after five consecutive contributions devoted entirely to Taliban, the call finally came for the hare to sit on the ice. Taliban, obviously again. His sixth and final down-down. By then the circle had achieved something approaching spiritual unity: Taliban was smiling, the pack was smiling considerably more, and somewhere deep in Bukit Gambir a thorn bush was probably wondering why it hadn't been invited. Credit where it’s due—the bastard took every charge with good humour, which is exactly what a Hare should do after squeezing two hours of suffering into five kilometres. **Verdict: Impressively compact brutality. Five kilometres on paper, a full expedition in practice, followed by one of the more thorough Hare disapprobation ceremonies in recent memory. Taliban survived his own run and, barely, the circle that followed. On On — and next time somebody says “it’s only 5 km,” check who the fucking Hare is.**